Page 85 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

He ignored the comment. “We need to find out which one of those two guests has a motive for killing Mrs. Warrick.”

“I already have.” It was my turn to give him a smug look.

“This isn’t a competition, Miss Fox.”

“Then stop acting as if it is, Mr. Armitage.”

“Just tell me about the two guests.”

I settled back into the sofa. This could take some time. “Mr. Duffield lives near Mrs. Warrick, so it’s a natural assumption that they would know one another. Further investigation proved that he is experiencing reduced circumstances.”

“Very reduced, if he had to resort to selling gossip about the hotel to the gutter press.”

“I thought he might have also sold gossip about his friends, perhaps even about her, but that would givehermotive to killhim, not the other way around. I suspected she’d simply known about his reduced circumstances and wondered how he could stay at an expensive hotel, if she was referring to him at all.”

“He’s probably hunting for a wealthy wife at the ball,” he said.

“Mr. Hobart thinks so too. It makes sense, since Mr. Duffield didn’t stay for dessert after he spoke to Mr. Chapman about me.”

“You dined with Mr. Duffield? Why?”

“To learn more about him, of course.”

“By flirting with him,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t need to flirt. He feigned interest only until he learned from Mr. Chapman that I was living at the hotel because I, too, am experiencing reduced circumstances.”

“Reduced?” He grunted.

I ignored him and pressed on. “I discovered that Mr. Duffield’s family had sold off his family estate and he moved into a cottage. As humiliating as that must be for him, I didn’t think it enough of a reason to kill someone to keep them quiet about it.”

“Agreed. And what about the second guest you think Mrs. Warrick could have recognized that afternoon?”

“My Hookly.”

“Hookly?” He chuckled. “Do you mean to tell me you were flirting with him in the smoking room to get information from him?”

“Again, I wasnotflirting,” I said tightly.

“I’m sure he’d see it differently.”

I bristled. “I was only in the smoking room for one reason—so I could talk to him.”

“So you weren’t attempting a rebellion against your uncle?”

“No! I’m twenty-three, Mr. Armitage, not fifteen. Anyway, through subtle questioning—not flirting—I discovered that Mr. Hookly has recently returned from southern Africa after he’d sold his mine.”

“I know all that.”

“But you don’t know that Mr. Hookly is dead. The real Hookly, that is.”

It was immensely satisfying to see the shock on his face. “How did you discover that?”

“Through clever deduction.”

“You telephoned the address in the reservations register, didn’t you? Remind me to have a chat to Peter about—” He cut himself short. He’d forgotten that he no longer worked at the hotel. “It doesn’t matter if Mrs. Warrick knew the real Mr. Hookly was dead,” he went on. “She would have been surprised to see him if his ghost had shown up, but she couldn’t have recognized his imposter.”

“Unless she did. Perhaps she knew he wasn’t the type to stay at luxury hotels. Or perhaps she knew he should still be in Africa, not here in London. He might be telling the truth about his mine there, but lying about some other aspect of his life.”