Chapter 4 Friday, 12 June 2026 #2
‘Of course it was poison,’ Beatrice murmured, loud enough for most guests to hear. ‘We all saw her glass on the carpet. And she’d been sick.’
Beatrice was right; they’d all seen the vomit leaking from her mouth, the fallen martini glass, which had still been half-full when she’d entered the ladies’ room. Madison had been poisoned, without a doubt.
‘They should just tell us,’ Oliver said with a scowl. ‘We all saw the body, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Our investigation,’ Detective Wellesley cut in, voice surprisingly loud for such a petite woman, ‘is in the earliest stages. As such, we will be spending the next several hours taking witness statements. Mr Beaumont has kindly granted us access to one of the guest rooms upstairs.’
Oliver snatched his tux jacket from the back of the chair where he’d abandoned it earlier, then slipped it back on. ‘Just got a bit chilly in here,’ he muttered.
‘We’re sorry to keep you,’ Detective Crews continued, sounding not a bit sorry, ‘but it is imperative that we conduct our interviews while the night remains fresh in everyone’s minds.’
‘Are these witness statements or interviews?’ someone asked.
Hannah turned in the direction of the voice.
Tyler Marsden – he’d been one class behind her and was widely regarded as the junior class prankster.
He’d grown a bit of a gut, clearly his lacrosse days were behind him, but was otherwise largely unchanged.
‘Because she said “witness statements”, but you just said “interviews”. I mean, should I be calling my lawyer?’
‘We are speaking to you as witnesses to a crime,’ Detective Wellesley said quickly.
‘If our conversations lead us to make an arrest in this investigation, it is our duty to inform the suspect as such, at which point any suspect in our custody would have the right to request a lawyer before submitting to further questioning. Understood?’
Murmurs abounded. Hannah snorted, then leaned down to press her lips to Ami’s ear. ‘In other words, please don’t muck things up and keep us here until dawn by calling your lawyers now, thankyouveryfuckingmuch.’
Ami scowled. ‘Not that we have our phones anyway.’
‘Your co-operation is much appreciated,’ Detective Crews was saying.
‘I know we all want to get home as soon as possible, and we will do our best to keep things brief.’ He scanned for someone in the crowd, then made a small beckoning motion with his hand.
Edward Beaumont, Bash’s older brother and a fellow Prescott alum, stepped forward to join the detectives in front of the bar.
When they’d been seniors, Edward had been a freshman at Yale.
He’d made multiple appearances during that year, over holidays and breaks, always stoking the flames of sibling rivalry with the younger Beaumont and usually breaking a new Prescott girl’s heart.
Like Bash, Edward had close-cropped black hair, but his hairline was receding dramatically for a man of twenty-nine.
His build was trim, but not muscular, and he had several inches on his younger sibling.
Edward’s most dramatic feature was his nose, which sloped sharply towards a narrow chin, giving him the air of a darkly handsome villain.
‘Mr Beaumont will assist us in showing witnesses upstairs, to the room where we will be taking statements,’ Detective Crews said. ‘Please give him your utmost co-operation.’
With that, the detectives turned to the staircase leading from behind the reception desk up to the club’s second floor. A hand clamped around Hannah’s upper arm, and she gasped – the grip wasn’t painful, but it was decidedly firm.
‘Hannah.’ Edward Beaumont stood beside her, grinning devilishly. He’d sure moved fast.
‘Edward.’ Hannah gave her arm a shake, attempting to free herself from his grasp. He tightened his grip. ‘What the hell?’
He leaned close to her ear. His voice was low, but hard around the edges. ‘You’re to come with me. The detectives want to speak with you first.’
Edward pulled her none too gently to the narrow staircase leading to the club’s second floor, which housed ten guest rooms. On the evening of the gala, the rooms had been kept deliberately empty to preserve the function’s privacy.
‘You can’t be serious,’ Hannah said, voice rising. ‘Why am I to be interviewed first? What did you and Bash say to them?’
‘Don’t act so surprised,’ Edward hissed. ‘Three weeks ago, you publish an article lambasting your former classmates, and oh, it just happens to drop the same day Henry announces his run for mayor.’
‘That was a complete coincidence,’ she snapped, allowing herself to be guided up the stairs.
It had been ten years since she’d been inside the Lenox Club, and during the few parties she’d attended here as Bash Beaumont’s guest, she’d never set foot inside the guest rooms. She was vexed – but also mildly curious.
It would be a great detail for her follow-up article, although with Madison’s death, she imagined the shape of the piece might shift a bit.
‘Sure,’ Edward replied, unconvinced, his voice louder now that they’d left the other guests behind.
‘It was,’ Hannah insisted. ‘Not that I’d expect you to know anything about journalism, but Culture Vault writers don’t choose their publication dates – or write their own headlines.
Besides, I found out about Winslow’s mayoral run at the same moment as everyone else.
What do the detectives think, that Winslow’s team called me up and gave me a tip? ’
‘I have no idea,’ Edward snarled, tugging her roughly to the end of the hall and fitting a heavy brass key in the lock of the door to the Caraway Room, the club’s corner suite.
‘But I do know you’ve had it in for the Upper East Siders for years, and your grievances against Madison go way back.
Everyone saw your heated exchange minutes before she died.
You probably slipped something into her drink. ’
‘Oh please.’ Hannah glared. ‘Elle was the last person to speak to Madison, not me. If I’d dosed her drink right there in front of the lecterns, don’t you think someone would have seen?’
‘You’re wrong about Elle,’ he snapped, twisting the key hard. ‘She was Madison’s best friend. And as for the rest – tell it to the detectives.’
With that, Edward flung the door wide. The room before them wasn’t large for a hotel suite; the club was built on quality and tradition, not opulence and scale.
An oil portrait of the room’s namesake, former club member Reginald G.
Caraway, hung above the bed. Directly across was a working fireplace, and a tasteful selection of heirloom antiques appeared throughout.
Today’s edition of The New York Times was folded neatly on the nightstand.
What did not appear in the Caraway Room said as much about the Lenox Club as what did – no phone, no USB ports on the base of the lamps, no massive flat screen TV, or a television of any kind.
In a recessed space between the bedroom and bath was a large mahogany desk and two deep leather chairs.
Already seated were Detectives Wellesley and Crews, their hands folded on the neat desktop, which contained only a fountain pen in a brass holder, three sheets of LC monogrammed stationery and a leather-bound room service menu.
Edward stepped back into the hall and shut the door with a thud, and Hannah flinched in spite of herself.
‘Thank you for speaking with us,’ Detective Crews said, unfolding his hands and placing them in his lap.
Detective Wellesley rose and crossed to the aisle beside the bed, where a wooden chair with an oxblood red seat cushion had been positioned.
She slid it awkwardly across the rug, then placed it on the opposite side of the desk, for Hannah.
‘Please, have a seat.’
Seeing no other choice, Hannah sat.
‘As we mentioned downstairs,’ Detective Wellesley said, ‘the Lenox Club has been placed on lockdown while we conduct our interviews. No one may enter or depart until we’ve concluded taking statements.’
Hannah didn’t recall the use of the word ‘lockdown’ in the detectives’ introductory address to the gala crowd, but the image of the butler securing the front door and the uniformed officer taking up a post there was burned on her brain.
‘With that in mind, we’ll keep our conversation as brief as possible,’ Detective Crews said. ‘Let’s begin.’
He switched on a recording device and placed it on the desk between them. Hannah supposed the police got a waiver when it came to the no-devices policy.
‘This is Detective Randall Crews of the NYPD. It is Friday, 12 June 2026, at ten minutes after nine pm, and we are in the Caraway Room of the Lenox Club, located at 32 East 73rd Street. I am here with Hannah Irene Miller and my colleague Detective Raina Wellesley. This interview is being recorded on audio only. Ms Miller, can you please state your name for the record? And can you confirm that you are here voluntarily and willing to speak with us?’
Hannah’s eyebrows arched. Had she agreed to speak with the detectives voluntarily?
She supposed she had given her tacit consent by allowing Edward Beaumont to bring her up here, and by staying in the room when he left, when she could have simply followed him back into the hall.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t too late to change her mind.
‘Am I a suspect?’ she asked.
‘At the moment, we are simply taking statements from those in attendance at the club tonight,’ Detective Wellesley said.
Hannah chewed on the inside of her lip. She could refuse to speak to them until she had a lawyer present; the detectives had done their best to wave aside the concerns raised by the crowd downstairs, but she knew her rights.
But asking for a lawyer would cast all the more suspicion on her, when she was clearly already in their sights.
Why else would they have called her up first?