Page 86 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel

He rubbed his forehead. “It doesn’t quite add up. It almost does, but there are holes.”

I sighed. “I know. I do think he’s not at all as well off as he claims and he’s using Lord Addlington’s letter to order expensive clothes and jewelry on credit.”

“He does have a lot of parcels delivered.”

“Lord Addlington’s letter is real, however. Your uncle checked the handwriting against a letter from his lordship on file.”

Mr. Armitage nodded slowly. “The imposter could have stolen it off the dead Mr. Hookly. I do know the fake Mr. Hookly wants to attend the ball to speak to another guest who will also be attending. He asked me about him a number of times, making sure he was still coming.”

“Who?”

“A banker known for giving loans to his friends, at generous rates, for their business ventures.”

“Is he a friend of Lord Addlington’s?”

Mr. Armitage’s lips curved with his triumphant smile. “I think you’ve just found your motive. Lord Addlington is friends with everyone who matters. It’s conceivable the fake Mr. Hookly will show the banker the letter tonight at the ball and ask for a loan.”

“A loan which he wouldn’t have to pay back because the banker would never be able to find him again, seeing as Mr. Hookly is deceased.”

He shot to his feet and put out his hand to me. “We have to return to the hotel.”

I hesitated, surprised at the offered hand. Had he forgiven me already or merely forgotten in his excitement in solving the case? Perhaps politeness was so ingrained in him too that it was merely an act of a well-brought up man.

My hesitation cost me and he withdrew his hand before I could accept it. He left and I could hear him speaking to his mother in another room.

I sighed and stood. Next time I wouldn’t spend so much time trying to work out what an offered hand meant. Sometimes it meant nothing more than he was polite.

I met him in the hall as he buttoned up his jacket. He plucked a hat and coat off the stand and opened the front door for me.

“What did you tell your mother?” I asked.

“That I have something to tell my father that might help him solve the murder.”

“We’re going to Scotland Yard?”

“Without evidence?” He scoffed. “He won’t accept our theory without proof.”

“He won’t want us to confront Mr. Hookly.”

“We’re not going to. We’ll avoid him at all costs.” He turned up his coat collar and thrust his hands into his pockets. “We’ll find out if there’s any possibility that a key to Mrs. Warrick’s room could have gone missing on the night of the murder. Our entire theory hinges on Mr. Hookly stealing one.”

“The fake Mr. Hookly.” I quickened my step to keep up with his long strides as we walked along the street. “I wonder who he really is, and if he truly has just come back from Africa.”

“If he has, I doubt he just sold a diamond mine or he wouldn’t be trying to swindle everyone.”

“Gold,” I said.

“No, diamonds. That’s what he told me.”

I stopped. When he realized, he stopped too. “He hasn’t just come from Africa at all!” I said. “Otherwise he’d know that gold is mined in southern Africa, not diamonds.”

“How doyouknow?”

“I read about it in a book I borrowed from the hotel library.”

He smiled as we started walking again. “Your bloody visit to the library,” he muttered.

I glanced at him sideways. “What do you mean?”