He blinked. “I am sorry, madam. But there is no guest by that name in this hotel.”
I opened my mouth to contradict him, but Stoker clasped my hand. I remembered then what Julien had told us about the maharani’s insistence upon privacy. After her photograph had been published in theDaily Harbinger, she had instructed hotel staff to preserve her incognita.
“Blast,” I muttered, turning to Stoker. “What was hernom d’hôtel?”
He shrugged and I sighed as I turned back to the manager. “We know she is here, my good man. Now kindly send up a note that I will write and—”
The manager held up a hand. “Madam, I cannot send up a note to a guest who is not registered in this hotel.”
His voice was reasonable, the sort of overly patient tone one uses with difficult children or people of dubious intelligence. Stoker plucked a coin from his pocket and slid it across the desk.
“Perhaps you can carry the note up now,” he suggested with the cool hauteur of a viscount’s son.
The manager swept the shiny guinea from the desk and into his pocket with a practiced gesture. “Thank you, sir. And I repeat, I cannot send up a note to a guest who is not registered in this hotel.”
“Then you owe us a guinea,” I muttered.
His expression was grave. “I am sorry I cannot accommodate your request, madam, but I am afraid I have other matters to which I must presently attend.” He inclined his head as a gesture of dismissal, after which he simply stood, looking vacant.
My fingers reached for my garrote wire, but Stoker grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the desk and behind a potted palm, Harry following meekly behind. “Veronica, for the love of all that is holy and good, tell me you were not actually intending to take out your cheese wire.”
“Cheese wire?” Harry’s voice rose in disbelief.
“She carries it in case she is called upon to garrote someone,” Stoker explained.
“I did not intend to harm him,” I said sulkily. “But I thought the sight of it might prove persuasive.”
“If we manage to get through this night without finding ourselves in the cells at Scotland Yard it will be God’s own miracle,” Stoker said through gritted teeth.
Suddenly, he seemed seized by an idea. He jerked his head towards the door leading to the hotel’s inner offices. “Julien will be long gone by this hour,” I told him.
“Exactly,” he said, leading the way. Concealed by the bustle of the crowd, we slipped through the door and hurried downstairs. Hotel staff, accustomed to odd comings and goings, did not give us a second look. The pastry kitchen was dark, scrubbed clean and ready for the following day. On a hook behind the door hung one of Julien’s white coats, which Stoker buttoned over his own. A tray of prettily arranged petit fours, no doubt at hand should any guest ring in the night for a bit of sustenance, lay on a table, and he took it up.
“There is my disguise,” he said in some satisfaction as he turned to me. “Where is yours?”
I cast my eye around the room and found only a stack of clean towels. I tied one at my waist to approximate an apron and grabbed an enormous whisk, some two feet long. We were rummaging for another coat for Harry when we heard footsteps approaching.
“In here!” Harry urged, holding open a door. We dove inside, and Harry closed the door after us. We were in a room lined with shelves, each one stacked high with pristine white sheets and towels, the air heavily scented with the odors of starch and clean linen.
Stoker laid a finger over his lips and we held our breath, waiting for the footsteps to pass.
But they did not pass. Instead, they stopped just outside and the door was yanked open.
“What the devil—” The woman outside had no chance to finish. Stoker reached out and jerked her inside while Harry once more closed the door.
“J. J.,” I said, sagging in relief.
“You know this chambermaid?” Harry asked, surveying her from starched white mobcap to stiff bombazine skirts.
She gave a sniff. “I am not a chambermaid. I am ajournalist,” she corrected loftily. “And who are you?”
“Henry Trismegistus Spenlove,” he said, sweeping her a bow.
“Your second name is not Trismegistus,” I hissed.
“No, but I don’t much care for Walter. I thought I might try something new,” he replied.
Stoker sighed. “J. J., we are in need of assistance,” he began.
