Page 74 of Murder at the Dinner Party
I only had myself to blame for walking into that trap.
* * *
I wasn’t terriblysurprised when Mrs. Turner refused to let us in to see Betty. I’d suspected she was thwarting my attempts to find answers after she’d canceled the investigation and now, when she told us that Betty was too busy, I was sure. The maid hadn’t looked busy the last few times I’d called.
As Mrs. Turner began to close the door on us, I put my hand out to stop it. I hadn’t wanted to ask my next question to the housekeeper at the front door, but she left me no choice. “Betty has a lover, doesn’t she? At least, she used to.”
“Whether she does or doesn’t is none of your affair.” Mrs. Turner tried to close the door again.
I pushed back on it. “It is our affair if her lover was Mr. Hardy.”
Her jaw dropped before snapping shut again. “Don’t be absurd!”
I let the matter rest. I’d warned Harry as we walked that she was going to try to block any further investigation into Mr. Hardy’s death, so we’d formulated a plan. He now put it into action.
“Mrs. Turner, may we speak privately?” he asked. “This is nothing to do with the investigation. It’s about the hotel where your sister works. I used to work there, too.”
Her features softened at the mention of her sister. She opened the door wider for him to enter, then closed it in my face.
I waited several seconds before I cracked the door open and peered along the service corridor. It was empty. This next phase of the plan was the trickiest. I crept along the corridor until I reached the staff parlor. I peered around the doorway, but the parlor was empty. I continued on, knowing the kitchen would not be empty. Once again, I peered around the doorway. Mrs. Cook had her back to me as she worked at the stove.
Birdy, however, saw me. She smiled and waved.
Bloody hell. One word from her and the cook would turn around and alert Mrs. Turner. I put my finger to my lips and mouthed ‘Our secret’.
Birdy’s grin widened. She put her finger to her lips, too, and nodded.
I continued on, up the steep, narrow service stairs, all the way to the top level. It was easy to identify the bedchamber belonging to Betty and Birdy. Where the rooms used by Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Cook were somewhat practical in their plainness, the girls had tied ribbons to the bedposts, and had collected feathers, shiny buttons and other pretty objects that took their fancy. My hunch was confirmed when I saw one of the photographs on the dressing table was of Mrs. Hatch and a man who must be her late husband.
My hopes of finding a diary or letters were dashed after a search of the dresser drawers, cupboard, and old suitcases above the cupboard. There were no mementos or photographs of Mr. Hardy, and nothing to indicate Betty had been given the maid’s position because of her mother’s connection to the Whitchurches.
Harry would be winding up his conversation with Mrs. Turner soon, so I searched the next logical hiding place—under the mattress of the bed the girls shared. Instead of paper, my fingers touched cool glass. I removed the small bottle and opened the stopper.
A vaguely familiar minty scent wafted out. I’d smelled the same odor mere weeks ago when I was investigating the murder of the polo player. I’d not known what it was then, but Harmony had.
I returned the stopper to the bottle and closed my fingers around the glass. It was small enough to fit in my palm.
I hoped to see Betty on the stairs as I headed down, but I met no one. Harry’s deep voice could be heard quite clearly from Mrs. Turner’s office as he spoke loudly for my sake. He was expounding on the virtues of employment at the hotel, telling her that any of her staff would be welcomed there if they found the Campbells no longer had any need of them. She interrupted him, telling him she already knew that from her sister, but he continued on as if she hadn’t spoken, to draw out the conversation. He was doing his best to give me more time, but not even Harry could keep going much longer.
I ought to leave before Mrs. Turner realized what we were up to, but the glass bottle in my hand couldn’t be ignored. Or, rather, its contents couldn’t.
Betty wasn’t in the kitchen, either, but this time, Mrs. Cook saw me. “Everything all right, Miss Fox? Are you looking for Mrs. Turner?” Not only did she not attempt to throw me out, but she was being agreeable. Mrs. Turner must not have told her that I was essentially banned from the investigation, and therefore the house.
I took full advantage of the miscommunication and entered the kitchen. It wasn’t the cook I wanted to talk to, it was her assistant.
I smiled at Birdy. She smiled back, completely without guile. I felt a little guilty for asking her not to say anything earlier, and I was wondering how to make it up to her when she started to lightly clap her hands.
“That was a good secret,” she said, grinning. “I like secrets.”
Yes, she did. She’d told me on one of my visits that she knew a secret, but I’d dismissed her. I’d not taken her seriously, rather like a busy adult brushing off a child who wants to play. It had been rude of me. Even if I’d thought she could tell me nothing, I should have indulged her for the sake of making her smile. If she knew something important, I deserved the delay my carelessness had caused.
“Do you have a secret you’d like to share with me?” I asked her.
Mrs. Cook placed a hand on her hip and glared at her assistant. “Don’t you go telling stories now, Birdy.”
Birdy shook her head vigorously. “It’s not a lie. I do know a secret. I know that Betty had a row with Mr. Hardy before he died.” She placed her hands at her throat and made a choking noise. She finished the little act by sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and closing her eyes.
Mrs. Cook nudged her in the arm. “All right, that’s enough of that. Have some respect for the dead. Tell Miss Fox about the argument. Where did it happen?”
