Page 3 of Murder on Harley Street
“It’s beginning to rain,” I said, peering out of the window as we pulled up in front of a Boots chemist. “You stay in here and keep dry.”
“Thank you, dearest.” She reached forward and clasped my hand. I could feel her bones through the soft kid leather of her glove. “You are good coming with me today, Cleopatra. Your Uncle Ronald offered, but I didn’t want him there. Some things should not be seen or heard by one’s husband.”
Her relationship with Uncle Ronald was different to the one I wanted with Harry. I wanted to share everything with him—the good and the bad. Not that he’d formally proposed, but there was an understanding between us.
The fact that I was even thinking such thoughts after years of convincing myself I would never marry left me feeling lightheaded as I entered the pharmacy. It wasn’t a terrible feeling. Quite the opposite. I looked forward to seeing Harry again, to wrap my arms around him and feel his arms around me, too. Although we wanted to see each other every day, it wasn’t always possible. He was very busy with his investigations, and I couldn’t get away in the evenings without raising the suspicions of my family.
I purchased a packet of the powder prescribed by Aunt Lilian’s new doctor and a bottle of Nerve Elixir, the tonic she used to take. The small print on the bottom of the Nerve Elixir label did indeed sport the Bella Vita Company’s name. I buried it in my handbag so she wouldn’t see it.
Once back at the hotel, Frank the doorman held an umbrella over my aunt’s head as she traversed the short distance between the carriage and hotel door. I waited for him to return and offer me the same protection, but he simply stood by the open door. I waited some more. With a sigh, he released the door and joined me, umbrella raised high.
I stepped down from the carriage. “I like that you consider me your equal and a friend, Frank, but it would be nice to be afforded the same privileges you give the Bainbridge family when it’s raining.”
The grumpy middle-aged doorman was all smiles and “how do you do” for the guests and my family, but I usually received little more than a grunt in greeting. I knew it wasn’t unfriendly—he treated the other staff the same way—and I wasn’t lying when I said I liked that he was comfortable enough with me to be himself.
“You’re always correcting folk who call you a Bainbridge, reminding them you’re a Fox,” he pointed out as he held the umbrella over the both of us as we walked.
“Yes, but?—”
“And it’s not far, the rain is light, and you have an enormous hat to protect your hair and face.”
I touched the brim of my straw hat. “Yes, but the flowers and ribbons are silk.”
He opened the hotel door. “Seems to me you’re becoming more Bainbridge and less Fox the longer you live here.”
“What does that mean?”
He cleared his throat. “Sir Ronald wants a word with you.” He nodded at my uncle, standing in the foyer under the blazing light of the crystal chandelier where he was trying to catch my attention. A guest with a spectacular thick, black moustache with upward pointing ends stood beside him.
I joined them, smiling my best niece-of-the-owner smile. “Good morning, Uncle.”
“Cleopatra, may I introduce a guest at the hotel, Mr. Lombardi. Or should I saySignorLombardi?” Uncle Ronald’s chuckle made his jowls tremble.
My smile froze.
In a cultured Italian accent, the guest said, “Mister Lombardi, please. When in England, do as the English do. Is that not what they say, Sir Ronald?”
The variation to the common idiom had both men’s moustaches twitching with mirth.
“Well then,Mr.Lombardi, may I present my niece, Miss Fox.”
Mr. Lombardi took my limp hand and kissed the back of it. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fox.”
What did one say to the man who manufactured a medicine that made their aunt ill? And in front of my uninformed uncle, no less? He would expect me to be charmingly polite. I could manage the politeness but not the charm. “Good morning, Mr. Lombardi. How do you find the Mayfair Hotel so far?”
“It is a fine establishment. My room has a balcony with a very nice view over the park. What is it called?”
“Green Park.”
“If all parks were named for their color then all of England’s would be called Green Park.” He laughed lightly.
It was difficult to gauge his age. Both his moustache and hair were thick and black without a hint of gray, but the wrinkles fanning the outer edges of his eyes and across his forehead would suggest he was at least fifty. I suspected he used hair dye.
“Mr. Lombardi was just telling me how he has thirty-five pharmacists and another twenty-three doctors coming to his presentation next week,” Uncle Ronald said proudly. “Some of those are from outside London and will be staying here in the hotel. Isn’t that marvelous, Cleopatra?”
It was indeed, particularly with the hotel being rather quiet in October. The best thing to say at that point would be to praise the number of attendees, or ask Mr. Lombardi if he regularly showcased his products to that many, and perhaps whether he was looking forward to the event. But I found I couldn’t pretend enthusiasm. I simply murmured agreement.
Uncle Ronald frowned at me, but if Mr. Lombardi noticed my reticence, he gave no indication. He checked the time on his watch and made his excuses.
