About MURDER AT THE DEBUTANTE BALL:
In this 5th installment of the bestselling mystery series, Cleopatra Fox gets entangled in a web of betrayal and blackmail that leaves the high society matchmakers scandalized.
When a notorious cad is bludgeoned to death with a candlestick in the library at the most important ball of the London social season, Cleo finds herself in the prime position to solve the crime. After all, she stumbled across the body soon after the victim’s demise and is a witness to the evening’s events.
But when a footman is arrested with a stolen painting in his possession, she finds her services are not required. Yet several things don’t add up, and the lead detective is convinced the man he was forced to arrest isn’t guilty.
With the aid of Harry Armitage and her friends from the Mayfair Hotel, Cleo sets out to uncover the truth. They’re soon neck-deep in the scandalous secrets the victim unearthed about members of society. Secrets that could ruin marriages, reputations and futures if exposed.
But which secret is worth killing for? And which suspect is hiding the most explosive secret of all?
CHAPTER 1
My plan to blend in with the wallflowers at the Bunburys’ ball failed before I’d even had the opportunity to greet our hostess. A row of elderly chaperones raised their lorgnettes as one and peered at me. They didn’t try to hide their scrutiny, but they did cover their mouths with their open fans so they could gossip without having their lips read. Whatever their opinion of me, I couldn’t tell. Nor did I care. I wasn’t here for their entertainment. I’d only come to the ball to appease my aunt and uncle who were using the occasion to officially launch me into London society. I owed them this much after they’d taken me in with open arms.
My cousin Floyd followed my gaze. “They look like crows, ready to swoop on the unsuspecting.”
His friend Jonathon, standing on my other side, leaned down to my level. His breath smelled of cigarettes and whiskey. “The only swooping they’ll do will be on the supper table later.”
He looked every bit the respectable gentleman tonight, dressed in a black tailcoat and crisp white shirt with his blond hair neatly combed back. But the indolent youth hadn’t completely disappeared. It was still evident in the heavily hooded eyes, the sneering tilt of his lips, and over-confident manner. He’d managed to secure the first two dances with me purely because he’d asked me in the presence of my aunt and uncle and they made it clear I should accept.
Lady Bunbury welcomed us with enthusiastic smiles and a warm greeting which onlookers would have believed was genuine, but our family knew was false. After learning of the Bunburys’ financial difficulty during my last investigation, she’d pointedly not invited us to her ball, the first and most important event on the social calendar. It was only after Aunt Lilian’s unspoken threat to expose the Bunburys’ predicament that she’d finally extended invitations, but not before Flossy had cried herself to sleep for several nights. My cousin had been convinced her life was over.
We exchanged the obligatory pleasantries before moving on to Lord Bunbury and finally further into the ballroom itself.
Flossy stopped abruptly and clasped my hand. “Look at this room, Cleo. Isn’t it Heavenly?”
It was indeed marvelous. There was no sign of the Bunburys’ poverty. Guests were welcomed at the Mayfair townhouse’s front steps by dozens of lanterns lighting the way, then invited up the sweeping staircase woven with garlands of leaves and white roses. More rose garlands hung above doorways and windows and filled enormous vases. Clearly the ball’s theme was white, signifying innocence, a virtue the debutantes who’d recently been presented at court were expected to possess.
The unofficial theme for the evening was wealth. It was on display everywhere, from the diamond encrusted tiaras of the debutantes to the jewels adorning the throats and ears of their mothers and chaperones. It wasn’t just the wealth of the guests, but also of the Bunburys, although in their case it was all a façade. Lady Bunbury had sold her jewelry and had replicas made to look like the originals.
The Bunburys had everyone fooled. By holding the first ball of the season for many years, they’d set themselves up as the arbiters of style and ensured they remained popular. An invitation and their regard were both highly sought after. But this evening must be costing them a small fortune. It wasn’t just the decorations. There were a lot of staff, too, far more than the Bunburys employed on a permanent basis. There were footmen in abundance, and there must be several more staff in the kitchen preparing the refreshments.
Flossy touched my arm and directed my attention to a girl standing with a large group. “That’s Amelia Livingstone. They say she’ll be debutante of the year. I can see why. She’s very beautiful.”
“And beauty is the chief requirement,” I muttered.
“You’re so cynical, Cleo. It’s just as important to be amenable, accomplished in the gentle arts, and well-bred. Oh, and thin.” She sucked in her stomach. “If Lady Bunbury does crown her as debutante of the season, she’ll be engaged to be married before August.”
“It looks like the eligible bachelors are already circling.”
Miss Livingstone was surrounded by people, not just young men, but their mothers, too. She smiled sweetly at something one of the gentlemen was saying. Indeed, she’d been smiling the same way ever since I’d laid eyes on her. It never wavered. Not even when the others laughed at a joke. She continued to smile inanely. Either she wasn’t listening, or she had a different sense of humor to the others. Or none at all.
Flossy took my arm. “Come on, Cleo, let’s mingle.”
“I’ll stand over there, out of the way.”
Jonathon put out his hand to me. “You will not. You promised me two dances.”
The musical ensemble struck up a slow tune and I inwardly groaned. I’d prefer something jaunty if I had to spend a few minutes alone with Jonathon. The less intimate the better.
I allowed him to lead me onto the dance floor. He was a good dancer, thankfully, as I was a poor one. He would have had lessons, whereas I’d been taught by my grandparents in their parlor. I had to concentrate, and that meant I didn’t notice him watching me until I finally looked up.
He smiled. “You scrub up well, Cleo.” The cheerful tone didn’t match the intensity in his eyes.
“Thank you. So do you.”
“It’s nice to see you out of black and gray.”
I’d set aside my mourning clothes which I’d been wearing since my grandmother’s death six months ago. To some, I’d shed the dark colors too soon, but younger women were often encouraged to come out of mourning earlier than their elders. My off-the-shoulder evening gown of white satin and ecru lace, woven with coral velvet ribbon through the bodice at the waist with velvet nasturtiums sewn onto the skirt in a cascade was the most elegant thing I’d ever worn, not to mention the most expensive. Another four ballgowns hung in my wardrobe back at the Mayfair Hotel, as well as new evening dresses and daytime outfits, all made by the best seamstresses in London. My uncle paid for them. I could never repay him, but I would dance with a few gentlemen of his choosing as a mark of my appreciation, beginning with Jonathon.
I didn’t dislike Floyd’s friend. He could be charming and amusing. But he was a little too full of himself, not to mention a wastrel. I didn’t want to encourage him. Once our two dances concluded, I made a show of rejoining my cousins, both of whom had danced the last dance with attractive partners. All three men immediately fell into conversation about a long-distance rally to Edinburgh and back, staged by the Automobile Club of Great Britain.
Flossy and Floyd’s dance partner gossiped about the other girls. None of it was unkind, but I didn’t know many of the people they spoke about, so I tuned out. I spotted Miss Hessing standing by the wall, a little apart from the group that included her mother. She had also tuned out of their conversation, and her gaze wandered the room. The wealthy American heiress was a guest at the Mayfair Hotel with her mother. She was here looking for an English husband who could rescue her from her horrid parent. Shy Miss Hessing was completely overwhelmed by her exuberant mother. I quite often asked her to join me for a game of cards when I spotted them in the foyer or at afternoon tea with Mrs. Hessing’s friends. She was very grateful for any respite.
I excused myself and headed her way, ready to rescue her again. But it wasn’t her mother she needed rescuing from. Three gentlemen walked past. One of them said something to his friends and they all laughed. Miss Hessing’s face fell and her eyes filled with tears. She dipped her head to hide them.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
She sniffed and offered me a smile. “Oh, Miss Fox. I am glad to see you. I’m quite all right now that you’re here.”
I wanted to ask her what the men had said but decided against it. Perhaps it was better if she ignored them. Unfortunately, the three men returned moments later. One of them neighed as he passed.
Miss Hessing lowered her head again. “I hate these things.”
I squeezed her hand. “I loathe them too.”
“But you’re so popular with the men.”
“Two dances with my cousin’s friend don’t count.”
“It’s better than nothing.” She sighed. “I don’t know why we come.”
“Because you’re invited?”
She smiled. “I suppose so.”
“You should smile more often. It lights up your eyes.”
She blushed. “You’re too kind.”
I nodded at the retreating backs of the men. “Ignore them. I plan to.”
“What if one of them asks you to dance?”
“I’ll tell him I don’t dance with moronic boys. I prefer men with at least half a brain.”
She giggled. “I wish I had your confidence.”
Mrs. Hessing suddenly and loudly burst out laughing. “Mother,” Miss Hessing hissed. “Everyone’s looking at us.”
A cluster of women that included Lady Bunbury peered down their noses at Mrs. Hessing. Then something caught Lady Bunbury’s attention and she hurried off in the direction of a lady and gentleman studying one of the many paintings dotted around the room. She sported a look of terror as she forged a path towards them. The pair didn’t see her approach. They were too intent on the painting.
Mrs. Hessing covered her mouth with her fan and leaned towards her daughter. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Child. You’re better off than most in this room, including our hostess. I’ve just heard the most interesting rumor about the Bunburys. Believe me, if they had a son your age, his mother would be throwing him at you.” Mrs. Hessing turned to her friends, leaving her daughter blinking at her back.
“Nobody will throw their sons in my direction,” Miss Hessing said to me. “They all want that girl over there.”
I followed her gaze to Amelia Livingstone, dancing with a man shorter than her. He stepped on her toe and apologized. She gave a small wince, but her smile remained. Her partner looked besotted with her, and grateful to be in her sphere.
Jonathon joined us and bowed to Miss Hessing. “Good evening. We haven’t met.”
Miss Hessing didn’t correct him. She performed a little curtsy and blushed.
“You met Miss Hessing at the hotel,” I told him.
“Ah. I do apologize. Dreadful memory for faces.” He nodded at Amelia Livingstone being led off from the dance floor by her partner. “I saw you watching her. I just heard the most scandalous thing about her. Do you want to hear it? It will make you feel better.”
“Better about what?” I asked.
“Your situation in comparison to hers.” He leaned in. “I heard something that throws shade over her virtue.”
“Don’t, Jonathon. I’m not interested in nasty gossip.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Very well, but if you change your mind, let me know. It really is scandalous.” He chuckled to himself.
He wasn’t the only one who’d heard salacious gossip about Miss Livingstone. Going by the way a few of the young men looked at her with sly smiles, rumors about her were circulating fast. The extent to which her virtue was muddied wasn’t clear, however. For most girls, a mere kiss wasn’t a cause for scandal, but for a society girl, it would be the end of her good name. Her reputation would be ruined, and she’d be ostracized by the Lady Bunburys of the world. It would be the social death of her.
If these people knew I’d kissed Harry Armitage mere weeks ago, I’d be the one subjected to their whispers and stares. While being ostracized by them didn’t bother me, it would affect my family. It wasn’t just Flossy who would suffer, but my aunt and uncle too. They found their guests among these people. If they suddenly stopped being invited to balls and dinners, they would lose touch with the society leaders who sent their friends to stay at the Mayfair and spoke favorably about the hotel to their social circle.
I was suddenly glad I hadn’t heard from Harry since the kiss. Clearly he’d decided to pretend it never happened. That was the best thing for me to do too.
If only it hadn’t felt so wonderful, it might be easier to ignore it. But the more I tried not to think about him and the way he’d responded to the kiss, the more I did think about it.
Miss Livingstone appeared to be doing her best to ignore the gossips. She continued to smile sweetly at those around her, as if she were slightly removed from them. It wasn’t until Lady Bunbury approached that she came to life. She straightened and lifted her chin. She gave Lady Bunbury a small curtsy as she passed, as if she were the queen.
Lady Bunbury failed to notice. She was glaring at her husband, as if willing him to look at her. The gentleman and lady she’d spoken to at the painting had dispersed. The lady was nowhere to be seen, but I caught sight of the man through the door on the landing outside the ballroom. He was a handsome fellow, perhaps early thirties, with an air of confidence about him as he strode towards a tall potted palm. A rather pretty maid stood there, her face lifting when she spotted the gentleman. They spoke then he handed her something before they parted. She limped off along the corridor while he returned to the ballroom where he fell into conversation with a group of young ladies who fluttered their eyelashes at him, hanging on his every word.
“Who is that?” I asked Jonathon, still standing beside me.
“Ambrose McDonald.” He made a sound of disgust in his throat. “Don’t set your heart on him, Cleo. He’s a cad.” He nodded at another gentleman, standing alone. He was Ambrose McDonald’s opposite in every way. Short, overweight, with protruding front teeth and spotty skin. “Poor Cuthbert Calthorne. He can’t win tonight. He continues to get snubbed by every girl he asks to dance. Can’t blame them. He has the biggest feet. Imagine getting trod on by those hooves!”
Cuthbert Calthorne suddenly looked our way as if he sensed we were talking about him. He self-consciously looked away but then turned back to us. Or, rather, he turned to look at me. With a determined tug on his cuffs, he headed my way.
Jonathon swore under his breath.
Mr. Calthorne greeted him amiably then bowed to Miss Hessing and me. “Introduce me to your delightful friends, Hartly.”
Jonathon obliged then added, “Miss Fox has just agreed to dance with me.”
Mr. Calthorne’s smile slipped.
“I didn’t,” I pointed out.
Jonathon asked to see my dance card. I obliged with a frown. He perused it then wrote down his name with the attached pencil. “If my name is there, you have to dance with me. Calthorne, you’ll need to find another partner.”
There was an available partner right beside me, but Mr. Calthorne merely bowed and made his excuses. He walked off.
Miss Hessing went very still. The snub was cruel indeed and I knew she would feel it keenly. I wanted to tell her to ignore Mr. Calthorne, that he was not worthy of her, but I knew she would consider them empty words, even though I meant every one. Mr. Calthorne was beneath her.
“There you are!” Floyd joined us, breaking up the tension with his easy manner. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
At first I thought he was talking to Jonathon, but he bowed to Miss Hessing. “If you’re not otherwise engaged, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
She stared at him, her eyes huge and clear. “M, me?”
“If you don’t mind me stepping on your toes, that is. I’m a terrible dancer.”
“Oh. I’d be happy to dance with you, Mr. Bainbridge.”
He grinned. “Excellent.” He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though. Your pretty shoes will be scuffed by the end.”
She blinked up at him as if he’d just rescued her from drowning. In a way, he had.
“He’s a good man,” Jonathon said. “It’s no wonder all the wallflowers love him. He should be careful, though. If he dances too many times with them, the better prospects will grow tired of waiting.” He held out his hand to me. “Shall we?”
I opened my dance card and struck a line through his name. “I’m afraid you’re not on my card, Jonathon. It’s probably just as well. If the other gentlemen see me dancing three times with you, they’ll grow tired of waiting.” I turned and walked off. I didn’t care what affect my comment had on him. I was quite sure his ego could cope with it.
I couldn’t find Flossy so I stood near the door and observed. My first society ball was proving to be a little disappointing. The young men were either immature or dull, the girls were desperate for attention, and their parents grasping. Everyone was out to impress in one way or another. Most of them directed their efforts towards Lady Bunbury. She was very popular with the girls and their mothers, all hoping to win her favor. She was the consummate hostess, however, giving them equal attention.
A lady passing me delighted in telling her companion about the daughter of a peer who’d been caught kissing a fellow behind a tree at a flower show.
“Lady Bunbury won’t choose her now,” the companion said with a wicked gleam in her eyes.
“Speaking of Lady Bunbury, she looked very cross earlier. Do you know why?”
They continued on and I settled back against the wall, growing more and more bored by the minute. I was beginning to wish I’d danced with Jonathon after all when an acquaintance of Floyd’s approached and asked me to dance. I readily accepted.
I didn’t stop dancing until supper was announced. All the guests headed through to the room where it was being served, only to find we had to queue for food. I joined Flossy at the back.
“Thank goodness for this interlude,” she said. “I’m starving and my feet are sore. They’ve been stood on so many times, I can’t feel my toes. And look at my shoes! They’re filthy.” Her delicate pink silk shoes were black at the toes. One of the poor hotel maids would have a devil of a time cleaning them tomorrow.
“Perhaps you should vet your dance partners more carefully,” I teased.
“We can’t all have our pick of men.”
I frowned. “Are you saying that I do? I’ll have you know I was quite alone until one of Floyd’s friends rescued me. I’m sure Floyd put him up to it.”
“You were alone for five minutes, and I can assure you Floyd did not put him up to it.” We shuffled forward in the queue. “Speaking of Floyd’s friends, what did you say to Jonathon? I saw him leaving in a huff.”
“He was being unkind.”
“Not to you, I’m sure. He likes you.”
“No,” I said quietly. “Not to me.”
We finally arrived at the first table and Flossy breathed a sigh of satisfaction at the array of roasted fowl, trifle, cakes, iced sherbet, bonbons and ices. “I’m glad you’re not interested in Jonathon. As much as I want you to marry someone rich and titled, he’s not deserving of you. Three years ago, he called me fat. I’ve never forgiven him.”
“Then he has just gone down even further in my estimation.”
Flossy eyed Miss Livingstone as she perused the delights on the table, only to select a single wafer before stepping away. She wasn’t the only girl to ignore the food. Most chose just one item or none at all.
Flossy sighed again, this time more heavily. She put down her plate. “I’m not hungry.”
I picked up her plate and handed it back to her. “You just said you’re starving. As am I. I think we should divide and conquer. You go down the left side of the table and I’ll take the right.”
We gathered a selection and met again at the end of the room. We joined Aunt Lilian, standing in the corner with her back to everyone. She was stuffing a croquet of pheasant fried in pastry into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten all week. Embarrassed to be caught, she placed her fingers to her lips as she chewed. Her fingers trembled.
Flossy gave her mother a disappointed look. “You’ve taken a second dose of your tonic tonight, haven’t you?”
Aunt Lilian swallowed her mouthful. “I needed it to get through the evening. If I hadn’t, my head would be pounding and I’d be falling asleep in a chair. This way I can enjoy myself.” She picked up another croquet from her plate. “Don’t glare at me, Flossy. You don’t know how I feel. Now, go. Leave me alone and mingle. Both of you. Oh wait, Ruth is about to make her announcements. This will be interesting. My money’s on Miss Livingstone taking a sweep of all three categories.” Her words tumbled out on top of each other, making her a little difficult to understand amid the noise of the crowded room. When she saw us both still studying her, she pinched each of us on the arm and nodded at Lady Bunbury, waiting for the guests to quieten.
As a hush descended, some of the debutantes pushed towards her, still vying for her attention even now. Miss Livingstone stood nearby, her serene smile in place, her pert chin thrust forward, confident in her position as the favorite. Beside her stood an older man, beaming. Flossy informed me he was Sir Ian Livingstone, her father.
Lady Bunbury gave a short speech thanking her guests then launched into her so-called awards. As Aunt Lilian predicted, Amelia Livingstone won the title of the most beautiful debutante, the most graceful, and the most accomplished. She accepted the three posies of flowers—white, of course—with a little curtsy for the hostess. Her father preened like a peacock.
Miss Livingstone’s rivals congratulated her and told her she was a worthy winner. Their smiles slipped off when then they turned away, and more than one muttered something under her breath.
With supper over, Lady Bunbury stood by the door to farewell the elderly guests who were ready for their beds, while the musical ensemble resumed their places in the ballroom. The younger guests were eager to enjoy themselves now that the contest had ended.
Except that it hadn’t. The scramble to secure the most desirable dance partners created a frenzy of activity. Gentlemen jostled one another and ladies scribbled names on their cards. Miss Livingstone was popular, but other girls were too. Flossy sported a broad smile so her card must have filled. My own didn’t fill up at quite the same rapid pace, but I had enough partners to keep boredom at bay for a little longer.
The ensemble struck up a lively tune and we were about to head onto the dance floor with our partners when a piercing scream ripped from the depths of the house.
The music stopped. The guests froze.
Being near the door, I was among the first to exit the ballroom and race downstairs in the direction of the scream. I found a lady trembling by the door to the library. She pointed a shaking finger into the room.
I peered in and saw the body of a man lying on the floor, legs akimbo. I couldn’t see his face, but it was obvious from all the blood matting his hair and staining the carpet that he was dead.
Chapter 2
The library was soon overrun with guests and staff, but thankfully someone with an authoritative voice ordered them all out and asked for the police to be fetched. I had mere moments to study the scene before my presence was noticed and I was asked to leave too.
I was surprised to see the victim was a guest I recognized. Ambrose McDonald was the handsome gentleman who’d studied a painting in the ballroom alongside a lady, then given a maid something in the corridor. Jonathon called him a cad. Now he was dead, his sightless eyes staring straight ahead until one of the other guests closed them.
A large silver candlestick smeared with blood lay on the carpet nearby. A matching one stood on the mantelpiece. I picked it up to gauge its weight before returning it. Steeling myself for a gruesome sight, I once again looked down at the body. Going by his position, the victim had been facing away from the door and the murderer when he was struck. Either he’d turned away from the murderer, or he’d never seen them enter the library in the first place. There were no signs of a struggle on his body, clothing or around the room. All was in order.
The only odd thing about the room was a large blank space on the wall. Something was missing, either a painting or mirror. It was possible it had nothing to do with the murder, however.
With only a few gentlemen remaining in the library, I was conspicuous. Lord Bunbury gripped my elbow and steered me towards the door. “Come along, Miss. This is no place for a lady.” He clearly didn’t remember meeting me at the beginning of the night. But I knew him. He was much older than his wife with a balding head and boney fingers that dug into me. “Find your mother and go home. The ball is at an end.”
“It most certainly is not.” Lady Bunbury swooped down on her husband as I walked away. They exchanged words in harsh whispers before she clicked her tongue and strode off.
She told the hovering butler that the evening was over and to see that coats were ready to collect and carriages brought around.
“The guests can’t leave yet,” I said. “The police will want to speak to everyone.”
Lady Bunbury’s nostrils flared then she picked up her skirts and all but stomped up the stairs. She reminded me of a child unhappy with her parent’s directive.
Lord Bunbury ignored me and closed the door to the library. At least the scene would be preserved for the police, but it seemed as though the guests would be allowed to leave.
Some had remained near the library, watching on with macabre fascination, while the rest had returned to the ballroom upstairs. The butler disappeared through a door and there were no other servants about. I wanted to observe the guests and staff in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy, but my uncle put a stop to me returning to the ballroom.
“There you are, Cleo!” He descended the staircase ahead of my aunt and cousins. “We’ve been looking for you. What are you still doing down here?”
Uncle Ronald would not approve of my sleuthing, so I hadn’t told him about the previous cases I’d solved. Although I hated lying to him, if I wanted to continue, I had to.
“I was looking for you,” I said. “I thought you were down here.”
“We returned upstairs along with everyone else.” His curt tone left me in no doubt he suspected I was lying. “Floyd, fetch our coats.”
“We can’t leave yet,” I said. “The police will want to speak to us, and the other guests.”
Even as I said it, guests came downstairs in a steady stream.
Uncle Ronald indicated I should walk alongside him. “Your aunt feels unwell. The…events have upset her. She needs to lie down.”
It wasn’t the murder that had her looking peaky, it was the effects of the tonic wearing off. But he wanted to pretend all was well with my aunt, so I went along with it.
Lady Bunbury rejoined us in the entrance hall to send off her guests. Her husband was nowhere in sight. It was not the usual place to farewell one’s guests after a ball, but the night had not ended in the usual way. We each thanked her for her hospitality, and she smiled in response. There was no mention of the dead body in the library, the murderer amongst us, or any other unpleasantness.
It was quite possibly the most bizarre situation I’d found myself in. There was not a single genuine word exchanged in our final minutes at the Bunburys’ townhouse.
Our journey home should have been filled with chatter about the ball, but instead, we were silent. I was bursting to talk to someone about the murder but didn’t dare bring it up in front of my uncle.
I didn’t have the opportunity to discuss it until the following morning when my maid Harmony joined me for breakfast. I’d slept poorly. Ambrose McDonald’s sightless gaze haunted me when I closed my eyes, and a thousand questions gnawed at me. Harmony had barely closed the door when I blurted it all out.
“There was a murder at the ball. The victim was Ambrose McDonald, a guest. Handsome fellow, charming, bit of a cad, apparently. I saw him give a maid something before he was murdered. Lady Bunbury also spotted him talking to someone. She looked angry, or worried—Lady Bunbury, that is, not the other woman. He was hit over the head with a candlestick in the library. Then Lord Bunbury sent everyone home before the police arrived, although Lady Bunbury seemed keen to continue with the ball.”
Harmony had looked more and more shocked with every detail. When I finished, she finally lowered herself onto the sofa, still staring at me. “I cannot believe that woman wanted to continue dancing while there was a dead body in her library! We shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. We know how much appearances matter to her.”
“Indeed.” Now that Harmony had digested the facts, I posed the theories and questions that had kept me awake. “What was Ambrose McDonald doing in the library? Was he lured there? Was it a pre-arranged assignation? Did he know his killer? It could have been a man or a woman. The candlestick was large, but not unwieldy, and he wasn’t tall. With his back turned, he wouldn’t have seen it coming. And what did he give the maid earlier? Why did Lady Bunbury make a beeline for him and the woman? And does the murder have anything to do with the empty space on the library wall?”
“And why did Lord Bunbury insist everyone leave before the police had the opportunity to speak to them?” she added.
“You think that’s important?”
“He ought to know better.” She picked up the pot of coffee only to pause before pouring. “Perhaps he was protecting one of the guests, giving them time to think up a story.”
“Or organize a false alibi.”
She poured the coffee and handed the cup to me. “When it comes to the Bunburys, false seems to be a word that comes up a lot.”
It did indeed.
It was good to discuss the possibilities with Harmony. She had a sharp mind. Discussing clues with her often helped me see them in a different way. There was another person who had proved useful in the past. But I’d vowed to stay away from Harry Armitage.
Besides, the investigation wasn’t mine to take on. For one thing, there was no client and therefore no fee. For another, the police had it in hand.
Or so I thought.
They did not come to the hotel to interview us, nor any of our guests who’d also happened to attend the Bunburys’ ball. The murder was on everyone’s lips, however, from the staff to the guests staying in our best suites on the fourth floor. Even Mr. Chapman the hotel steward deigned to speak to me to find out more. Usually he ignored me or narrowed his gaze when I passed him to enter the dining room. He’d disliked me ever since my arrival in the hotel, and I wasn’t quite sure why. I suspected it was because he was a snob and disliked having to treat me as though I were a lady when he considered me no better than himself.
“Is it true the victim was Ambrose McDonald?” he asked when he accosted me in the foyer.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Of course not.”
“But you’ve heard of him?”
“No.” He made a scoffing sound then walked off. I watched him go with a frown.
The foyer was busy with guests checking in and others lingering before going out for the day. My uncle was there, playing the amiable host, something he liked to do from time to time. He wanted to reassure guests that the new restaurant would be finished soon and that the noisy construction work wouldn’t continue all day. It was louder in the foyer as the builders had knocked through the wall at the end where the senior staff offices had been. The two senior staff who lived-in had moved into the nearby residence hall with the rest of the staff and their former quarters now acted as temporary offices. I’d overheard both Mr. Chapman and Mrs. Short grumbling about the arrangement.
Uncle Ronald beckoned me to join him then introduced me to the Indian maharajah who was staying for the week. We politely chatted about the opera he would be attending that evening and the Great Spring Flower Show currently being held at Temple Gardens. The conversation was very pleasant, but I just wanted to talk about the murder. The maharajah hadn’t attended the ball.
Nor had the other newly checked-in guests my uncle asked me to meet. There were several international guests who spoke in a myriad of interesting accents, but there were many English ones too. Some had just returned from months abroad in the warmer climes of the South of France, Monte Carlo and Biarritz and were merely staying a few days in London before traveling on to their country homes. The health spas flourished in those places, apparently. Some guests would stay for a while in the Mayfair Hotel, perhaps even for the duration of the London social season. Considering the cost of one of our rooms for a single night, it always amazed me how so many could afford such lengthy stays. It was no wonder my uncle wanted to welcome them personally to the hotel and talk to them about the extraordinary dining experience awaiting them if they were still here in a few weeks’ time.
“Thank you, Cleo,” he said to me after we finished welcoming a Dutch diamond magnate and his wife who’d just arrived from Nice. “We had some important guests arriving today and it was imperative that members of the family be seen. People stay here because we are one of the few independent luxury hotels left in London. We may not be as large as others, but that means we can offer a more personalized service.” He puffed out his chest and smiled at a passing couple. “Our family’s reputation is our greatest asset.”
Hearing that, it wasn’t a great leap to assume that he’d invited me to live here because the extra addition to the family appealed to the guests. Put simply, it made him look good.
But I’d had quiet words with both Uncle Ronald and Aunt Lilian, and I knew they’d asked me to live with them because they wanted me here. My uncle might be single-minded sometimes when it came to the hotel, but I was his wife’s sister’s daughter and that meant I belonged with them. He meant well. If only he and I agreed on what was best for me.
“Why didn’t you ask Flossy and Floyd to greet the guests with you?” I asked. I knew my aunt would be in bed with a headache after the ball, but my cousins were available.
“Flossy hasn’t quite got the knack like you. She lacks your maturity. It will come, I’m sure, but she’s not suited to this yet. And Floyd…” He heaved a sigh. “Peter informed me Floyd has already gone out.”
It was early for Floyd to be up and about after a late night. I was quite sure he’d left again immediately after saying goodnight to everyone outside his room. He’d even winked at me when he said it.
“Cleo, do you know anything about Floyd’s actress?” Uncle Ronald asked.
“His what?”
“The actress he is…getting about with.”
“No. I don’t know anything about an actress. Why?”
He waved off the question. “Never mind.”
I knew Floyd kept a mistress, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she was a performer. My uncle’s concern was new, however. Usually he turned a blind eye to Floyd’s wilder escapades. Floyd thought that meant he didn’t care, but I was convinced Uncle Ronald was merely waiting for Floyd to mature, as he was with Flossy.
I spotted Mrs. Hessing emerging from the lift with her daughter in tow. They stopped to talk to a group of ladies chatting loudly about the murder. I excused myself and joined them, telling my uncle I wanted to speak to Miss Hessing. While that was true, I also wanted to listen in. Several of the group had been at the ball. Perhaps one of them had seen something.
My hunch was proved right when I arrived in time to hear one of the ladies say, “He was a terrible flirt, apparently.”
They all nodded their heads knowingly.
“Lady Bunbury told me he couldn’t be trusted,” said another.
“Around the girls?” asked one.
“She meant his word couldn’t be believed.”
I was keen to hear more, but Miss Hessing drew me aside. “Are you lunching with your cousins today, Miss Fox?”
“No.” My response was a little brusque, but I was trying to listen in to the gossip about Ambrose McDonald.
Miss Hessing didn’t seem to notice. “Perhaps I’ll see you all at dinner tonight. Your cousins will be dining in, I assume?”
“I don’t know. Flossy probably will, but one never knows with Floyd.”
“Oh.” She shuffled her feet and shifted her bag from one hand to the other. “Pity.”
She seemed to have developed a tendre for Floyd after the ball. Knowing Floyd, it would not be reciprocated. He’d rescued her by asking her to dance, but it had been done out of kindness, not any depth of feeling on his part. If she pursued him, she was going to get her heart broken. I couldn’t think what to say to put her off him. Anything would sound too cumbersome, and this was a situation that required delicacy.
Before I could attempt to deter her from Floyd, Mrs. Hessing moved away from her friends. “Come along, Clare.”
Miss Hessing flashed me a smile before hurrying after her mother.
I watched them go with a sinking feeling. I didn’t like to interfere in the private lives of others, but I may have to in this case. I didn’t want her hopes to be raised.
Mr. Hobart approached with purposeful, unhurried steps. He was clearly heading for me, but he paused on his way to nod at one guest or exchange a few words with another. My uncle liked to think the Bainbridge family was the reason the guests returned every year, but I suspected the manager had more to do with it. He remembered everyone, not just the more important guests, but even those who stayed a single night. He knew the names of their family members, and even that of the lady’s maid or valet if the guests brought them. He kept notes on every little detail, from which room they preferred to the flowers they liked filling their vases, or the ailment they’d suffered from on their last visit. He studied the notes before each guest arrived and made sure to welcome as many in person as he could. He made himself available. Nothing was too much trouble. Whatever a guest wanted, the guest received, and always with a smile. Many would have been exhausted keeping up the charming façade, but that was the thing—it was no façade for Mr. Hobart. He was as agreeable in private as he was at work.
“Miss Fox, I’m so glad I caught you. My brother telephoned. He would like to see you.” He looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “Meet him at Harry’s office in thirty minutes.”
“Harry’s office? Why not interview me here?”
“He’s not interviewing you about last night. Apparently an arrest has already been made.”
“Oh. Then why does he need to speak to me at all?”
Mr. Hobart was called away by Peter who needed assistance with a guest’s request. I watched him go, not quite sure what to think. My heart had done a little flip in my chest at the prospect of seeing Harry again, but then it plunged. For one thing, seeing Harry was a bad idea. For another, I was disappointed that the murderer had been caught.
It was silly to feel disappointment. I ought to be pleased he or she no longer posed a threat. But I’d been keen to piece the puzzle together myself. If nothing else, it would have given me something to do.
I returned to the fourth floor to fetch my coat, hat and gloves, only to be stopped by Flossy, emerging from her room.
“You’re heading out, Cleo? Where are you going?”
“Uh, the museum.”
She narrowed her gaze. “You’re investigating the murder, aren’t you?”
She knew me too well. “Apparently there has been an arrest, so my services aren’t required.”
“So you really are going to the museum?” She sighed. “Well, enjoy yourself. Perhaps later, we can discuss what to wear to the next ball. It’s only four days away.”
“Of course. It’s never too early to prepare for a ball.”
“Quite true.”
Thirty minutes later, I drew in a deep breath and went to push open the door to the office of Armitage and Associates. I stopped myself at the last moment. Barging in had been all well and good when I was trying to be Harry’s friend. It was too familiar for someone who was trying to keep her distance.
I knocked.
He opened the door.
We stared at one another for barely a second, but it felt longer. In that moment, the memory of the kiss we’d shared in St James’s Park came flooding back. I may have instigated it, but he’d responded with enthusiasm.
Until he hadn’t. He’d broken it off and walked away. We’d not seen one another since.
He stepped aside to allow me through. “Good morning, Miss Fox.”
I eyed him as I passed. “We agreed on first names, Harry.”
Detective Inspector Hobart greeted me and pulled out a chair for me to sit. “You’re looking well, Miss Fox. Isn’t she looking well, Harry?”
“She always does.” Harry sat opposite and pushed a steaming cup of coffee from Roma Café closer to me. “For you. Cleo.”
I smiled sweetly at him over the rim of the cup. “That’s better. We don’t want things to go backwards. Let’s just pick up where we left off, shall we?”
Harry hesitated then nodded. “I think that’s for the best.”
Good. It was resolved. We were friends again and the kiss could be relegated to the past, a mistake never to be repeated. Harry and I were on the same page.
His father, however, was not even reading the same book. He glanced between us. “Is something the matter?”
“Everything’s fine,” Harry assured him with one of his charming smiles.
“Good. It would have been awkward, otherwise.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Harry, have you heard about the murder at the Bunburys’ ball last night?”
Harry sat forward. “No. It wasn’t in this morning’s papers.”
“They managed to keep it suppressed for the time being, but tonight’s editions will probably report it. A guest was murdered. Hit over the head with a candlestick in the library. Miss Fox was there.”
Harry’s brows rose. “You asked her here to interview her?”
“No. None of the guests will be interviewed, so my superiors have stipulated. They say it’s not necessary as a footman has been arrested and charged.”
“You don’t think he did it, do you?”
D.I. Hobart shifted his weight in the chair. He wasn’t a large man, but he was in his sixties and looking ahead to retirement. Sometimes, he seemed tired, as if the burden of his work became too much. He was always thorough, however. He would never make an arrest unless he was certain of guilt.
But I agreed with Harry. Something wasn’t right.
Not that D.I. Hobart admitted it outright. “Due process has not been followed,” was all he said. “I would like to have more time to investigate properly. Guests should have been interviewed, background checks made. None of that happened.”
On our last investigation, Lady Bunbury discovered I was helping the police, something which very few people had known. D.I. Hobart alluded to the fact that her husband knew his superiors at Scotland Yard and my involvement may have been revealed at that level. Perhaps Lord Bunbury had exerted his influence again and made sure an arrest was made in order to avoid dragging out the investigation. He wouldn’t want his guests to suffer the indignity of being interrogated by the police.
Or perhaps he was protecting the killer.
“Are you asking us to investigate?” Harry asked.
His father nodded. “Quietly, of course. No one must know.”
“They’ll find out if we discover the killer wasn’t the footman.”
“If you have enough evidence of another’s guilt, my superiors will have to release the footman and arrest the real killer. Your case must be watertight, however.” He shifted his weight again. “Unfortunately, Scotland Yard won’t pay your fee. But there is one party with an interest in this case who might pay you for solving it.”
“Not the Bunburys, surely,” I said.
“No, not the Bunburys. To understand who, I must start at the beginning. Three weeks ago, on the night of March thirtieth, a painting was stolen from a house on Grosvenor Square.”
“So the empty space on the Bunburys’ library wall was relevant,” I said.
Harry put up a finger to stop me. “You saw the crime scene?”
“And the body and murder weapon.” I winced. “It was awful.”
His gaze softened. “I’m sure.”
“You’re right, Miss Fox,” D.I. Hobart said. “A painting was stolen from their library. Lord Bunbury noticed it and informed me upon my arrival. I immediately thought of the earlier theft. I organized a search and one of my men discovered the Bunburys’ missing painting with the footman’s things. Lord Bunbury confirmed it was the one that usually hung in the library.”
“Was it found in the footman’s room?” Harry asked.
“He wasn’t one of the live-in staff. He was hired on a temporary basis for the ball.” D.I. Hobart removed his notebook from his inside jacket pocket. “The catering firm, Searcys, organize the extra staff.” He returned the notebook to his pocket. “The painting was found in a cupboard with the footman’s coat wrapped around it.”
“You think someone else took down the painting and wrapped it up in his coat to frame him,” Harry said.
“No. The footman confessed. He claims he took it. But he also claims he was about to put it back, but then the murder happened and he couldn’t do it without being seen.”
“Maybe he did murder the victim,” Harry said. “Perhaps he was in the process of putting the painting back, the victim saw him, so the footman killed him to stop him raising the alarm.”
“Then why didn’t the footman put the painting back after he killed Mr. McDonald?” I said.
Harry rubbed his jaw. “Good point.”
“Did the footman say why he was going to put the painting back?”
D.I. Hobart nodded. “He claims it’s a fake.”
Harry and I exchanged glances. He must have remembered the Bunburys’ financial problems from our last investigation.
“According to the footman, it wasn’t well executed,” D.I. Hobart went on. “The artist of the original is considered a master. It’s unlikely a casual observer would realize, but a close study revealed the poor quality. The footman claims to be an artist in his spare time, and once he gave it a thorough inspection, he realized it wasn’t done by the original artist and decided to put it back.”
“An independent assessment will verify his claim,” I said.
D.I. Hobart shook his head. “There will be no independent verification and the Bunburys’ will vow it is an original if the matter is ever raised by the defense in court. The prosecution will say the footman is lying and that he never intended to return the painting. Since he admits stealing it, there is a very real chance the jury will find him guilty of the murder too. Guilty of one crime, guilty of another—so many believe.”
The Bunburys didn’t want a thorough investigation because they didn’t want the public to know their paintings were fakes, just like they didn’t want word to get out about their replica jewels. By denying the footman’s story, they could maintain the façade of wealth.
But rumors of their financial troubles were already circulating last night. It might be too late to contain them.
“Do you think the footman stole the other painting three weeks ago?” Harry asked.
“I’m not entirely sure,” his father said. “When I asked him where he was that night, he said he was with a friend but refused to give the name of that friend.”
We all knew what that really meant. He was with a lover whose reputation would be compromised if it was known she was with a man.
“It seems too coincidental that the thefts happened independently of one another,” D.I. Hobart went on. “But I can’t prove they’re linked. I also can’t prove that the thefts are linked to the murder. They may not be. The upshot is, the footman may indeed be guilty of both thefts and the murder. I simply don’t know yet. I want to be absolutely certain we have the right man, but there are too many unanswered questions for my liking. I don’t want to close this case yet, but I’m not allowed to continue with it. Hence why I want you two to investigate. You’re proving to be very capable private detectives.”
It was high praise indeed coming from a man with his experience.
I was about to tell them what I knew about the victim when Harry said, “I’ll take the case, but I don’t think it’s wise to involve Cleo. Her family is too close to the Bunburys and many of the guests who were there last night. It would put her in an awkward position.”
I bristled. “Nonsense. It puts me in the perfect position to observe them. This is the perfect case for me and glaring at me won’t change that, Harry. Your father agrees or why would he have asked me?”
Harry continued to glare. I continued to glare back.
D.I. Hobart withdrew his notepad again and wrote down two addresses. He pointed to the first. “The footman’s name is Reggie Smith and this is his address. He lives in a boarding house. It might be worth questioning the other residents. The second is the Grosvenor Square address where the painting was stolen from three weeks ago. You should speak to the owner. I didn’t work on that investigation, but I can speak to the detective involved, if necessary.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll help in any way I can, but my hands are mostly tied now. Keep me informed.” He plucked his hat off the stand near the door and settled it on his head. “And try to set aside whatever has come between you and work together on this. There may be a murderer on the loose. Petty squabbles aren’t important.”
“We’re not squabbling,” I muttered at the same time Harry said, “It’s not petty.”
Despite our protests, D.I. Hobart was right. We were acting like children and it had to stop. There were two ways to ease the tension—confront the issue and get it out into the open, or ignore it. Based on his silence, Harry had chosen the latter. I wasn’t sure it was the wisest choice, but I was willing to go along with it if it worked.
I just wanted things to return to normal.
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