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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.
