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“I don’t know.” He no longer sounded like he wanted to drag me into my uncle’s office. He sounded defeated, sad. “I have to get back.” He picked up a pen and pot of ink from the desk and waited for me to leave.
I passed him and headed for the door but paused before exiting. “Do you know where Mr. Smith was on the night of March thirtieth?”
He blinked in surprise at the question. “I think he was with me. Why?”
“Please try to remember. It could be important.”
He opened the second drawer and pulled out the diary. He flipped back through the pages then turned it around to show me March thirtieth. There were two entries for the day. The first was at 11AM and simply stated Sir R. The second was two letters: RS. Reggie Smith. There was no time against it.
“This proves I saw him that night after I finished here,” he said. “It would have been around one AM. That’s when I usually leave, after the last diners have departed. You can ask Philip if you don’t believe me.”
“You were with Mr. Smith all night?”
“Until dawn.”
That meant Reggie Smith had told the truth. He was with someone on the night the Grandjean was stolen from the Quornes’. We’d assumed it was Ambrose McDonald, but it seemed Reggie was having liaisons with both men around the same time. He hadn’t given Scotland Yard the name of his alibi because he hadn’t wanted to get Mr. Chapman into trouble. He knew it would cost him his job here at the hotel, ruin his reputation, and humiliate him. Whether Reggie had done it out of love, loyalty or for another reason, it didn’t matter.
I wasn’t sure what compelled me to ask my next question. “Do you think Reggie was in love with Ambrose McDonald?”
Mr. Chapman swallowed again and gave a slight nod. “Ambrose is—was—a force of nature. He was like a storm, wildly beautiful, but destructive for those in its path.” He looked away, but not before I saw his eyes glisten.
“Thank you, Mr. Chapman. You’ve been very helpful.”
His head jerked up to look at me again. “What happened on March thirtieth? Will me vouching for Reggie set him free?”
“I don’t know, but it will help.”
“Do I have your word you won’t tell your uncle about the Portland?”
“I won’t.”
A look of relief washed over him. “Thank you.”
“I don’t care what you do in your spare time, Mr. Chapman, or who you’re with. I just like to have answers.”
The muscles in his jaw worked in an attempt to control his emotions. I left so he could compose himself before he returned to the dining room.
My sleep was interrupted,first by Flossy, coming to check if my headache had gone. Despite telling her I was tired, and adding a yawn for effect, she slipped under the bedcovers with me and chatted about her evening for fifteen minutes. She started by saying it was dull without me there, then went on to tell me how much she enjoyed the company of the hosts.
The second interruption came in the form of Floyd knocking on my door at dawn. When I opened the door, he stumbled inside. I caught him and righted him. That’s when I noticed Jonathon standing in the corridor, a sheepish look on his face.
“Sorry, Cleo,” Jonathon said. “He insisted. I couldn’t stop him.”
Together we managed to prop Floyd against the wall. My cousin rested his hands on my shoulders and dipped his face to look me in the eye. His focus was a little off, and he reeked of cigars and brandy, but his earnest look worried me more.
“I’m doing this for him.” I think he meant Jonathon, but I couldn’t be sure. “He’s a good friend. He wants to ‘pologize.”
Jonathon placed Floyd’s arm around his shoulders and supported his weight. “I think it’s time you go to bed before you say something you’ll regret.”
Floyd put up his finger to stop Jonathon speaking. His gaze focused on it, making him cross-eyed which in turn made him lose his balance.
I grabbed Floyd’s other arm and helped Jonathon support him as we headed out of my room and down the corridor. Thankfully Floyd kept quiet until we had him inside his own suite with the door closed. We lay him on the bed and were about to leave when he flung his arm over his face and groaned.
“I’m ruined,” he slurred. “If they don’t kill me, I might as well be dead. Christ.” The part of his face I could see screwed up, and tears slid down his cheeks, onto his pillow.
I appealed to Jonathon.
He heaved a sigh as he gazed down at his friend. “Sleep now, Floyd. Talk tomorrow.”
