Which is where the mystery begins. Because several employees and guests claimed to have heard the impact and saw the aftermath.
But the incident was never reported publicly.
The woman herself? No one knows who she was.
According to the rumors, she was a mistress. The kept companion of one of the hotel’s wealthy, older regular guests. A married man, of course. And the night she allegedly died happened to be the night of the hotel’s annual Christmas gala. The one that it still hosts to this day.
The entire building would have been full of music, champagne, and laughter.
Elegant gowns.
Dancing.
What happened is anyone’s guess.
One theory says she threatened to expose their affair after the gentleman had failed to leave his wife, as he had promised. He then lay in wait for her and threw her over the balcony to cover his indiscretion.
Another version had her dying by his wife’s hand, who had found her in his room, wearing one of her gowns.
Then there was the one where her lover found her in the arms of another guest and threw her off the balcony in a fit of jealous rage.
Yet another said the gentleman simply ended the affair and the distraught woman leaped to her death.
No witnesses.
No police report.
No scandal.
Just whispers of what transpired and was subsequently swept under the rug by the Belicourt’s staff.
The book gets even more interesting after that.
Because apparently, several older employees insisted the hotel wasn’t always the respectable resort it claims to be today.
According to them, back in the early days, it operated—unofficially—as somewhat of a private brothel for wealthy aristocrats and politicians.
Women brought in discreetly at the Belicourt’s request.
Gentlemen entertained behind closed doors.
Some of the employees even described secret passages beneath the foundation of the main inn. Hidden corridors that allowed certain guests to move in and out of the building without being detected by the outside world.
Paths that young women of ill repute used to visit their paramours without attracting attention.
I close the book slowly and stare up at the ceiling.
The stories are wild.
Messy.
Completely scandalous.
And I am utterly enthralled.
Because if even half of it is true? The Belicourt has a far more interesting history than any brochures will admit.
Porter might dismiss it all as nonsense.
