Page 12 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel
Floyd rolled his eyes. Neither his sister nor father saw it.
Our soup course arrived along with a group of carolers from the nearby boys’ home who sang Christmas carols before being led out by their teacher. When the musicians resumed their regular playing, we resumed our conversation. We chatted easily enough about Cambridge and my life there, and about the features of the hotel that I needed to know. It seemed nothing was off limits to me. I could go where I pleased.
“The staff don’t live here?” I asked. Mr. Armitage had mentioned only the senior staff lived on the ground floor. He hadn’t spoken about the rest.
“Unmarried staff were moved off-site into residence halls years ago,” Uncle Ronald told me. “They used to be accommodated on the top floor prior to that, but installing the lifts meant those rooms could be renovated and turned into guest rooms. Five flights of stairs was a little too much to ask of the guests.”
But not the staff, apparently.
Flossy pulled a face. “It used to be exhausting going up to our rooms on the fourth floor.”
“You can’t possibly remember that,” her brother said. “You were very young when the lifts were put in.”
“Old enough to remember. Anyway, the fifth floor now has some of the best rooms. Not as good as the fourth floor suites, naturally, but the guests like the view.”
“Except for Mrs. Cavendish-Dyer,” Floyd said, reaching for his wineglass again. “The old bat isn’t satisfied with anything.”
“Floyd,” Uncle Ronald bit off. “Don’t speak that way about a guest.”
“No one can hear me, and Cleo is family.” Floyd drained his glass and beckoned a waiter standing nearby to refill it.
Uncle Ronald didn’t take his hard glare off his son, but Floyd pretended not to notice. He raised his refilled glass in salute to me.
“The ball,” Flossy said suddenly and rather loudly. “You must both convince Cleo to attend and to wear something other than black. An exception to the rules of mourning should be made for balls, don’t you think?”
Her breezy chatter didn’t hide the fact that her father and brother were waging a silent battle with one another, but it did lead them to call a truce. Both men turned to me and, taking Flossy’s side, tried to convince me to attend the New Year’s Eve ball.
“Perhaps I’ll defer to my aunt on this matter,” I told them. “I’m sure she’ll be able to guide me.” As a means to shutting down the conversation, it was successful. But mention of my aunt brought a taut silence and everyone gave their desserts a great deal of attention.
Uncle Ronald went to speak to Mr. Armitage after dinner while Floyd, Flossy and I waited for the lift. Once his father was out of sight, however, Floyd broke away.
“Well then, I’m off.” He turned, blew us both a kiss as he walked backwards, beckoning one of the porters to fetch him his cloak.
Flossy clicked her tongue. “I wish he’d take me with him, but he flatly refuses.”
“Where does he go?” I asked.
“Out with his friends. I’m not sure where, but at least it’s out. Living here can be so stifling. Father never lets me go anywhere.”
I watched her retreating brother as the porter handed him his cloak and hat. He looked like a man with a world of opportunity at his fingertips. Given he was wealthy and male, he had no reason to think otherwise.
“Father doesn’t like Floyd going out all the time, but he tolerates it. Some of Floyd’s friends are the sons of very influential people, many of whom are our guests when they come to London.” Flossy pressed the Call button again and looked up. “It must be stuck. This wouldn’t happen if we installed a new one.”
I waited a few more moments then gave up. “Shall we take the stairs?”
Flossy wrinkled her little pug nose. “I’ll wait. John will have it fixed soon.”
I didn’t want to wait and headed up the stairs, only to stop on what I guessed to be the landing between the second and third floors when I heard a woman’s raised voice coming from somewhere above. I peered up the stairwell and could just make out two women talking far above.
“You should not be here,” the woman scolded.
“Sorry, Mrs. Kettering.” I had to strain to hear the younger voice. If we hadn’t been standing in a stairwell, I suspected her voice wouldn’t have carried.
“You should be on the second,” Mrs. Kettering said. “Why were you on the fifth?”
“I lost count.”
“You can’t count to two?”
