Murder in the Drawing Room Read online

  Murder In The Drawing Room

  A Cleopatra Fox Mystery, Book 3

  C.J. Archer

  www.cjarcher.com

  Contents

  About This Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Excerpt of Murder at the Dressmaker’s Salon

  A Message From The Author

  Also by C.J. Archer

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2021 by C.J. Archer

  Visit C.J. at www.cjarcher.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About This Book

  Scandal, secrets and bawdy photographs are uncovered when the wife of a politician is murdered. Untangle the lies with Cleo and her friends and find the killer.

  When Harry Armitage passes an investigation to Cleo involving adultery, they both think it will end in divorce. But when the client’s wife is found stabbed in her drawing room, it becomes clear that marital problems are only part of the story. Reluctantly joining forces, Cleo and Harry realize the wrong person was targeted, but the police think they have their killer and refuse to look elsewhere.

  Taking on the investigation themselves, they peel back the lies and expose the sordid details of a marriage in tatters, and see firsthand how gossip and politics fuel the machinations of high society.

  Meanwhile, at the Mayfair Hotel, expansion plans are on the menu, causing tensions to heat up in the kitchen between the chef and Cleo’s uncle. To make matters worse, Cleo’s family notices her spending less time at the hotel and more time investigating – and some members don’t like it.

  Chapter 1

  London, February 1900

  I had been expecting a visit from Harry Armitage ever since the newspapers reported his detective agency solved the murder of the Piccadilly Playhouse actress. The fact that he had not called on me at the Mayfair Hotel was a source of both disappointment and regret. Disappointment because I’d assumed he’d be gentlemanly enough to thank me properly for giving his name to the journalists, and regret that I hadn’t taken the glory for myself and set up my own agency on the back of the publicity instead. The regret, however, was fleeting.

  My friend Harmony’s irritation was not. She made it very clear she thought I was a fool for letting the world think Mr. Armitage had solved the crime. She wouldn’t speak to me for two days, although she continued to clean my rooms of a morning as part of her maid’s duties. I left her half my breakfast, as usual, but she didn’t touch it. It took an order of French pastries for the frostiness to thaw, and even then she made it sound as if she were doing me a favor by sharing them.

  “I wouldn’t want you getting fat,” she said right before she bit into a buttery pain au chocolat.

  “You’re such a sweet friend.”

  She stopped chewing to stare at me.

  “Yes, we’re friends,” I said, taking the other pain au chocolat from the plate. “We must be or we wouldn’t be able to tell the other what we truly think.”

  “I’m just your maid.”

  “You are not just anything. You are marvelous to protect me as you do, and to want me to succeed. But you must allow me to explain my decision.” I had already explained it to her, but it seemed we needed to revisit it. “Mr. Armitage’s new business needed a helping hand, and I was in a position to give it.”

  “He can take care of himself. He’s a man. You’ve got to take care of you.”

  “And I will, in due course. Mr. Armitage may be a man but he must fend for himself. I have this lovely hotel to live in and no financial burdens. One day, I’ll make my own way in the world, and move out of here, but until then, I must abide my uncle’s wish that I shouldn’t work. Giving Mr. Armitage the glory was a way of killing two birds with one stone. I don’t anger my uncle and Mr. Armitage reaps the benefits of the publicity.”

  She licked each of her fingers, taking her time to savor the chocolatey goodness. Or to think about what she wanted to say next. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with him being handsome, would it?”

  I barked a laugh. “Good lord, no! Do you think I would be taken in by a strong set of cheekbones, warm eyes and an athletic physique? I’m hardly a giddy schoolgirl.”

  By the way she eyed me, I suspected she thought I protested too vehemently. “Then did you help him because you felt guilty for getting him dismissed from his position here?”

  I shot to my feet. “No. Shall we do my hair?”

  I avoided her gaze in the mirror as I sat at my dressing table. She picked up the brush and stroked it through my hair with surprising gentleness. She must know I was lying about feeling guilty and feel sorry for me.

  “Are you surprised he hasn’t thanked me?” I asked. “I’m surprised.”

  She abruptly stopped brushing. “About that…”

  I spun around to face her. “Harmony? What is it?”

  She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a letter. “This arrived for you from Mr. Armitage.”

  I unfolded it and read. It was dated two days prior. “Harmony! Why did you withhold it?”

  “He’s not deserving of your generosity.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with you not giving me this. Please don’t withhold my mail from me again.”

  The letter was very brief. It simply stated:

  Miss Fox,

  I suppose you are responsible for the surge in new clients coming through my door.

  Sincerely,

  Harry Armitage.

  I turned the letter over, but there was nothing written on the reverse. It was hardly the gratitude I’d hoped for.

  “You’re disappointed,” Harmony said carefully.

  I forced myself to smile at her reflection. “Not at all.”

  “That man’s not worth the trouble of your thoughts, let alone your kind actions. You should put that letter where it deserves to go—in the waste basket.”

  I didn’t need to be a detective to know she’d read the letter earlier and had kept it from me to spare my feelings. She’d known I’d be disappointed with Mr. Armitage’s lack of appreciation.

  She put down the brush and I caught her hand as she let it go. “Thank you, Harmony. But I would rather be informed than not.” I rose. “Now, to write a response.”

  She hurried into the sitting room ahead of me, pulled the chair out from the writing desk, and plucked a blank sheet of hotel stationery from the top of the small stack on the silver tray.

  I sat and wrote:

  Mr. Armitage,

  You’re welcome.

  Sincerely,

  Cleopatra Fox

  Another week passed before a second letter arrived from Mr. Armitage, inviting me to a meeting at his office. He wished to discuss a business proposition with me that would be to our mutual benefit.

  Finally! He must be so busy that he needed a partner to help with the load. While I hoped to one day have my name on his agency’s door, I was willing to bide my time and be more of a silent partner for now. That would not ruffle Uncle Ronald’s feathers. He might be able to accept that I’d solved two murders, but he could not accept me
investigating professionally, for money. For now, while I needed his financial support, I would be Mr. Armitage’s business partner in secret. Painting my name on the door would come later.

  The following morning, armed with a notepad, pencil, and a smart new hat covered in dark gray satin, trimmed with a brass buckle on one side and a cluster of silk leaves on the other, I left the hotel. I got no further than the building next door where my cousin Floyd and Uncle Ronald stood with two other men, both of whom sported mutton chop whiskers. I’d been avoiding my uncle ever since the last murder had been solved, but it was too late to cross the road; he’d already seen me and beckoned me to join them. At least, with others present, he wouldn’t lecture me on forming an inappropriate friendship with Harry Armitage. Ever since the previous assistant manager, Mr. Hirst, had informed my uncle of my frequent meetings with Mr. Armitage, I’d known a confrontation would come. I was ready for it. But I wanted to put it off for as long as possible.

  “Cleo, come and join us. You always have good insight into the hotel’s business.”

  “I do?” I looked to Floyd, but he merely pursed his lips. I suspected his father had never heaped such praise on him.

  Uncle Ronald introduced the two men, an architect and the hotel’s accountant, who both worked for large firms in the city. “Tell them what you said a few weeks ago, Cleo.” At my blank look, he elaborated. “About how the hotel should open a restaurant to attract the public as well as service guests, and convert the current dining room to a ballroom.” I’d never seen him so enthused. The flushed cheeks weren’t entirely the result of the chilly air. Usually he looked like a bulldog who’d lost his favorite chew toy, but now he looked like he’d spied a new, better one.

  I didn’t want to disappoint him, but I could hardly recall what I’d said to him weeks ago. I would have to make it up. “I hear all the luxury hotels have restaurants that can be accessed by the public from the pavement nowadays, rather than reserved for hotel guests and positioned at the back. If the Mayfair is to compete with them, it ought to have one too.”

  The architect gave me a polite if somewhat condescending smile. “Well said, Miss Fox. We are all in agreement, except for Mr. Dreyfuss.”

  The accountant indicated the door to the hotel where Frank the doorman welcomed new guests and Goliath the porter piled luggage onto a trolley. “You have a perfectly good restaurant already.”

  “At the back,” Uncle Ronald pointed out.

  “Does it matter where it is? If you advertise to the public, they will soon discover it, if that’s the sort of diner you wish to attract.”

  “Precisely the point, Dreyfuss. I don’t wish to advertise.” Uncle Ronald made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “The very notion goes against everything the Mayfair stands for. Exclusivity, luxury, and above all, discretion. An advertisement splashed all over the newspapers says the opposite.”

  The accountant might have been taller than my barrel-shaped uncle, but he was as slender as a lamp post. At Uncle Ronald’s darkening face, he swallowed hard. He held his ground, however. “You may have to advertise if you want to go ahead with this.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “The Mayfair can’t compete with its larger rivals.”

  Uncle Ronald bristled. “We have to compete. The bank has approved the loan so I say we go ahead and lease the entire ground floor.” He turned to me. “Do you think it will be large enough?”

  “Is what large enough?” I asked.

  He swept his hand from side to side to indicate the tea room, photographic studio, and chemist shop housed on the ground floor of the building neighboring the hotel. On their own, none were very large, but combined, it would make an excellent space for a restaurant befitting a luxury hotel. The Savoy’s was larger, but they also had many more guest rooms. This would be perfect for the Mayfair, a smaller, family-owned hotel. Being located beside the Mayfair meant the hotel’s suites wouldn’t be impacted and capacity wouldn’t need to be reduced during renovations.

  “I think it’s marvelous,” I said. “The size of the senior staff offices could be reduced, and the one currently occupied by Mr. Hobart could be opened up and knocked through. Then you’d have a lovely wide thoroughfare leading from the foyer to the new restaurant so guests don’t have to leave the hotel, but access from the pavement will mean the public can arrive via a separate front entrance.”

  Uncle Ronald beamed. “I told you she has a good sense for business.”

  Floyd’s lips pursed tighter.

  “The wide street frontage has four windows.” I nodded at Floyd. “My cousin once told me his friends like to be seen when they dine out together.”

  Floyd came to life, roused from his self-pitying strop, and grasped the olive branch I held out to him. “Indeed they do, and it’s vital to the success of an exclusive restaurant that it attract the young, fast set. Believe me, they’ll flock to such a favorable setting, and they’ll bring actresses and opera singers with them. The windows are perfect.”

  “I would say food is also important,” Mr. Dreyfuss muttered.

  “We have an excellent chef,” my uncle said. “He’s French.”

  “I suppose he approves of expansion.”

  Uncle Ronald’s smile froze. “Of course. Do you approve of the idea?”

  “You don’t need my approval. I advise you, and you make your decisions anyway.”

  Uncle Ronald chuckled and clapped the accountant on the shoulder. “Prepare the paperwork and we’ll go to the bank together at your earliest convenience.” He put out his hand and Mr. Dreyfuss shook it.

  The accountant did not immediately let go, however. He took a step closer to Uncle Ronald and lowered his voice. “If it doesn’t work, you could lose everything.”

  “Let me worry about that.” Uncle Ronald didn’t look worried in the least, which, from what I’d learned of his nature in the month since arriving at the hotel, was unlike him. He seemed to carry the weight of the hotel on his broad shoulders. He pored over ledgers during the day and charmed guests in the evening. He worried over details, great and small, and rarely delegated to Floyd. He seemed to have no true friends, only guests, potential guests, business associates, and important people he felt he ought to cultivate relationships with. When he spent time with his wife and children, it was in full view of guests as if to remind them that the Mayfair was a family hotel.

  Perhaps I was being unfair. He had taken me in when he didn’t have to, welcoming me to the hotel and the family with open arms and a generous allowance. He was neither the snob nor the brute my grandparents had led me to believe. Any harsh words I’d heard him speak were said under the pressures of dire circumstances.

  I resolved to be fairer towards him. I did not, however, plan to tarry and endure his lecture about Mr. Armitage. As the architect and accountant bade us farewell, I made to leave too.

  “Cleo, come by my office later,” Uncle Ronald called out to me. “There’s something I need to speak to you about.”

  I gave a little wave and hurried off. Later, when I failed to show up at his office, I would claim I never heard him over the rumble of carriage wheels and shouts of passing hawkers. The traffic on Piccadilly was truly atrocious.

  “Cleo! Wait!” Floyd caught up to me and I worried I would be given a lecture by proxy.

  “Not now, Floyd. I have an appointment with a…dentist.”

  “Toothache?”

  I rubbed my jaw. “See you later.”

  He lightly caught my elbow. “I just wanted to say thanks for what you did back there. But it’s not necessary. I can fight my own battles.”

  “What battle?” I called over my shoulder as I walked off. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He tilted his head to the side and watched me go. I hurried off, somewhat annoyed at his masculine pride. Why couldn’t he accept a little help? It was a small thing I’d done for him, hardly even worth mentioning. At least he thanked me, proving masculine pride may
be hard to swallow, but not impossible.

  I quickened my step and reached Broadwick Street in Soho a short while later. The street was damp from recent rain, the gutters clogged with mud and horse deposits that had been swept aside. At least the pavement was clean. I entered the Roma Café and greeted the two elderly men sitting on the stools by the counter. My limited Italian earned me nods of appreciation in return. They were always in the café, along with Luigi the owner. Like barnacles on a sea rock, I doubted even a storm could pry them off their stools.

  “Bella, what a pleasant surprise!” Luigi’s Cockney accent was at odds with his tanned skin and the occasional Italian word he threw into conversation. He beamed and indicated I should take a seat. “We ain’t seen you in so long.”

  “Almost two weeks,” I said, pulling over a third stool. Another two men sat at a table by the window, speaking quietly over small coffee cups. The café was busier than I’d ever seen it.

  Luigi jerked his thumb at the ceiling. “He’s upstairs.”

  “May I have two coffees to take up, please?”

  He poured beans into the grinder and turned the handle, intensifying the delicious aroma already filling the café. “Lucky Harry.”

  “In what way?”

  “To have a beautiful woman bring him coffee.” He flashed me a grin as he poured boiling water from a kettle into the bottom of a metal siphon pot. “And for his flourishing business.”

  “He has new clients?”

  He nodded. “A steady stream has passed my café going up to his office. Some even come in. It’s been good for business. Thank you.”