Page 6 of Murder on the Brighton Express
Why was he asking me to run errands? He’d never asked before, and the mews was out of the way.
Sensing he’d made a rarefaux pas, he quickly apologized. “Goliath can take the message. I’m sure you want to rest before afternoon tea.”
As Flossy and I headed to the lift, I asked her why she couldn’t stop staring at the blond gentleman with the gold-topped walking stick, reading his mail at the post desk.
“Well, justlookat him, Cleo.”
I looked. “He’s quite handsome, I suppose.”
“A ‘golden gentleman with a limp.’”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t you remember? And you call yourself a detective.” She hooked her arm through mine and glanced over her shoulder. A ‘golden gentleman with a limp’ is the description of the man I’ll marry, according to the fortune-telling machine in the Palace Pier’s arcade.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m not sure blond hair and a gold-topped walking stick match the description.”
“It’s either that or a crown.” She gasped. “Perhaps I’ll marry a prince!”
I laughed softly. “Perhaps you will.”
“It’s wonderful to be home,”I said to Harmony. She’d come to my suite soon after I’d entered it, having heard we were back.
“You didn’t enjoy the holiday?” she asked.
We sat on the sofa, our shoes off and the top buttons of our dresses undone. It was warm on the fourth floor and the fan did little to cool the air. Usually doing maid’s work at this time of day, Harmony had more freedom now that she was Floyd’s assistant for the duration of the wedding reception preparations. While she was busier than ever, her schedule wasn’t quite as regimented.
“I did, very much.” I sipped my lemonade. “But I missed you.”
“Just me?” She sounded serious, but the wicked gleam in her eyes gave her away.
I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of walking into her trap. “I missed all of my friends here.”
“Just here? Or the ones from, say, Soho?”
I gulped down the rest of my lemonade, then set the empty glass aside. “How are plans for the reception coming along?”
“That was a cumbersome change of topic, but very well. The plans are progressing, put it that way.”
“Is something the matter? Is Floyd being hopeless?”
“No more than usual.” It was testament to how comfortable she felt with me that she could say that about my cousin to my face. She knew I’d not pass on her words or be offended. “He leaves me to manage things alone most of the time, which is all well and good. I prefer it, actually.”
“Then is it Mr. Chapman again?”
The hotel steward managed the restaurant and its staff. He’d been upset when Uncle Ronald had given the task of preparing the wedding reception to Floyd and Harmony, but he only had himself to blame. The Hessing-Liddicoat engagement dinner had been a near-disaster. On the back of it, the bride-to-be’s mother, Mrs. Hessing, had almost taken the wedding reception to our competitor. Fortunately, she’d been convinced to keep it at the Mayfair, but she’d insisted Floyd be the one to manage the event.
Mr. Chapman’s nose had been put out of joint, but he’d been somewhat placated when Floyd tasked him with preparing the old restaurant for the reception. The steward was given free rein to organize the waiters, and had input into the decorations, but Harmony would be the one to liaise with suppliers while Floyd passed on the requirements of the woman paying for it all. I wasn’t sure what the snobby steward would abhor more—having to answer to a maid, or having to decorate the room in Mrs. Hessing’s ostentatious style.
“It’s not Mr. Chapman,” Harmony said. “It’s Mrs. Hessing. She wants the world, but she doesn’t want to pay for it.”
“But she’s wealthy!”
“That doesn’t mean she likes parting with her money.” Harmony picked up the jug of lemonade and refilled both our glasses. “Every time I get a quote from a supplier, she tells me it’s too much and I must find a way to lower it. When I asked how, she said people like me should know how to haggle.”
I groaned. “What did you say to that?”
“I asked her if she meant people from the East End.”
