Page 55 of Murder on Harley Street
“Getting my own office is a long way off, Cleo, but thank you. I’ve finished here, and Mr. Hobart will be requiring his office back. Shall we go up to your suite?”
“All right, but what did you need to talk to me about?”
“I thought you might want help doing your hair for dinner tonight.”
“You’re not my maid at the moment. You don’t have to do my hair.”
She rounded the desk, clutching a folder full of papers. “I want to.”
“Don’t be silly, Harmony. I’ll ask Jane or one of the other maids.”
“I insist.”
“This isn’t about my hair, is it? You want to talk to me.”
She sniffed. “Very well, I admit it. I’ve missed our chats after you’ve spent a day investigating.”
We’d had breakfast together that morning, but I didn’t remind her of that. I looped my arm through hers. “I’ve missed them, too. But you can chat to me of an evening without doing my hair. You don’t need an excuse.”
“I’m doing it anyway. Jane isn’t as good, and neither of us will be as carefree with our conversation with her around.” She had a point.
Once in my suite, I put in an order to the kitchen through the speaking tube for tea to be sent up. After it was delivered by one of the footmen, we both took off our shoes and sat on the sofa with contented sighs.
“Tell me what you learned today,” Harmony said. “Have you narrowed down your list of suspects?”
“We’ll discuss the investigation in a moment, but first, I have to ask you something more important.”
“More important than solving a murder?”
“Perhaps not quite, but it is tying my stomach in knots just thinking about it.”
“You poor thing. Is it Mr. Lombardi?”
“It’s Harry’s birthday present. I don’t know what to get him.”
“A tie? Handkerchief?”
“It’s the first birthday gift I’ll ever get him, and there’ll never be another first. It needs to be special.”
“You could embroider the handkerchief yourself.”
“Aside from the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Hobart are giving him that exact thing, I do not think my embroidery skills are up to the task. I’m adequate, at best.”
“You’ll think of something, Cleo.”
I sighed. She was even less help than Mr. Hobart.
“You will,” she insisted. “You have good instincts.”
I pulled a face. “Not always. For instance, Mr. Lombardi likes men as well as women, but I would never have guessed. Possibly Dr. Iverson, too, although he vehemently denies it. That’s two men in a matter of days, and I was quite oblivious. I can’t always trust my instincts.”
“Men who like men are very good at hiding their nature. They have to be. Youcantrust your instincts, Cleo. They’re right about most things.”
I studied her over the rim of my teacup, but she seemed quite serious. “Are you forgetting that I accused Harry of murder last Christmas, based on instinct?”
“That doesn’t count. It was your way of flirting with him.”
“Hardly. I wasn’t interested in him at that time.”
