Page 35 of Murder at the Dinner Party
She nodded. “He came out of his room and ran along the corridor. If he wasn’t putting his jacket on, he might have seen me where I was hiding behind a potted palm, but his view was obstructed by his arm. Lord and Lady Whitchurch were too distracted to see me, too, thankfully. They ran past in their dressing gowns, but they were glaring at one another and didn’t notice me.”
Her statement was fuller than the one she’d given the police. There’d been no mention of the clothing they’d worn, just that they’d passed her while she hid. Something struck me immediately. “Lord and Lady Whitchurch were wearing dressing gowns, which is understandable given the early hour. But Arthur was putting on a jacket. Was he putting it on over his pajamas?”
She frowned. “No, I don’t think so. He was wearing trousers, a waistcoat, shirt and tie.”
As if he’d just come home. Yet, in his statement he said he’d been in bed all night and was asleep when the body was discovered. He certainly wouldn’t have had time to change into a suit if the scream awoke him. Like his parents, he should have been wearing a dressing gown over nightclothes.
So where had he been? And why did he lie? I asked her a few more questions, but her answers gave no new information.
I removed the list of witnesses from my bag and handed it to Mrs. Hatch. “Do you know where we can find the other staff who are on this list? We’d like to interview them again.”
She picked up her spectacles from her lap and scrutinized the list. “The butler has passed away, the housekeeper, too. I don’t know where the cook or scullery maid are now, but one of the footmen worked for the same family as me before I had my accident. He’s the butler there now and he remained friends with Ralph, the Whitchurches’ second footman, so he should be able to help you find him. Have you got a pencil and paper, Miss Fox? I’ll give you the address.”
I wrote it down, then returned my notepad and pencil to my bag. “You’ve been most helpful, Mrs. Hatch.” She smiled, pleased. “One more thing. Do you think Rupert killed Charlotte?”
She sighed. “I suppose he must have done. Innocent men don’t run away, do they?”
“Where do you think he went?”
“Overseas, somewhere where a person can change their name and not bump into anyone they know. Africa or Australia, for example.”
“Why do you think he killed her?”
Her lips flattened. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Charlotte got above herself and made demands on him. Either she wanted to be ensconced as his permanent mistress in her own flat, or she wanted money. They argued and he lashed out.” She shook her head sadly. “Silly, silly girl.”
“She was a victim, Mrs. Hatch. Whatever she did, she didn’t deserve to be murdered by her lover.”
“True enough, Miss Fox, but the fact is, if Charlotte had been more careful, more modest, she would still be here today.”
It was a point we may never know for sure, but I had the heavy feeling she was right. I wished it could be otherwise.
After we left the charity boarding house, we headed to the address Mrs. Hatch had given me, where the butler gave another statement. It matched the one he’d given the police on the night of Charlotte’s murder and provided no new clues. He gave us an address for his friend.
We found Ralph Gannon at his place of employment, a tailor’s shop on Savile Row. The display in the front window sported a lightweight jacket and boater for summer, but the bolts of fabric neatly slotted into the shelves appeared to be heavier winter tweeds, worsted and cheviot.
After we introduced ourselves, the very upright and impeccably dressed Mr. Gannon proudly informed us that he left domestic service some years prior and changed careers to become assistant to the tailor. He did all the front-of-house duties, such as taking measurements and writing up orders, while a tailor and his apprentices made the clothes in the workshop out the back. Mr. Gannon claimed he had the skill to make the suits himself, but preferred to talk to the customers.
“I used to act as valet to the young Whitchurch masters, while also performing my footmen duties,” he said. “The butler took care of old Lord Whitchurch when he was in London, but the sons were both in my care. I learned a lot about a gentleman’s clothing needs from them, which has served me well in my new career.”
“Did a man by the name of Hardy work for the Whitchurches?” I asked.
“Not that I recall.”
“I’m investigating his death.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Goodness me.”
“He was butler to the Campbells and died while serving at a dinner party. Do you know the Campbells? They’re friends of the Whitchurches.”
“No, sorry, but it’s been some years since I worked for the Whitchurches.”
“Witnesses say Mr. Hardy knew them and they him. Does his name ring a bell at all?”
“No.”
“Do you remember when Charlotte died?”
“Lord, yes. It was a dreadful day.” He gasped. “Does your dead butler have something to do with Charlotte’s murder?”
