Page 94 of Murder at the Polo Club

“Has it? I haven’t met him properly yet. I might not like him.”

I could have told her he was an agreeable gentleman, but decided saying nothing was best. I wouldn’t put it past her to decide to dislike him merely to be contrary.

“Your advice about investigating him was sound, Miss Fox. Mr. Armitage did a thorough job. He’s satisfied that Mr. Liddicoat isn’t a fortune hunter, and if he’s satisfied, then so am I. So I am keeping my end of our bargain and will allow nature to take its course. If Liddicoat wishes to court her, then he may, and good luck to him.”

There was no time to say anything more as Miss Hessing rejoined us. “There was no post, Mother.”

Peter strode up, his watch in hand. “Don’t you have to get ready, Miss Fox?”

He was right. It was growing late. Mr. Hobart was leaving for the day, passing Mr. Chapman the steward as he headed for the restaurant entrance, reservation book in hand. The Hessings followed him.

Peter watched them go. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

“Thank you, Peter. It seems you’re now accomplished in the most difficult skill of the assistant manager’s position.”

“Which is?”

“Anticipating one’s needs.”

He smiled. “In this instance, it wasn’t difficult to anticipate.” He showed me his watch. “Besides, knowing Harmony is busy at this time, I suspected you really do need to go.”

“Good Lord, yes I do. Thank you.” I picked up my skirts and raced up the stairs to the fourth floor.

Instead of heading directly to my suite, I diverted to my uncle and aunt’s rooms to have a quiet word with Aunt Lilian before we went out. I had hoped Uncle Ronald would be in his office, but he was in the sitting room with Floyd, enjoying a glass of sherry. Aunt Lilian was lying down in the bedroom. Warning her about the cocaine tonic would have to wait. It was a conversation best left to when we were alone, anyway.

Since I had to give a reason for my visit to their suite, I brought up the strike. “What a relief it’s over.”

“Cobbit finally came to his senses,” Uncle Ronald agreed.

“Thanks to some intervention, so I hear.”

“Is that so? I did wonder. The terms were fair to both parties and well thought out. It didn’t seem like something Cobbit would write.” He watched the liquid stick to the inside of his glass as he swirled it. “It must have been Hobart.”

“It was Harry Armitage, actually.”

Uncle Ronald’s head snapped up. “How doyouknow that? Have you seen him lately?”

“It was the staff who told me. They all seemed to know that Harry provided a guiding hand to Cobbit.”

Uncle Ronald grunted. “Why would he care?”

“Because his uncle is still employed here. Because he cares for the other staff, too, and wants to see the hotel succeed, for everyone’s sakes.”

He sipped his sherry, pretending he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. He was too stubborn to admit out loud that he’d been wrong about Harry, but if he could at least admit it to himself, that would be something.

It was Floyd’s reaction that interested me more. He simply sat silently in the armchair, his expression thoughtful as he studied me. Floyd wasn’t a deep thinker, and he usually wore his emotions on his sleeve, but this time I couldn’t read him.

I was stoppedin the foyer by Mr. Miller as I went to leave the hotel the following morning. He and his uncle were checking out, their London business having reached its conclusion. I briefly thought about making up an excuse that I was in a hurry, but decided against it. I didn’t want to part on bad terms.

He drew me aside while his uncle dealt with the checking out process. We stood by one of the vases of flowers where we could still be seen, but were afforded some privacy from eavesdroppers. There were several who took an interest in us, from Mr. Hobart and Peter, to Uncle Ronald and the Hessings. All looked as though they were involved in their own conversations, but close scrutiny proved they were watching us surreptitiously.

Mr. Miller saw them, too, but forged on as if they weren’t there. “I wanted to ask you about the book.”

“Oh? I see. Uh, well, I didn’t have the chance to read it.”

“My question isn’t about the contents. It’s about why you returned it to me. Were you forced to?” His gaze flicked to Uncle Ronald, pretending to read a newspaper at the post desk.

I didn’t need to follow the direction of his gaze to understand what he was really asking. My thoughts on the Walt Whitman book were of no interest to him. I chose my next words carefully, to get my point across without offending. “I returned it of my own volition when I realized Whitman wasn’t for me. That’s not to say he wasn’t a talented writer. I’m sure many readers find something to their taste in his work.”

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