Page 10 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel
I was about to return to the post desk when the door to the steward’s office opened an inch. Someone peered through the gap then the door opened wider. Mr. Armitage the assistant manager emerged.
“Good evening, Miss Fox,” he said cheerfully as he locked the door behind him and pocketed the key. “Are you lost?” His friendliness was at odds with his furtive peek through the gap.
“Merely being nosy. I wanted to see what was down here. I’m sorry, am I not supposed to be here?”
“You can go wherever you want. The entire hotel is available for family to explore.” He hesitated then checked his pocket watch. “Would you like a tour?”
“Yes, please.”
“Then let’s begin here.” He pointed to each of the labeled doors. “These are the offices for the senior staff. You won’t often find us in them, however, since we’re usually attending to matters within the hotel. Beyond them is a service lift, usually used by the porters, and our private chambers.”
“You live here?”
“Only the unmarried senior staff do. That’s myself, Mr. Chapman the steward, and Mrs. Kettering the housekeeper.” He put a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, “She’s actuallyMissKettering, but housekeepers are always called Mrs, so I’m told. Apparently it gives them the appearance of authority.”
I laughed softly. “I won’t tell anyone. And the manager?”
“Mr. Hobart lives with his wife off-site.”
I cupped the side of my mouth with a hand as he had done and lowered my voice. “You can call him Uncle in front of me. I don’t mind.”
His lips tilted with a disarming lopsided smile. “My uncle has already left for the day. My aunt likes him home for dinner.”
“So you’re in charge in the evenings?”
“Sir Ronald is in charge. I’m merely his lackey.”
“I can’t see you being anyone’s lackey.” It just slipped out without me thinking. I hardly knew Mr. Armitage, but I suspected my observation was correct.
“I admit that asking me nicely rather than ordering me does get better results. Something most people here understand.”
We left the corridor and returned to the foyer. A staff member stood behind the post desk so I gave him my letters and he promised to see they made the last collection of the day. Then Mr. Armitage continued with his tour, taking me to another sitting room, smaller than the one I’d taken tea in, as well as pointing out the luggage room, a small parlor used by staff, the vestibule leading to the dining room where diners could wait for their friends in comfortable chairs, and finally the dining room itself. Waiters wove between tables, setting places for dinner, while Mr. Chapman the steward rearranged a vase of flowers. He pinched off a rosebud and poked the stem through his buttonhole.
“That’s all the areas the guests are allowed access to, but I want to show you everything on this level and below,” Mr. Armitage said. “Do you have time?”
“An abundance of it .I’m not dining with my family until eight.”
“Including your aunt?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t she join us?”
He watched me and I watched him back, waiting for an explanation. None came. A small crease appeared between his brows, however, as if my confusion confused him in turn.
“No reason,” he said simply. “Sometimes she suffers from headaches. I assumed your aunt and uncle’s letters had informed you. Or that your cousin’s letters would. Miss Bainbridge seems like she would blurt out all sorts of secrets to her only cousin.”
“We’ve never exchanged letters,” I said.
His brows arched. “Never?”
I shook my head. “My aunt and uncle were estranged from my parents.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“You weren’t to know.”
“I feel as though I’ve stumbled my way through this conversation and thrust my nose in where it shouldn’t be.”
“Call it even, given I was lurking in the staff corridor.”
