Page 67 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel
I hadno inclination to continue with the investigation. I threw away the notes I’d made on my suspects and decided to send back Mr. Armitage’s file to the boy’s home on Dean Street. I’d go to the post desk directly after breakfast.
Harmony didn’t arrive to do my hair at eight as she usually did, and I was glad for the sleep-in. I’d hardly slept a wink. I kept replaying my confrontation with Uncle Ronald over and over, and how I could have done it differently, in a less heated way that did not jeopardize my stay at The Mayfair.
I expected to be told to leave the hotel by the end of the day, just as he’d ordered Mr. Hobart and Mr. Armitage to leave. At least if I expected it, it would not come as a surprise when it happened. I should have heeded Grandmama’s warnings to keep my opinions to myself.
Harmony arrived at nine, a bundle of enthusiasm and big smiles. “He’s back, Cleo! Isn’t it wonderful! Mr. Hobart is back. We’ve just had a staff meeting in the dining room with him, and he says he can’t wait to finalize arrangements for tomorrow night’s ball.”
I pressed a hand to my rapidly beating heart and broke into a grin. If Uncle Ronald had relented then perhaps he wouldn’t throw me out. “That is a relief. And Mr. Armitage?”
Her smile slipped. “Mr. Hobart said he won’t be returning.”
I lowered myself onto the chair at my dressing table. “Oh.”
“The position of assistant manager is now vacant and Mr. Hobart said he’ll be hiring a replacement in the new year.” She indicated I should face the mirror. “How would you like me to do your hair today?”
“I don’t care.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Don’t be so sad. Mr. Hobart’s back.”
“But not Mr. Armitage.”
“True, but he’s young enough and clever enough to find other work. He’ll be fine, and the hotel can manage with just Mr. Hobart at the helm for a while.” She laid her hands on my shoulders and smiled at my reflection. “I think he’s more upset that he can’t retire knowing the position of manager is staying in his family.”
I subjected my hair to her ministrations and was pleased with the result. She’d arranged it in a very modern swept-up style that flattered my features nicely.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Harmony.”
“Just getting in some practice.”
“For what?”
“If you change your mind and decide to go to the ball after all. That style could be the basis for something more elaborate if I just add a few curls.”
“I don’t think I’ll be going.”
“There’s time to change your mind.”
“It’s tomorrow.”
She merely smiled. “So now that the hotel is returning to normal, will you continue with the investigation today?”
“I’ve lost my appetite for it.”
“Lost your appetite for finding the truth? Miss Fox, I’m surprised to hear you say it.”
If she knew where my truth-seeking had got me, she’d encourage me to stop. “It’s impossible to continue without knowing how the poison was delivered and as far as I’m aware, the police haven’t shared the results of their tests with anyone. I don’t know whether it was in the toothpaste, cream or tonic, or none of them. Besides, I’m sure Detective Inspector Hobart will solve it.”
Now that his son wasn’t a suspect, I had no reason to believe he wouldn’t.
She sighed. “I suppose. But I’ll continue to keep an eye out for suspicious activity.”
I left her to clean my suite while I went downstairs to post Mr. Armitage’s file to the boys’ home, but changed my mind before I reached the post desk. A hotel mark would make it obvious that someone from here had stolen it. I would slip it under the orphanage’s door myself.
I spotted Mr. Chapman and Mrs. Kettering leaving the manager’s corridor, their steps purposeful and brisk. It was likely they’d just come from a meeting with Mr. Hobart. I drew in a deep breath and went in search of him. We would see one another around the hotel so I might as well speak to him now and get it over with.
He did not look surprised to see me, nor did he look anything like the troubled, vulnerable man I’d last seen in this same office. The hotel manager was once again the master of his emotions with a calm manner that pervaded everything he did, from the sweep of his hand to indicate the chair opposite his desk, to the sympathetic smile he bestowed on me.
“How are you?” he asked.
