Page 46 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel
“I’ll be sure to ask him.”
He studied the ledger and I turned to go. “One more thing, miss,” he called out. “Do you know when Mr. Hookly is leaving London?”
“I’m not sure, but I believe he is staying for the ball.” I recalled Mr. Hookly asking Mr. Armitage about an invited guest he wished to see that night so he must intend on staying until then.
The tailor looked relieved. I was considering whether to probe further when a customer entered. He held the door open for me and I left. The stop at the tailor’s shop had been a waste of time. I’d learned nothing.
* * *
I loiteredin the foyer again the following morning, pretending to study a tourist map of London which Peter had given me. I had coat, hat and gloves in hand, ready to follow out one of my suspects if they happened to leave the hotel.
My patience was rewarded when Mr. Duffield walked past. I hid behind the map then raced after him. He didn’t stop to collect an umbrella from the luggage desk so I didn’t either. Hopefully the rain would stay away for the duration of our walk. I tucked the map into my coat pocket then put the coat on. I was still pulling on my gloves when I exited the hotel.
“Heading out, Miss Fox?” Frank the doorman asked. “Do you require a conveyance?”
“No, thank you.”
“A map?”
I peered after Mr. Duffield, not wanting to lose sight of him. “I have one.”
“Would you like me to fetch you an umbrella from—”
“No, thank you,” I called out as I headed off. Poor Frank was trying very hard to make up for his initial rudeness, but today was not the day for me to indulge him.
Mr. Duffield was a fast walker with a determined step. While Mr. Hookly seemed to be quite the shopper, Mr. Duffield was not. He did not venture into any of the shops, nor did he head to any parks for a leisurely stroll.
I was curious about where he was heading, and my curiosity piqued even further when he turned into Fleet Street. A boy selling newspapers outsideThe Daily Telegraphbuilding tried to sell him a copy, but Mr. Duffield ignored him. He entered the office ofThe Evening News, two doors down. I put my map up to cover the lower part of my face and peered through the window. Mr. Duffield spoke to the clerk at the front desk. He then waited while the clerk sent a lad into an adjoining room.
A few minutes later, a middle-aged fellow emerged. He and Mr. Duffield greeted one another in what appeared to be a cordial manner, then they exchanged envelopes. Mr. Duffield tucked his into his coat pocket, while the other man opened his and read the enclosed letter. He smiled, nodding his approval, and extended his hand to Mr. Duffield.
For a long moment I thought Mr. Duffield wouldn’t shake it. He eventually did, but not before the other man’s smile turned cynical. Then Mr. Duffield hurried out of the office, his head bowed.
I lifted the map higher and didn’t lower it until he’d passed me. Instead of following, I entered the newspaper office.
It wasn’t difficult to draw a conclusion for Mr. Duffield’s visit—hewas the one passing on nasty gossip about the hotel and Uncle Ronald’s desperate attempt to secure guests for the ball. I wasn’t sure what else I could learn, but I’d regret not making inquiries.
“Good morning,” I said cheerfully to the young man on the front desk.
The clerk had been slouching against the counter but straightened upon my smile. He smiled back, revealing crooked teeth. “Can I help you, miss?”
“May I speak with the editor?”
The clerk’s smile stretched further. “Which one? We have an editor in chief, managing editor, news editor, features editor, political editor—"
“The one who was talking to Mr. Duffield a moment ago.”
His brows arched. “You know Mr. Duffield?”
“We’re acquaintances and I want to warn your editor about using him as a source for gossip.”
The clerk’s smile vanished. He sent the same errand boy off to fetch a man named Collier. “He’s the features editor,” the clerk explained. “What do you mean you want to warn him about Mr. Duffield?”
I wasn’t going to answer but changed my mind. There was as good a chance of learning information from him as from the features editor. “His information is malicious.”
The clerk shrugged. “Most of what comes through our doors is told to us by someone with an axe to grind. It doesn’t mean the information is worthless.”
Mr. Collier shoved open the adjoining door, making it swing wide. “Yes?” he barked as the errand boy slipped past him into the foyer. He arched bushy brows at me.
