Page 84 of Murder at the Mayfair Hotel
He led me through to a cozy parlor at the front of the house and added coal from the scuttle to the fire. I sat on the sofa and he occupied one of the armchairs. It was a pleasant room that reminded me of my grandparents’ house with its heavy drapery and embroidered cushions. The small space was filled to bursting with knickknacks, furniture and family photographs, which made it seem even smaller.
“Is this you as a boy?” I asked, picking up a framed photograph of a younger Inspector and Mrs. Hobart with a lanky youth standing behind them. It was clearly Mr. Armitage but with longer hair and a softer jaw. He was already quite tall, although I’d guess him to be no more than fourteen or so.
He plucked the frame out of my hand and set it down on the table. “Don’t change the subject. You were telling me that my father believes a staff member is the murderer but he’s not re-interviewing any of them until he has further proof.”
“I also wondered if he’s holding back until after tonight’s ball as a favor to your uncle.”
“My uncle wouldn’t ask him to do that.”
“Would your father do it anyway? Particularly knowing that Mr. Hobart is under pressure because he no longer has an assistant?”
“Not to mention he knows that my uncle feels as though he owes Sir Ronald for giving him his job back,” Mr. Armitage added.
I hadn’t thought about that. It was possible Mr. Hobart felt guilty and wanted to repay Uncle Ronald by being extra dutiful and efficient. It was understandable that his brother the detective would want to make it easier for him at the moment.
Mr. Armitage drummed his fingers on the chair arm only to stop when his mother walked in. Mrs. Hobart ignored me and strode up to her son. She snatched the hand towel off him and finally turned to me.
“I would offer you tea, but we’ve run out.” She marched out of the parlor, the towel balled up in her hand.
“At least she didn’t throw me out,” I said on a sigh.
Mr. Armitage seemed not to notice the exchange. He looked lost in thought. “Why does my father think one of the staff is the murderer?”
I told him how poison had not been found in Mrs. Warrick’s room, and that she couldn’t have consumed it elsewhere then come back, changed into her night clothes and climbed into bed as if nothing were amiss.
“Her door was locked,” I finished. “Edith had to open it with her key.”
“So only someone with a key could have done it.”
“Between the hours of three and six, according to the temperature of the body,” I added.
“My uncle and I had access to his set of spare keys,” Mr. Armitage went on. “He would have noticed if they went missing. Mrs. Kettering also has a set, and the maid cleaning the room for the day does too. It’s possible either that one or Mrs. Kettering’s was stolen and they never reported it, or didn’t notice it missing before it was returned.”
“Considering Mrs. Warrick was poisoned when they would have been asleep, that’s likely. I’ve met Edith,” I added. “She seems nice but has a nervous constitution. I can’t see her killing anyone.”
“Nor can I. I don’t have much to do with the maids, but I remember interviewing her along with Mrs. Kettering. I found her to be timid. Not the sort capable of murder.”
“And Mrs. Kettering?”
“The opposite of Edith. She likes to lord it over the maids. She’s very unpopular. She’s a hard worker, however, and has been at the hotel for years. I can’t see why she would kill Mrs. Warrick.”
“That could be said about all of the staff,” I pointed out. “But not about all of the guests.”
His gaze sharpened and focused on me. It was intense and unexpected. “You said Mrs. Warrick could have been referring to one of two other guests that afternoon. Aside from me, that is.”
“The inspector doesn’t think a guest did it. It had to be someone with access to Mrs. Warrick’s key.”
“Unless one ofthemstole a key.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose.” I’d been assuming another staff member stole a key, but there was no reason why a guest couldn’t.
He gave me a smug look. “You hadn’t considered that possibility, had you?”
I was quite sure he was being irritating on purpose. “I don’t think your father has, either.”
“I’d wager he has and decided not to tell you. He won’t share everything he knows with members of the public.”
“Members of the public or just me?” I asked, recalling the inspector’s cool reception earlier.
