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“Why do they need to speak to me?” I asked Floyd.
“It’s not just you. They need to speak to me, too. Something about my French being better than yours. Come on. Let’s find out, then you can go back to the ballroom and dance with Miller.” This last part was said loud enough for the trio to hear.
Harry suddenly looked up as we approached. He drew in a sharp breath as his gaze fell on me. “Cleo. You look…well.”
“Yes, she does,” Floyd said pointedly. “It’s all that dancing with a gentleman named Marshall Miller. You don’t know him, but he’s a fine fellow. All the girls want to dance with him, but he only has eyes for my cousin.”
My withering glare was lost on him as he smiled triumphantly at Harry.
Harry’s lips thinned and he looked away.
It was left to Harmony to finally answer my question as to why they were there at all. “Victor and Harry found this diary, but we think it’s in French.” She showed us the small leather-bound book that fit neatly into her palm. “We hoped you could decipher it, Cleo. But when we saw Mr. Bainbridge on the landing, we thought we’d ask him too, since he’s fluent.”
Floyd accepted the diary from her. “Where did you find it?”
“Uh…” She appealed to Harry then Victor. Neither answered.
Floyd had opened the diary to the first page but quickly closed it again upon seeing the inscription. “This belongs to Mrs. Rigg-Lyon,” he hissed. “We shouldn’t be looking through it. It’s private, not to mention it was probably obtained under dubious circumstances.”
Harmony and Victor exchanged worried glances. Harry’s expression was unreadable.
I took the diary from Floyd. “Don’t pretend you’ve suddenly acquired some morals. Besides, you owe Harry and me for getting you out of a particularly sticky situation. Would you like me to tell your father what that was, or would you prefer to help us catch a murderer?”
Floyd held my gaze for a moment, then gave in with a sigh. “Don’t tell me how you came across it.”
“We didn’t plan to,” Harry told him.
Floyd re-opened the book and flipped through the pages. Together, we inspected the entries. It was an appointment diary with three lines dedicated to each day of the week. Mrs. Rigg-Lyon’s handwriting was contained and neat, a no-nonsense style for a no-nonsense woman.
“Why is it in French?” Floyd asked.
“She’s French,” I said. “You’ve never spoken to her? She has an accent.”
He shook his head as he turned the pages.
“It’s mostly names,” Harry said. “I suspect they’re friends she’s meeting socially. It’s easy enough to guess the translation of a few other words—café, reunion.”
“Meeting, not reunion.” Floyd pointed to some words that confirmed Harry’s theory. “Lunch, afternoon tea… They must have been redecorating in January and February. These are the words for drapes and carpet.” He flipped to last week’s page and pointed to Saturday’s entry. “Polo is the same in French and English.”
“Go back through the last month’s entries. There’s a John S at least once a week, usually Thursdays, but sometimes on a Monday.”
Floyd found the entries. Each time John S was noted down, a time for their meeting was beside it, along with the letters R M before the word Mont. “Montis mount or mountain in French. Perhaps she’s referring to a mountain with a name that begins with R and M.”
“That’s what we thought,” Harry said. “But there are no mountains in London.”
“It could be a hill on the outskirts.” My suggestion was met with shrugs and shakes of the head from the native Londoners.
Floyd continued to flip through the pages, but aside from the mention of John S, the last month was quite empty. Given it was the social season, that was odd.
Floyd handed the diary back to Harry. “Any idea who John S is?”
“Rigg-Lyon believed it was his wife’s lover,” Harry said.
“How do you know what Rigg-Lyon thought?”
Harry met Floyd’s gaze levelly. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”
Floyd rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself. So, if Mrs. Rigg-Lyon did have a lover, he must be considered a suspect for her husband’s murder. Jealousy is a curse, as they say. Fortunately for me, I’ve never experienced the emotion firsthand. I’m far too cool-headed to fall in love.”
