Page 80 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

“Then if I hear of other employment opportunities, I’ll put his name forward.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, Miss Fox, but you have no friends here in London, as I understand it. You won’t hear of other suitable opportunities.”

“Stephen,” Mr. Hobart snapped.

I looked down at my clasped hands. This wasn’t going at all well. “May we discuss the murder instead?” I asked, looking up again. “I find the topic more palatable.”

The inspector grunted. “Go on.”

“There’s a guest staying here by the name of Hookly.” I told the inspector how I’d overheard Mrs. Warrick say she recognized someone, and explained how it had led me to first believe she was talking about Mr. Armitage, but then my suspicions had shifted to Mr. Duffield and Mr. Hookly.

“I discovered that he entertained a guest in his room on the night of the murder,” I went on. “He ordered two meals and wine to be brought up to his room. Mrs. Warrick didn’t dine in the hotel dining room that evening, nor did she leave the hotel, so I suspectshewas his guest.”

“How do you know about the meals and her not leaving the hotel?”

“I asked the staff.”

“Is that all of your evidence?”

“There’s more. I thought it best to find out more about Mr. Hookly, so I telephoned the police station closest to where he lives.” I thought it best to leave Peter’s name out of it, particularly in the presence of his superior. “I discovered that Mr. Hookly is dead.”

“Dead?” Mr. Hobart cried. “No, he’s not. I saw him this morning.”

“He died two months ago,” I told him. “The Mr. Hookly here is not the real Mr. Hookly.”

Mr. Hobart slowly lowered himself onto a chair. “My god. He must be the murderer.”

The inspector put up his hand for silence. “How did you get the local police to tell you that, Miss Fox?” He leaned forward, his gaze on me the entire time. When he looked at me like that, with those piercing blue eyes, I felt like blurting everything out.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Hmmm.”

“So what do you think of that?” I asked. “It’s worth interviewing him now, isn’t it?”

“Very much,” Mr. Hobart agreed. “Don’t worry about Sir Ronald. I’ll smooth his feathers.”

“I can handle Bainbridge,” the inspector said.

Mr. Hobart gave his brother an arched look. “You don’t seem to be at your most diplomatic right now, Stephen.”

The inspector sat back and clasped his hands over his stomach. “I won’t be interviewing anyone yet anyway. Hookly isn’t the murderer.”

“Why not?” I asked. When the inspector didn’t answer, I pushed on. “Is it the time of death? I was wondering the same thing. How could Mr. Hookly have poisoned Mrs. Warrick in his room at dinnertime when she didn’t die until much later?”

He regarded me with narrowed eyes. I couldn’t determine if that meant he was annoyed at my impertinent question or impressed I’d thought of it.

“Was a slow acting poison used?” I asked when he didn’t immediately answer.

“There was enough mercuric cyanide in her body to kill her instantly.”

“Could the time of death be wrong?”

“No.”

“Not even by a little?”

“The temperature of the body means death occurred between the hours of three and six. We can’t be more accurate than that.” He was definitely annoyed. If he had been impressed before, he wasn’t anymore. Not with lips pursed as severely as that.