“You knew her well?” I asked, taking the hand she stretched out to me.
“Only by sight. I’d never met her. She was the lady waiting at the lift with us yesterday.”
I remembered her. She’d talked to herself about a man she’d seen who was out of place in the hotel. She’d been looking in Mr. Armitage’s direction as she said it.
Floyd indicated his father’s office door. “Now that we’re all together, we might as well get this over with. The police want to question the three of us about our movements last night.”
“Us?” Flossy clutched her nightgown closed at her throat. “Why?”
Her brother waggled his brows at her. “Because they think one of us did it.”
She gasped, and he chuckled.
“They’re just following a process,” I assured her. “It doesn’t mean anything. They’ll probably ask all the staff what they were doing at the time of the murder.”
Flossy went pale. “Murder,” she whispered. “It’s so awful to have the hotel’s good name dragged through the mud like this, and just before the ball, too. What if our friends get wind of it and don’t come?”
I expected Floyd to tease her to make light of it, but he just muttered, “Indeed.”
He knocked and opened the door. A uniformed constable stood beside the bookshelf, a notebook in hand. A second man, dressed in a dark gray suit, sat at the desk opposite Uncle Ronald. He looked familiar, but if it weren’t for his distinctive bright blue eyes, I wouldn’t have guessed why. What was a relative of Mr. Hobart’s doing in Uncle Ronald’s office after a murder?
“Ah, the rest of the family,” he said, rising. “Come in, come in. The sooner we get these interviews over with, the sooner we can move on and enjoy Christmas festivities, although it’ll be difficult to get into the spirit, I imagine.” He extended his hand to Floyd. “Detective Inspector Hobart, Scotland Yard.”
“Hobart?” Floyd glanced at his father.
“Your manager is my brother,” the detective said.
“Delighted to meet you,” Flossy said, putting out her hand. “Please excuse my appearance.”
The detective inspector grasped her hand loosely and seemed unsure whether to shake it, kiss it, or bow over it. He let it go quickly and shook mine when I extended it to him as Floyd had done.
“You must be Florence,” he said to me. “I see the resemblance with your brother.”
“I’m Cleo Fox,” I said. “Sir Ronald’s niece. Flossy is Floyd’s sister.” I indicated my cousin.
The inspector put up his hands. “My apologies to you both.”
“Get on with it,” Uncle Ronald growled. “This is a waste of time, anyway. None of us did it.”
“Perhaps one of you saw something relevant. Telling me where you were last evening might bring important evidence to light.”
“Approximately what time did the murder take place?” I asked.
“I’d rather not speculate here and now. I’m inquiring about everyone’s movements throughout the late afternoon and evening, just to be sure.”
“Did she dine in the dining room?”
“If you wouldn’t mind detailing your movements, Miss Fox.”
I told him I’d written letters then been taken on a tour by Mr. Armitage, which produced a small smile on the detective’s lips. “I dined with my uncle and cousins at eight, then retired to my rooms. I went to bed a little before eleven. I awoke at seven-thirty this morning, but didn’t hear of the murder until just now when a maid mentioned it.”
The constable scribbled furiously in his notepad throughout my retelling. Flossy recounted her evening next, but it was as uneventful as mine. She sat with her mother after dinner then went to bed. Uncle Ronald worked in his office until midnight after having a brief discussion with Mr. Armitage at the conclusion of our dinner. Floyd said he went out.
“Where did you go?” Detective Inspector Hobart asked.
“To a gentleman’s club.”
“The name of the club?”
“You wouldn’t know it. It’s very private.”
“Nevertheless.” The detective waited, his face friendly and eyes sparkling in the pale morning light filtering through the window.
“Does it matter?” Uncle Ronald spat. “My son isn’t the murderer. He wasn’t here. None of us poisoned Mrs. Warrick.” He flicked his hand towards the door. “Do your job, Inspector, or I’ll have you replaced. I want this matter resolved today.”
“I’ll do my best, but it’s unlikely we’ll have an answer today. There are a lot of staff and guests to interview—”
“Do not talk to the guests! Is that understood? They are not to be bothered.”
The inspector pursed his lips, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. The two men entered a glaring match until the inspector departed the office. The constable followed.
Floyd flopped onto a chair. “Incompetent fool. Clearly our Hobart got all the brains in the family.”
Uncle Ronald glowered at him from beneath the deep shelf of his brow. Floyd swallowed heavily and rose. He left the office. Flossy and I followed.
While Floyd and Flossy returned to their rooms, I joined Detective Inspector Hobart and his constable at the lift.
“The stairs are faster,” I said.
“So I discovered on the way up.” The inspector smiled at me. “You’ve just arrived at the hotel, I believe.”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What a shocking introduction to your new home, and on Christmas Day too, a day of peace and goodwill. I hope this doesn’t reflect poorly on The Mayfair in your eyes. The hotel has an exemplary reputation.”
“I didn’t think murders happened very often here, but thank you for the reassurance.”
He chuckled. “We’ll take the stairs, Constable. The lift doesn’t seem like the most efficient device.”
“May I join you?” I asked, following anyway.
The stairwell was quiet, but I knew from experience that voices echoed so I kept mine low. “Is it true you suspect the footman who delivered Mrs. Warrick’s hot chocolate last night?”
The detective’s step slowed. “I’m keeping an open mind at this juncture.”
“That is a relief because I have it on good authority that he’s not the type to commit murder just because Mrs. Warrick accused him of ruining her fur coat.”
“In my experience, people who are not the type commit murder all the time.” He softened his harsh statement with a smile. “But I don’t expect an innocent young woman such as yourself to know that.”
He quickened his pace, perhaps in the hope of leaving me behind. I picked up my skirts so as not to trip over them as I kept up.
“Was the poison definitely in her pot of hot chocolate?”
He hesitated. “The pot and cup have been taken away for testing, along with the teacup delivered by the maid who discovered the body this morning.”
That was neither confirmation nor denial. Surely if the chocolate cup held the poison, it could be smelled or a residue had been left behind.
“Have you questioned the footman who delivered it?” I asked.