Next Mr. George arrived, looking stoic but weary, a bandage around his head.
Other guests entered. Lady Fitzhoward, Miss Newport, Dr. and Mrs. Fox, and several others Frederick did not know by name. They settled into seats and whispered among themselves.
Mr. Mayhew came in and sat in one of the chairs. His staff gathered behind him but remained standing, backs against the walls.
Finally, Mr. Edgecombe appeared. Now all the people who seemed most likely to have a vested interest in Mr. Oliver’s fate or to know something about it were present.
Frederick addressed Mr. Mayhew first. “Is everyone here?”
The proprietor surveyed the room. “I believe so.”
“No one else has arrived or departed the hotel today?”
Mayhew turned to his commissionaire. Mr. Moseley replied, “We received our customary deliveries, but otherwise, no, not as far as I am aware.”
Frederick looked at Miss Lane, thinking of the person she thought she’d seen from the window that morning, but she said nothing.
He decided not to single her out in front of all these people and instead began with introductions. “If we have not met, I am Sir Frederick Wilford, local magistrate. And this is our constable, Mr. Brixton.”
Mr. Edgecombe spoke up. “I heard the others talking. Is it true? Is Ambrose Oliver dead?”
Frederick nodded. “I am afraid so.”
“Dash it!” Mr. Edgecombe’s voice shook, the tightened cords in his neck protruding. He removed his spectacles, pressed thumb and fingers to the bridge of his nose, and groaned.
Frederick was taken aback by the vehemence of the man’s reaction. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Condolences won’t help. He was the firm’s highest-selling author. Thunder and turf! How did he die?”
Sir Frederick glanced at Dr. Fox, then said, “The coroner has been sent for, but it will be some time until we have an official verdict.”
Edgecombe persisted. “An apoplexy, do you think? He was overweight and drank a great deal.”
“Unlikely. Especially as Mr. George there was knocked senseless while on watch outside his door. It appears Mr. Oliver was bludgeoned, but again, that is not yet official.”
Murmurs and tense whispers rose, and Frederick made a downward gesture with his hands. “Please remain calm. As I said, the coroner has been summoned. In the meantime, did any of you see or hear anything that might help us apprehend whoever did this?”
Around him, people shifted and exchanged uneasy looks.
He urged, “Please speak up so we can take action directly.” Again he paused, but still, no one spoke. “Well. If you think of something later, don’t hesitate to let me know. Otherwise, I must ask everyone to remain in the hotel until further notice. Some of you may be asked to testify at the coroner’s inquest.”
Grumbles arose at this, and one man said he was sailing for Naples in three days’ time and could not delay. Frederick promised to do all he could to speed the process.
Then Frederick allowed Mr. Mayhew and his staff to return to work. Keeping them all idle would have been a significant inconvenience, as the hotel served both staying guests in thedining room as well as villagers and wealthy travelers passing through in private chaises.
Frederick next excused the guests. They slowly rose and filed out of the room, looking uncertain and concerned.
At the door, Miss Newport turned back. “Are the rest of us in any danger here?”
“I think that unlikely,” Frederick replied. “Especially now that Mr. Brixton is here.”
The constable forced a smile and nodded reassuringly, no doubt wishing he were back in his bakery and had never agreed to serve a term as village official. Frederick did not blame him.
After they were dismissed, Lady Fitzhoward invited Rebecca to join her for one of their frequent games of cribbage. Rebecca agreed vaguely, preoccupied with disturbing thoughts. Perhaps, she decided, it would be wise to try to shift her mind to something else.
The older woman sat at the small table in her suite, setting out cards and cribbage board while Rebecca slowly paced back and forth, clutching trembling fingers.
Ambrose Oliver discovered dead. The very morning after John came to the hotel and then sneaked out again. His manuscript—the one she had delivered herself—in the author’s room. What questions that might raise! She was glad now John had used a pen name.
