Page 34 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel
“Fortunately I like duck,” I said tightly.
Mr. Duffield’s smile widened, pleased with my approval. “Tell me all about yourself, Miss Fox. Why have you come to live at this delightful hotel?”
I gave him the brief version, merely mentioning the recent death of my last remaining relative on my father’s side, and my uncle and aunt’s generous invitation to live with them until I married. His eyes lit up at the mention of marriage.
“And do you have a fiancé, Miss Fox?” he asked, oh-so-innocently.
“Not yet,” I said, matching his tone. “Tell me all about yourself, Mr. Duffield. Where are you from?”
“I have an estate in Lincolnshire with several tenant farms. My family has lived there for generations.”
Peter had said Mr. Duffield was the second son of a second son of an earl, so it shouldn’t surprise me to hear that he was landed gentry. Still, I was a little taken aback. When he’d offered me his arm, I’d noticed the fabric at the elbow of his dinner jacket was thin. His shoes were well worn too, molded to fit hit foot to the point where I could see the outline of his smallest toe. My grandfather had kept his dinner suit and good shoes for only the most formal occasions. They were in the same condition as Mr. Duffield’s.
It would seem Mr. Duffield wanted me to know he was landed gentry so that perhaps I’d overlook the evidence of his hardship.
“And what brings you to London and The Mayfair in particular?” I asked.
“Business matters bring me to the city. Always business.” He leaned back in the chair, puffing out his chest. “As to The Mayfair, isn’t it obvious?”
“Pardon?”
“The ball! I’m looking forward to attending. Are you going, Miss Fox?”
“I’m not sure. I’m in mourning and it doesn’t feel appropriate.”
He frowned and patted my hand. “I do hope you’ll reconsider. You would be an ornament to the evening. Your uncle would be very proud, I’m sure.”
“Oh, er, thank you.” I’d hardly heard his compliment, if that’s what it was. I was thinking about business during the quiet Christmas to New Year period. Surely the banks were closed and most men of business not in their offices. Perhaps Mr. Duffield’s business was urgent and couldn’t wait for the reopening of the banks in the new year. Or perhaps he’d come solely for the ball and lied about business.
Or perhaps there was another reason. A reason which Mrs. Warrick had confronted him about. If she knew he was too poor to afford to stay here, she could very well be surprised at seeing him. If she’d asked him about it, he might have worried that she would foil whatever plans he had.
“Awful matter, the murder, don’t you think?” I asked as our meals arrived.
“Yes. Horrible. But let’s not discuss such a thing.”
“Oh, but I want to. Had you met poor Mrs. Warrick?”
“Who?”
“The victim.”
“No, I don’t think so. I might have exchanged words with her at some point, in the lift or the foyer. I don’t know. How is the duck?”
Try as I might, Mr. Duffield refused to talk more about the murder or himself, unless it was to tell me how large his estate was, how many tenant farms were on it, and his long-deceased grandfather, the earl.
I was going to have a story to rival Flossy’s for dullness by the end of the evening. I’d readily swap places with her and be forced to converse with an archaeological enthusiast over this self-important bore.
I was relieved when he excused himself after the meal. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
He left before I could tell him I had somewhere to be. A few minutes later, he returned to the dining room. I made a study of the tablecloth and silverware while he stopped to speak to Mr. Chapman. Mr. Chapman’s glance in my direction left me in no doubt that I was the subject of their conversation.
When he returned, Mr. Duffield did not sit down. “Thank you for your company tonight, Miss Fox.”
“You’re going?” I wasn’t sorry to see him leave, but I was surprised the evening was ending so suddenly. I thought he’d enjoyed talking about himself.
“I have a headache.” He touched his temple. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” I said to his retreating back.
