Chapter 13 #2
“He may well be, but the police won’t care. Right now, they’re fixated on Goliath. While they are, they’ll continue to dismiss the shoe print as well as other suspects. It’s up to us to find the killer, Cleo. Informing the police won’t achieve anything.”
He was right. It was up to us. “Do you believe him?”
“I don’t want to talk about Archie at the moment. I want to enjoy dancing with the prettiest woman in the room.”
With a subtle shift, he drew me even closer.
It was too close for an unmarried man and woman, but I didn’t care.
Floyd wasn’t there to scowl at me. I could enjoy being in Harry’s arms, and the way my body responded to his, without a care.
I could gaze into the depths of his eyes and welcome his warm gaze in return without censure. It felt wonderful.
Until I noticed Flossy watching us with a rather shocked expression.
I put some space between us and warned Harry. He didn’t look toward Flossy, but danced at a more respectable distance.
With the spell broken and our investigative task complete, I was ready to go home.
* * *
I told Harmony all about the ball over breakfast the following morning.
When I finished, she detailed her plan to trick any loitering journalists into thinking Mr. Arkwright had moved out of the Mayfair Hotel.
Although my assistance wasn’t required, an hour later, I sat in one of the armchairs in the foyer to watch proceedings unfold.
After verifying the presence of a handful of journalists just outside the front door, Harmony returned upstairs to set the plan in motion.
That was the last I saw of her that morning.
Whether she also spotted the two men lingering in the foyer I couldn’t be sure.
I was confident they were journalists since neither turned the pages of the newspapers they were reading, and they constantly lifted their gazes to scan their surroundings.
Several minutes later, the hotel’s oldest employee, a footman, stepped out of the lift with the aid of a walking stick. With his hat covering his gray hair and spectacles perched on his nose, he looked a little like Mr. Arkwright, if one wasn’t very familiar with the author.
“Thank you for staying with us, Mr. Arkwright,” John the lift operator said, his voice clear as a bell. “We’re sorry to see you go. Have a nice day.”
A hotel maid dressed in a spare nurse’s uniform borrowed from Sister Meersham gently steered the crook-backed, unsteady footman into the foyer where Mr. Hobart and Uncle Ronald greeted him.
Uncle Ronald offered the footman his hand. After a hesitation, the footman took it. “Once again, may we offer our deepest apologies, Mr. Arkwright,” Uncle Ronald said in his most sonorous voice. “Will you reconsider? We’ll try again to remove the members of the press—”
“No,” the footman playing Mr. Arkwright snapped. “You know I wanted utmost privacy. This is not how I want to spend my final days on this mortal coil! Do you hear me, man!”
As Uncle Ronald’s face flushed with color, the footman’s drained as he realized he’d just been rude to his employer. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought he’d apologize and ruin the charade.
Mr. Hobart saved the day. “Thank you for spending some of your precious final days in our establishment, Mr. Arkwright. We are truly honored, and everyone here at the Mayfair wishes you well. Ah, here’s your luggage now, and I believe your man has finished checking out.”
The third member of the group—another footman—had handed over bank notes and signed the reservation book at the front desk. Picking up the case he’d set down, he touched the brim of his hat in farewell. He walked stiffly and somewhat self-consciously to the little group in the center of the foyer.
Mr. Hobart stepped aside and indicated the front door through which a porter had just pushed a luggage trolley. “A hotel carriage will take you to your next destination. Goodbye, sir.”
The footman shook Mr. Hobart’s hand then Uncle Ronald’s, before slowly walking off with an exaggerated limp.
The maid and second footman fell into step alongside him. She took the fake Louis Arkwright’s elbow. “Come along, Mr. Arkwright, we have to get a wriggle on. It’s almost time for your medicine.”
Frank held the door open for them. “Good day, Mr. Arkwright. They’re just loading your luggage now. Thank you for staying at the Mayfair Hotel, sir. Mr. Arkwright, sir.”
I couldn’t see what the journalists outside thought of his announcement, but the two suspicious looking fellows inside exchanged glances.
One rolled his eyes. The other smirked. Neither left their positions to follow the actors to see where the fake Mr. Arkwright ended up.
According to the plan Harmony had laid out for me that morning, the carriage was going to drive quickly and circuitously around the city until it lost anyone following it before returning to the hotel mews with fake luggage and occupants still inside.
It was a good plan and should have worked, but the two journalists stationed in the foyer didn’t fall for it.
Neither did the ones outside from what I could see.
Three gathered nearby. The constables from the day before were nowhere in sight.
Perhaps it was the poor acting performances, or perhaps they were expecting a diversion to send them down a false path that led away from the Mayfair.
Whatever gave the game away, it was done, and Harmony’s plan had failed.
The press knew Mr. Arkwright was still in the hotel, and that meant the special secret dinner would remain canceled.
A drizzling rain sent me back inside to fetch an umbrella. My uncle stood waiting for the lift, while Mr. Hobart and Peter spoke to the journalists. When Peter saw me, he approached.
“They didn’t believe it,” he said heavily. “We’ve warned them the police will be called if they don’t leave immediately.” He sighed. “It’s so terribly messy, Miss Fox. Poor Mr. Arkwright, having to put up with this.”
“At least they don’t know which room he’s in and haven’t tried getting upstairs.”
He followed my gaze to the lift. The door opened and the tall, dark-haired guest, Mr. Janson, stepped out, a valise in hand. Instead of taking his place in the lift, Uncle Ronald signaled for John to continue up without him. He then intercepted Mr. Janson and had a few quiet words.
Peter watched on as the guest and Uncle Ronald went their separate ways. The guest headed to the desk to check out, while Uncle Ronald joined us.
“Mr. Janson is leaving us early?” Peter asked. “He’s supposed to be here another two nights.”
Uncle Ronald’s lips flattened. “He informed me yesterday that last night would be his last. I tried to persuade him to stay, but the decision was made for him. He would have preferred to stay, so he told me.”
“I imagine so,” Peter said. “The paint fumes wouldn’t have dissipated yet.”
“Paint fumes?” I asked.
“His house is being repainted. He wanted to stay here until Sunday when the smell hopefully wouldn’t be quite so strong. Did the painters finish early?” he asked Uncle Ronald.
Uncle Ronald’s lips flattened further. “There were no painters. This is just between us, but Mr. Janson was our liaison for the secret dinner that was supposed to be held Saturday night. Now that it has been canceled, he cannot stay. His room is no longer being funded.”
“By whom?” I asked.
Uncle Ronald paused, then added, “His colleagues.” He tugged on his cuffs. “I have work to do. Good day to you both.”
Once he was out of earshot, I turned to Peter. “Do you know who Mr. Janson’s colleagues are?”
“His fellow party members, I suspect. Mr. Janson is the son of an MP and considered to be a future MP himself and potential party leader. I had no idea he was behind the special dinner. I wonder why it needed to be so secretive.”
I had an inkling. “Which party does he belong to?”
“The Liberals. Perhaps they need to discuss what to do after such a terrible election result for their party.”
“I would say you are right, Peter.”
“Why are you smiling, Miss Fox?”
“Because I believe I know a way to convince Mr. Janson and his colleagues to have the dinner here, after all.”
* * *
Harry didn’t like my plan. “We can’t blackmail Archie. If he’s the murderer, he might become irrational and dangerous if we back him into a corner.”
“Do you truly think your friend is capable of murder, Harry?”
We sat in his office, on opposite sides of the desk, coffee cups from the Roma Café in hand. After a late night, the strong brew helped me feel more alert. Harry seemed lost in melancholy thoughts, however.
“Is he my friend?” he asked. “He cut ties with me a year ago. Was he ever my friend before that?” He shrugged. “I don’t know anymore.”
I set my coffee cup down on the desk and went around to his side and sat on his lap.
I rested my forearms on his shoulders and caressed the hair at the back of his head with my fingers.
“He was your friend, and still is, if you still want his friendship. Last night while we danced, he told me he regretted not answering your letter. He blames himself for the estrangement.”
Harry’s eyelids lowered to half-mast. “This is dangerous, Cleo.”
“Do you really think he’d harm us, even if he is the murderer? I suppose he might. We simply don’t know yet. Perhaps we should ask him to speak to his party colleagues as a favor, rather than blackmail him.”
Harry’s gaze lowered to my mouth. “I meant you being this close in the privacy of my office is dangerous. I’m just a man, Cleo, not a monk. And you are…” He drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. “You are you.”
I hopped off his lap, took his face in my hands, and kissed him. Before either of us deepened it, I stepped away. “Let’s ask him as a favor. What do you think?”
He blinked dazedly at me. “I think I’ll do whatever you want.”
* * *
The rain had stopped by the time we set foot on the long gravel drive leading to Stoneleigh House.
A single cart passed us as it left, most likely carrying the detritus of the previous night’s ball under its canvas canopy.
No doubt the staff were busily putting the house to rights while the earl and his family slept in.
Off to our right, behind some outbuildings, a coil of smoke rose until it blended with the dreary gray sky.
The gardeners were hard at work burning off autumn leaves as if their employers hadn’t just hosted a major event on their social calendar.
The house itself came into view as we rounded a bend, but it wasn’t the only thing we saw. Mr. Mathers walked quickly away from the house, cradling what appeared to be a bundled up blanket to his chest. With his head bent, he didn’t see us.
I expected Harry to call out to him, but he didn’t. He put his finger to his lips and with a jut of his jaw, suggested we follow him. We stepped off the gravel onto the soft grass and followed Mr. Mathers at a safe distance.
By the time Mr. Mathers reached the incinerator where a gardener shoveled leaves from a wheelbarrow into the flames, I’d guessed what he was up to.
We hid behind the thick trunk of an old oak tree and watched as Mr. Mathers spoke to the gardener.
When the pile of leaves had all gone up in smoke, the gardener left, pushing his barrow ahead of him.
Mr. Mathers waited for him to be out of sight before he unwrapped the blanket to reveal a pair of shoes.
Harry set off at a run. “Archie! Don’t!”
Mr. Mathers suddenly turned toward Harry, his eyes wide.
Then he threw the shoes into the incinerator.