Page 17 of Murder at the Dinner Party
His voice crackled over the line. “I spoke to my father and he confirmed my suspicion. I had heard him speak about the Whitchurches years ago. They were caught up in an investigation that he couldn’t solve. It bothers him still, and he was very keen to hear more when I mentioned their link to your current investigation.”
“What crime was he investigating back then?”
“Murder.”
CHAPTER4
Harry gave me the bare bones of the case, as told to him by his father. “Twenty-five years ago, one of the Whitchurches’ maids was found dead in the kitchen, stabbed through the heart.”
“Were the Whitchurches suspects?” I asked.
“He refused to tell me more over the telephone.” Caution edged Harry’s tone. He, too, was concerned about a telephone operator listening in to our conversation. “He suggested we call on him tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at my office and we’ll catch the train.”
“Together?”
Even though I thought I spoke mildly and without undue concern, Harry’s laughter drifted down the line. “Afraid of being alone with me now, Cleo?”
I was surprised that he confronted the cause of my awkwardness head-on. Perhaps the physical distance between us made it easier for him. It didn’t make it easier for me. I attempted a laugh, too, but it sounded flat. “Not at all.”
“What if I promise not to kiss you again?”
“Harry!”
“I’ll take that as you not agreeing to the promise, which is good because I had no plan to keep it.”
I hastily said goodbye and hung the receiver on its hook as I flapped my hand in front of my warm face. I regretted not bringing a fan with me.
I entered the large sitting room where the hotel’s famous afternoon teas were served on the finest china by impeccably dressed waiters. Mr. Chapman looked up from his reservations book with a ready smile, but it vanished upon seeing me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Fox.” It was politely said, if lacking the enthusiasm he reserved for guests and Bainbridges.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Chapman. Oh look, we match.” I indicated the pink rose tucked into his buttonhole with two green leaves still attached. They were the same shade as my dress.
“How delightful,” he said blandly.
I joined Aunt Lilian and Flossy, seated alone at our regular table as our guests had not yet arrived. They chatted quietly to one another, although my aunt fidgeted with her napkin and her gaze darted around the room. Richard, the head waiter, swooped in and asked if I required anything while I waited. Neither my aunt nor cousin had any refreshments in front of them, so I declined, too.
Mr. Chapman signaled for Richard to join him. They spoke, then Mr. Chapman disappeared. He reappeared a few minutes later with a white carnation in place of the pink rose. I laughed to myself, not at all surprised.
“Why are you smiling like that, Cleo?” Aunt Lilian asked.
“Mr. Chapman changed his flower after I pointed out that his rose was the same color as my dress.”
She looked to Mr. Chapman, once again manning the reservations desk, and spotted her friend, Mrs. Druitt-Poore, arriving with her two daughters. “Here they are!”
Just as they joined us, Mrs. Digby arrived with her daughter. The older women fell into the easy chatter of long-term friends catching up on the latest gossip, while the younger women passed along gossip about their peers. I knew some of the people they talked about, but not all. Even so, I listened intently. Gossip was an important currency in my work. One day the information they imparted today might be useful.
Neither they nor their mothers mentioned the names of anyone I was interested in for my current investigation, however. I waited until after the first round of tea and scones had been consumed before steering the conversation in a direction I wanted.
“What do you know about Sir Ian and Lady Campbell?”
The young ladies all looked at me blankly.
“Lord and Lady Whitchurch?”
More blank looks.
“Why?” asked Cora Druitt-Poore.
