Flora alighted from the motor car and stared round in confusion at the narrow alley where Timms had parked. ‘Couldn’t we have stopped in front of the main doors?’
‘I have my reasons, which will become clear later.’ Bunny took her arm. ‘Now, watch your feet here, the cobbles are slippery and I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.’
Grumbling lightly, Flora picked her way over the rubbish strewn on cobbles slick from something unmentionable. A flower stall at the corner provided a blaze of spring colour, its fragrance going some way to disguise the tang of manure, stale beer and rotting vegetables.
‘Stop complaining.’ He chuckled as they entered Little Museum Street, where The Dahlia Hotel straddled the corner with Coptic Street. Three storeys high, above a basement evident by half windows at pavement height, the rendered façade painted a dull cream, the windows of the hotel were covered by thick blinds obscuring the interior. A canopy as wide as the pavement hung over a pair of bevelled doors, the glass etched with the name of the hotel above a painted pink dahlia.
A doorman showed them into a mainly black interior where silver and white chandeliers hung from a bossed ceiling, ornate framed mirrors on every wall.
‘It’s sort of mysterious,’ Flora said. ‘As if we’re only being shown what they want us to see.’
‘It’s a hotel,’ Bunny whispered. ‘Patrons expect discretion and privacy, or they would go elsewhere.’
‘What do you know about discretion in hotels?’ Flora lowered her voice to match his.
‘Not as much as you might think. Now, where shall we sit?’
‘What about over there?’ Flora pointed to a purple brocade sofa and wing-backed chair beneath a cantilevered staircase with intricate wrought-iron balusters.
By the time they had settled into their chosen seats, the bellboys had scattered in all directions, the porter busily occupied with new arrivals so Bunny’s signals for attention went unnoticed.
‘You stay here,’ Bunny sighed, rising again. ‘I’ll see if I can rouse someone to fetch us some coffee.’ He strode towards the main desk, where he attempted to attract the attention of a desk clerk.
A shadow crossed Flora’s lap, causing her to look up into the face of a man in his mid-thirties in a dark suit and carefully styled silk cravat.
‘Are you a resident, madam?’ He raised a sartorial eyebrow.
‘I’m not, no. My husband has gone to order coffee.’ A smile tugged at her lips at the idea he disapproved of lone women in hotel lounges. Had he been about to eject her as a lady of suspect morals?
‘Ah,’ he visibly relaxed. ‘Then allow me to introduce myself. Frederick Hunter-Griggs. If there is anything you require, do feel free to call upon me.’
So this was Leonard Hunter-Griggs’ half-brother. ‘Er, yes, thank you.’ Her words slightly muffled by the whine of the descending elevator. With a soft bounce and a screech of metal, the contraption reached the ground, the gates opening with a resounding clang. A young man in a lurid green jacket barged his way through a small group of people waiting to go in. His belligerent expression marked him out as someone not to be trifled with. He didn’t seem old, perhaps early twenties, blithely unaware or uncaring of the hard stares and low murmurs directed his way as he carved a path through the patrons gathering in the lobby, colliding with a passing porter. The man in green glared at him but did not stop, waving away the porter’s mumbled apology as he approached.
‘Get a chambermaid up to clean my room,’ he snapped at Mr Hunter-Griggs, ignoring Flora. ‘Straight away, there’s a good chap. I held an intimate little party last night and the place is a dreadful mess. Oh, and I’d like some breakfast, but some joker in the dining room refused me.’
‘The maids have finished for the morning, and—’ Mr Hunter-Griggs’ gaze slid briefly to Flora, and he sighed. ‘As you wish. I’ll see to it.’
‘Good man.’ Belatedly the young man noticed Flora, giving her a lascivious wink before he strode away, pushing through a set of double doors with such force, they crashed against the wall. Seconds later his voice could be heard raised in angry protest at someone on the other side.
A middle-aged man who had witnessed the exchange from a few feet away came hurrying towards Mr Hunter-Griggs. Perfectly bald apart from an inch of black hair combed across his crown, the brass badge on his lapel bore the word Manager picked out in block print.
‘Do forgive me, sir.’ He hovered at the taller man’s shoulder. ‘I’ve explained on more than one occasion breakfast finishes at ten in order for the staff to prepare the dining room for luncheon, but—’
‘It’s quite all right, Jessup.’ Mr Hunter-Griggs waved him away. ‘Please attend to Mr Leonard.’
Flora’s hand stilled as she reached for her handbag. So that was Mr Leonard? He certainly didn’t look very dead.
‘Of course, sir.’ The manager entered the dining room where the loud voices rapidly decreased to a low murmur.
‘Please accept my apologies,’ Mr Hunter-Griggs addressed Flora, his smile amiable though a vein pulsed at his temple.
‘It’s not your fault.’ Flora’s sympathy rose for the man as she searched for a way to prolong the conversation. ‘I imagine demanding guests are a hazard of the hotel business?’
‘Indeed, they are. Though I suppose we were all young and impatient at his age. I hope he hasn’t spoiled your morning?’
‘Not at all. And I congratulate you on your diplomacy. Does he stay here often?’
‘Er… no, not really. I do hope you enjoy your visit to The Dahlia.’ He suppressed whatever he had been about to say next and instead inclined his head politely and strode away.
‘What was all that about?’ Bunny lifted an eyebrow as he flopped down beside her. ‘Did I interrupt your flirtation with the manager?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ She would save her snippet about Mr Leonard for later. ‘What did you find out?’
‘The clerk confirmed what Maddox said about having no record of a room booked for a Leo Thompson. The only strange part about that, was when the clerk consulted the ledger, the entire page referring to this week had been torn out.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Completely unheard of, apparently. He insisted mistakes were always stricken through but never removed. And, before you ask, he doesn’t know who might have done it.’
‘Hmm, Maddox didn’t mention that. What do you think happened?’ Flora asked.
‘I don’t know. But if Leonard Hunter-Griggs has been living here on a semi-permanent basis, he wouldn’t need to book a room, would he?
‘No, he wouldn’t, but he told Ed he had. And why did you say semi-permanent?’
‘Because we know Thompson’s been back and forth to Cheltenham in the last few weeks. He caught the London train from there on Tuesday.’
‘Perhaps he booked it before he reconciled with his father?’
‘The clerk just informed me they have never sent out any train tickets.’
‘Then someone else here must have. But you’re right, it’s all very odd.’ She smiled in welcome as the waiter approached. ‘Ah, good, here’s our coffee.’
‘Please excuse the delay, sir, madam.’ He arranged crockery on the low table in front of them, taking care to set the handles facing the same way.
‘Not at all, you were very prompt.’ Bunny smiled forgivingly. ‘Is the hotel always this quiet?’
‘It’s average for this time of day, sir,’ he replied, mildly defensive. ‘We’ll be kept on our toes next week as we’re fully booked for a Russian conference.’
‘Russian?’ Flora accepted the cup of weak, though hot coffee handed to her; a tiny wisp of steam struggling to rise from the surface.
‘Yes, madam. Some of the delegates have already arrived.’
‘Really?’ She took a sip of her coffee, which proved as unimpressive as it looked.
‘We’ve just had the pleasure of meeting the owner.’ Bunny raised his cup at the front desk where Mr Frederick had stood a moment before. ‘He seems like a nice enough chap, what’s he like to work for?’
‘I assume you mean Mr Frederick Hunter-Griggs, who is on duty today. He’s a fair man, as long as you follow the rules and don’t slack.’
‘Hunter-Griggs,’ Bunny said slowly, as if hearing the name for the first time. ‘Is he related to Colonel Amery Hunter-Griggs?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’ The waiter’s eyes widened appreciably. ‘We don’t see much of him though, as he’s elderly and lives elsewhere, but the twins live in.’
‘Did you say there were twins?’ Flora glanced up quickly.
‘Yes, madam. This is a family owned hotel, but it’s the younger Hunter-Griggs who manage the day-to-day running.’ He glanced to where Mr Jessup was staring at him from the front desk, his smile fading. ‘Excuse me, sir, madam. I… I ought to get back to my work.’
‘Of course, and if the manager reprimands you,’ Bunny pressed a coin into his hand which looked suspiciously like a half guinea, ‘tell him we quizzed you on the facilities of the hotel.’ His transferred smile to the manager meant to convey the waiter was doing a sterling job.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ the waiter beamed, bobbed a bow and left.
‘Are you thinking what I am?’ Flora asked.
‘I’m too generous with my gratuities?’ Bunny sipped from his cup, grimaced and put it down again.
‘No – well yes, but I didn’t mean that.’ She sighed. Bunny chose such odd moments to be flippant. ‘I meant about the Russians.’
‘They aren’t exactly strangers to these shores. Lenin lived in London for a year while he organized the printing of their newspaper.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I hear things.’ He winked. ‘And your father let some details slip the other night. It’s too dangerous for them in Moscow after their leader, Vladimir Lenin, was imprisoned in Siberia for his radical activities. They hold their conferences all over Europe. It was Brussels last year, I believe and London again the year before that.’
‘I had no idea. How interesting.’ She gave up on the coffee and discarded her cup. ‘Coming back to our Mr Thompson. I wonder how these twins the waiter mentioned would view the sudden and possibly unexpected arrival of a long-lost half-brother into the fold?’
‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at.’ Bunny nodded slowly. ‘Leonard poses a threat to their inheritance?’ He plucked a tiny sugar biscuit from a plate and nibbled it. ‘But if these twins are desperate enough to murder their own brother to get him out of the way, how come they killed the wrong man?’
‘Mrs Drake said Sylvia came to live in Cheltenham when Leo was four. As far as she knew, they hadn’t had any contact since then. Leo must have changed a great deal between four and twenty-two, so how did they know what he looked like?’
‘Maybe they didn’t and this was a case of mistaken identity?’ Bunny puckered his lips in a silent whistle. ‘If that’s true and the wrong man was killed, it would explain why there’s an unidentified dead body at the morgue.’
Bunny’s speculation was accompanied by the mechanical sounds of the elevator, followed by the rattle as the gates opened once more. An iron-haired dowager emerged in a flowing black coat with wide lapels trimmed with fox fur. A broad-brimmed hat wider than her shoulders sat on her iron-grey curls. A small dog resembling a ferret trotted along beside her on a lead.
‘Murder goes wrong sometimes.’ Flora’s raised voice fell into the sudden quiet. ‘Imagine how frustrated the killer must be now. Do you think he’ll try again?’
The woman gasped, halted and directed a withering stare at Flora, who stared back, offering neither apology nor explanation. The dowager inflated her chest, flung the end of a trailing fur stole over one shoulder and with an outraged ‘Well!’ strode away, dragging the reluctant little dog across the carpet.
‘You cannot say things like that in public.’ Bunny held a clenched fist against his mouth, chuckling.
‘You started it.’ She shrugged. ‘I merely finished your train of thought.’
‘Let’s not frighten the other patrons, and we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.’ Bunny crossed one ankle over the other and relaxed back in his chair, then bolted upright again. ‘Good lord!’ He stared at something past Flora’s shoulder, then leapt to his feet, grabbed Flora’s bag and pressed it into her hands. ‘Time to go, Flora.’
‘Why? We don’t even know that old woman,’ she protested as he hauled her roughly to her feet, her shin glancing the edge of the table which set the crockery rattling on the tray. ‘Does it matter if she heard me?’
‘I didn’t mean her, just accept that we need to leave before he sees us.’
‘Before who sees us? Come on, Bunny, at least give me a clue.’
‘Them.’ He nodded to where a group of men in long black or grey coats and soft hats had entered the lobby, scarves wound round the bottom of their faces. They appeared to be escorting another man like a Pretorian guard, all in step with their gazes darting the room in search of trouble. The focus of their attention was a short man in his mid-thirties with thinning dark hair, high Slavic cheekbones and widely spaced eyes with a slight upward tilt above a full-lipped, almost feminine mouth. Their intense, brooding looks brought curious glances their way from bystanders, some of whom stepped aside to let them pass. Looking neither left nor right, they carved a path through the reception area.
‘Try not to stare at them!’ Bunny guided her through the main doors and onto the street.
‘Will you please slow down?’ She hurried to keep pace with his loping stride across cobbles which threatened to break an ankle. ‘These boots are new and they rub.’
Timms glanced up sharply at their approach, tossed the end of his cigarette into the gutter before dashing round to open the door of the motor car.
Flora climbed into the rear, shuffling along the seat to allow Bunny to scramble in after her. ‘Are you going to tell me why we’re avoiding those strange-looking men?’
‘Not them. William.’ He tugged his jacket flap out from beneath him, having caught it in his hurry to get inside. ‘He was with them, or rather one of them.’
‘William?’ Flora gasped. ‘Surely not!’ When he didn’t respond, she laughed, adding, ‘Are you being serious?’
‘I am.’ Bunny eased his collar away from his neck. ‘I doubt he saw us but decided it was best we leave before he did.’
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ Timms twisted on his seat to face them, his forehead furrowed in concern.
‘Perfectly, thank you, but could you get us away from here, sharpish? This motor is very recognisable and I’d rather we weren’t seen.’
‘Of course, sir.’ His urgency transferred to the chauffeur, who tooted the horn in warning and pulled smartly into traffic.
‘Are you sure it was William?’ Flora scooted along the seat as Bunny climbed inside after her. ‘I cannot think why he would be somewhere like The Dahlia in the middle of the day.’
‘I suspect it’s something to do with those men, who look as if they are here for the Russian conference the waiter mentioned.’
‘Which makes sense after his recent travels.’ A worm of foreboding climbed up her spine at the thought of her father putting himself in danger. ‘He’s doing secret work for the Foreign Office, isn’t he?’
‘That would be my guess.’ Bunny nodded slowly. ‘When we get home, I suggest you don’t mention to Ed that we’ve seen his uncle in the company of a group of Bolsheviks.’
‘I wasn’t going to. And what exactly is a Bolshevik?’ She settled back in her seat as the motor drew level with the British Museum, her gaze taking in a colourful banner that hung from the railings that announced the Trafalgar exhibition.
‘They’re the Russian and more aggressive form of the English Labour Party, responsible for organising those strikes in Moscow William told us about. They want to topple the Imperial regime and bring about change for the labouring class. I’m guessing William is involved because our government are keen to keep an eye on them.’
‘London’s a long way to come for a conference,’ Flora said.
‘Not when the Russian government are having them watched.’ He hooked a thumb at the street behind him. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, that man who appeared to fascinate you in there was Vladimir Lenin himself.’