Murder at the Majestic Hotel

Book 4: Stella and Lyndy Mystery

by Clara McKenna

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Leaving behind tragedies surrounding their wedding at Morrington Hall, travel-worn Stella and Lyndy arrive at the grand Majestic Hotel in York to more misfortune—their stately honeymoon suite has been given away to Horace Wingrove, owner of England's largest confectionery. Stella refuses to let an innocent booking mistake spoil the mood, but her optimism vanishes when Horace suffocates in the room where she and Lyndy should have stayed . . .



Unlike authorities on the scene, Stella can't believe the business magnate's death can be explained away as an accident. Troubling signs are everywhere—strange murmurs in the hallway, tight-lipped hotel staff, and a stolen secret recipe for Wingrave's famous chocolate. Then there are Horace's murky intentions for visiting the historic cathedral city, and those who were closely watching his every move . . .



As Stella and Lyndy tour Yorkshire and mingle with royals as husband and wife, they face a sinister mystery that puts their vows to the test. Can the couple work together to discover the truth about their romantic destination and the strange happenings haunting their trip before they're treated to another terrifying surprise?

Release date: October 25, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Horace cursed as his ankle twitched, and he nearly missed the step. The doorman reflectively reached for his arm, but Horace waved him off. He regained his balance and tottered through the open door. Sharply sucking in his breath, Horace lurched to a halt. He hadn’t prepared himself properly for the flood of memories: of a newlywed couple eager to start their new life together, of countless family holidays with Agnes and Morgan, of somber visits to the nearby churchyard. With tears blurring his vision, his lips relaxed into a bittersweet smile. He’d made the right choice to come.

This was where it all began.

Though filled with strangers, the lobby was the same as greeted him forty years ago. Granted, the crystal chandelier and the myriad of sconces lining the whitewashed walls were electrified now, but the black and white marble tiles still reflected the bottom of his shoes. The fireplace, tall enough for a child of ten to stand in, glowed as usual with a crackling warmth, while the shiny black grand piano sat silent in the corner. Horace imagined the gentle strains of Liszt’s Liebesträume or some other sweet melody drifting across the room. Clusters of inviting sofas and chairs beckoned him to rest his weary, old bones. He envied the young man in the herringbone cap taking advantage of the seat near the fire to read his paper. Horace inhaled deeply. Even the lush bouquets of roses placed here and there about the lobby evoked a time long past.

Gratefully, without being asked, a porter, a young towheaded fellow, slipped past to collect his luggage outside, where the hansom cab driver had left it; Horace’s hands weren’t much use these days. With his hand visible shaking, Horace was fortunate not to drop the green and gold chocolate box he carried. Just in case. A handsome couple, dressed for a night on the town, skirted around him. He tipped his top hat at their indulgence (he was blocking their way, after all) and gathered his strength before approaching the long mahogany desk on the far end of the lobby. The strapping clerk, his back turned, busily sorted the day’s last post into the pigeonholes that lined the wall. Horace, already tiring, cleared his throat to get the clerk’s attention. He couldn’t afford for this to take too long.

“I would like the Honeymoon Suite for the night, young man.”

The clerk, in his black coat and tie, reminded Horace of himself thirty years ago, fit with a full head of dark ginger curls. The clerk said nothing but stared, unblinking, sizing him up. In a few seconds, he’d studied Horace’s expensive, well-tailored suit, his closely trimmed white beard, the piercing green stare that challenged him to find fault. Horace would’ve almost enjoyed the battle of wills had he been a few years younger, but now he just wanted his bed.

Having met with approval, the clerk asked respectfully, “And you are, sir?”

“Horace Wingrove.”

The clerk flipped the registration book open. “I beg your apologies, Mr. Wingrove,” the clerk said, after flipping back and forth in consternation several times, “but it seems that suite has been reserved for the next fortnight. In someone else’s name, sir. Can I get you another suite, perhaps?”

“No. I’m intent on sleeping in the Honeymoon Suite tonight, young man.”

The clerk’s glance darted around the room before lowering his voice. “I wish there was summat I could do for you, sir.” The clerk licked his lips.

Horace knew the type. This was a man willing to break the rules, for a price, and he’d come prepared.

He first set his top hat and then the chocolate box, its gold ribbon slightly worse for wear, down on the shiny surface of the desk. He could see his withered face in it as he leaned forward. “I’ll be needing it for the one night.”

“Ah, but this reservation was made far in advance.” The insincere regret marked the clerk as one who’d done this before. “A young viscount and his new bride are expected any moment.”

“I stayed in that suite on my honeymoon night, forty years ago,” Horace said, reaching into his breast pocket. “Would it make a difference if I told you my dear wife, Marie, passed on to the next world only two months ago?”

“I sympathize, Mr. Wingrove, I truly do, but if I let you have that suite, what am I going to tell Lord Lyndhurst when he arrives?”

“Don’t you have another where you can put His Lordship? It would only be one night, mind.”

“I am sorry, sir, but rules are rules.”

Horace pinched the envelope twice before he was confident he wouldn’t drop it. The clerk licked his lips again when Horace produced the plain white envelope and tucked it beneath the bow on the chocolate box, obscuring the picture and brand name.

“Here.” Horace slid the box a few inches toward the clerk. “Accept this small token of my gratitude for allowing this old man one last night in your fine establishment. Your sweetheart will thank you.”

Horace followed the clerk’s furtive glance behind him. He caught sight of someone ducking behind one of the massive pillars that punctuated the lobby. Was he seeing things? No one knew where he was, surely. Then why did he think he’d seen Lily? It couldn’t be her. He’d left her in Wolverhampton. Was he no longer able to trust his sense either? What was going to go next? Horace didn’t want to find out.

He turned back as the clerk slid the box toward him. The clerk gingerly pulled the envelope out, revealing the box’s cover—an illustrated portrait of a lovely young woman with porcelain skin and a genial smile on her rosy lips. “WINGROVE’S CREAM MILK” was written in large letters below the picture.

Horace chuckled at the flash of recognition, the clerk’s eyes darting from him to the box and back to him again. He never tired of people’s reactions when making the connection. The clerk peeked inside at the hundred-pound note. Then the envelope was gone, tucked away somewhere beneath the desk. The clerk, transformed by his broadening grin, reached toward the row of dangling keys. He snatched up the one hanging beneath the label “Honeymoon Suite,” and handed it to Horace.

He tapped the bell on the desk, and over the high-pitched ring, called, “Max!” The towheaded porter reappeared, a suitcase in his hand.

“Bring Mr. Wingrove’s case to the Honeymoon Suite, won’t you, and see that he’s got everything he needs.”

“Aye, Mr. Coombs,” the young man answered. “If you’ll follow me, sir.” The porter raised Horace’s case with an ease Horace couldn’t ever remember having and indicated with his arm the lift across the lobby.

“Thank you again, young man,” Horace said to the clerk, sliding his top hat off the desk and slapping it on his head. “And do apologize to the young couple I’ve displaced. Though if I remember right, they won’t care if they’re given a linen cupboard to stay in as long as it’s private.” His face brightened, recalling memories, as fresh today as forty years ago, and the hope of unsullied young love.

“Enjoy your stay at the Majestic Hotel, Mr. Wingrove.”

“And you enjoy your chocolates, Mr. Coombs.”

Horace winked at the clerk, pleased he’d read the man right. Horace glimpsed back at the pillars as he hobbled after the porter with his case. But was he right about the others? If Horace couldn’t trust his senses, could he no longer trust his instincts? He prayed it hadn’t come to that. All his plans depended upon it.

Felix Middleton hadn’t given the old fellow a second thought. After an early dinner and a pint or two or three at the nearest pub, Felix had settled in to read the latest news by the fire. The longer he lingered here, the less time he had to spend in that dim-lit, top-floor room. What was he, a servant? But it was the best view he could afford. As he sat there, guests came and went. Wealthy couples, in their baubles and glitter, heading out for the opera, businessmen hoping to loosen their ties after a long day on the train, groups of giggling country girls with their dowdy chaperones in tow here to do some shopping. What use did Felix have for any of them? The old fellow was no different. That is until he’d heard the porter mention “Their Royal Highnesses.”

Felix lifted the broadsheet to cover his face as the porter paused near his spot, waiting for the old fellow, shuffling along as slow as golden treacle, to catch up.

“You’re not going to the statue unveiling?” the porter said.

Felix couldn’t avoid the headline inches from his face: MEMORIAL STATUE UNVEILING OF LATE QUEEN VICTORIA. He’d just finished reading the article. Felix had heard about little else since the day he arrived. Princess Beatrice, Queen Victoria’s youngest, and the princess’s daughter, Princess Victoria Eugenie, “Ena,” were to visit York to unveil a statue of the deceased monarch. From what Felix could gather, everybody who was anybody would be there. Felix wouldn’t miss it for his grannie’s funeral. He rubbed his hand over the stubble shadowing his chin, curious as to the old fella’s answer.

“No, son, I have no intention of attending the royal event.” The pair moved off a bit to wait for the lift to arrive.

Felix shook the newspaper straight as he turned the crinkled page, frustrated. Something didn’t settle right about the old fella’s tone. He tried to pay them no mind, but with the temporary hush falling over the lobby, Felix couldn’t block their conversation out.

“Why ever not?” the porter asked.

“I have more momentous things to attend to.”

“What could be more important than seeing Their Royal Highnesses? Ah, I get it.” The porter set down the old fella’s case as if he couldn’t think and hold it at the same time. “You’re one of those, ain’t ya?”

“One of those?”

Felix peered over the edge of the paper, careful not to get caught earwigging. The porter was pointing to the painting of York Minster hung across from the lift, the massive Gothic cathedral dominating the skyline of the city. Even with the hotel being outside the city walls, any vantage point above the first floor offered an impressive view. That included Felix’s room.

“The sort who come to York just to visit the Minster,” the porter said disparagingly. “And miss everything else.”

Felix, his muscles taut with anticipation, studied the old gent. He was posh and proud, but he twitched now and again, his fingers or the side of his face, as if he were waging an inner battle. Had Felix seen him before? Was he one of us? As if sensing Felix’s scrutiny, the old fella’s gaze swept over the lobby. When he spotted Felix, he hesitantly dipped his head in greeting. Felix pinched the brim of his cap in response. The old fella quietly chuckled, almost in relief, before turning his attention to the arriving lift.

The porter pulled back the lift door with its wrought-iron fretwork. Inside, the attendant waited patiently for instructions.

“The proper term for that sort,” the old man explained, “is cathedral enthusiasts.”

Hearing those words, Felix bolted from his chair, casting aside the paper. As the old fella hobbled into the lift, the rest of what he said was muffled. Felix had to know more. He dashed toward the lift as the porter stepped in.

“Oi. ’old up!” Felix shouted.

The attendant, gripping the door handle, waited. Felix slipped into the crowded lift, the old fella’s labored breath hot on his neck as he shuffled to make room. The overpowering scent of bay rum made Felix cough.

“Floor?” the attendant asked.

“Fourth,” was the porter’s reply.

“Same,” Felix said. Near to bursting, he could hardly wait to chat the old fella up as the lift attendant slid the door shut with a clang.

Stella lifted her head from Lyndy’s shoulder as the hansom cab halted beneath the stone-columned porte cochere. They were finally here. After spending their wedding night in London, they’d spent hours traveling by train. The sky had opened up as they passed through Peterborough, the strong wind lashing the rain against their private, first-class carriage’s windows, obscuring any hint of the passing countryside. Not that she had minded, lying cradled in Lyndy’s arms, far from Morrington Hall, far from the trauma and confusion of the past few days (First Daddy’s death and then to see Mama!), far from any concerns of their future together. She had Lyndy all to herself. She’d never been so happy.

Lyndy kissed her temple. “Shall we?” he whispered.

The dark had drawn around them, and the rain hadn’t let up. Though they’d raced from the train station to the cab, the rain had dampened their clothes, gloves, hats, and hair. Stella peered through the rain-splattered window at the hotel’s bright, sparkling electric light welcoming them. Soon she’d be in a dry bed snuggled against Lyndy’s warm body. Her heart quickened in anticipation.

How had she ever slept alone?

The hotel doorman skittered down the steps and hurriedly opened the door, flooding the cab with earthy-scented cool air. Stella shivered. Lyndy alighted and offered her his hand. Clutching her soggy hat (the green velvet ribbons now ruined), she allowed him to help her down. With the rain held at bay under their sheltered spot, she lingered a moment to take it all in.

With its crenellated six-story wings of yellow and brown brick, the hotel spanned away on either side of the drive. Despite being in the city, it was surrounded by extensive parkland punctuated by halo-encircled lampposts. Stella could scarcely remember Brown’s Hotel, where they’d spent last night. Overwhelmed with anxiety and passion, she could’ve spent the night in a horse stall for all that she noticed her surroundings. The Majestic Hotel, claiming to be the finest in York, was aptly named. It resembled a dazzling, modern castle.

Castle. Stella shivered again, and not from the cold. Would she always be reminded of that tragedy at Keyhaven? How could she not? But that didn’t mean she’d let it spoil a minute of her honeymoon. This was York, after all, a city of ancient history and wonder. After a good night’s sleep, she was determined to explore every inch.

Explore every inch. Heat crept up Stella’s neck and into her face as she recalled Lyndy’s whispered desire last night. She’d been so nervous. What woman, particularly one raised by a man who showed her no genuine affection, wouldn’t be? But Lyndy surprised her. She’d had no idea how tender and gentle a man could be. And he was all hers.

With a quick kiss, Stella pecked his cheek, uncharacteristically bristly with unshaven whiskers, as he paid the cab driver. Startled, he swiftly recovered, allowing a thin, knowing smile to spread across his lips, desire smoldering in his dark brown eyes.

“Let’s go in,” Stella said, grabbing hold of his hand as the cab with Ethel, Finn, and their luggage arrived.

They passed two bellhops in their brightly colored caps, descending the stairs to help the servants as Stella eagerly pulled Lyndy up them.

“How satisfying it is to have a wife as eager to be alone with you as you are with her,” he quipped.

Not denying it, Stella giggled as they entered the bright hotel. Stark with its vaulted ceiling, white marble columns, white walls, and fine-cut crystal chandeliers, the warmth of the lobby resonated from the details: plush, green velvet-covered couches, pink rose bouquets, lush ferns, its roaring fire. In her burgundy-trimmed green traveling suit with a white-lace-fronted shirtwaist, Stella matched the decor. They followed the colorful Persian runner to the registration desk, where Lyndy announced himself.

“Good evening, Lord and Lady Lyndhurst. We’ve been expecting you,” the square-faced man behind the desk gushed.

Lady Lyndhurst. The sound of it thrilled Stella. She, a girl from Kentucky who’d spent most of her life surrounded by straw and horses, was a viscountess now. She still couldn’t believe it.

“Welcome to the Majestic. I’m Mr. Herman Haigh, hotel manager, and I am delighted to be at your service day or night for whatever your needs may be.”

“Thank you, Haigh,” Lyndy said. “Right now, all we require is our key.”

Stella wrapped her arms around one of Lyndy’s and smiled sheepishly at the manager. “It’s been a very long journey,” she said. “You’ll see that our servants get settled in?”

“Very good, my lady.” Mr. Haigh lowered the spectacles resting on his high forehead to read the registration book laid out before him. “Ah, yes, two top-floor rooms for your staff and the Honeymoon Suite.”

The manager tapped the book twice appreciatively before turning to the bank of keys dangling behind him. Stella noticed the Honeymoon Suite hook was empty. Mr. Haigh involuntarily winced under Lyndy’s impatient scrutiny before again referring to the registration book.

“I do apologize, my lord. If you’ll wait one moment.” He forced a nervous smile as he shoved his spectacles back onto his forehead. As he turned away, his lips thinned into a grim, straight line. He disappeared into the door to the left of the desk. “Charlie!” he barked.

“What the devil is going on?” Lyndy muttered, his jaw clenched as he restrained his building frustration.

Mr. Haigh reappeared, empty handed. He slammed on the desk bell.

“Charlie,” he called, more restrained for having witnesses. He reluctantly faced the waiting couple. “I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience, my lord, but the key to your suite appears to have gone missing. There you are.” This was directed at a burly clerk with two perfect waves of reddish-brown hair on either side of his part. “Charlie. Lord and Lady Lyndhurst are most patiently waiting to be taken to their room. Where is the key to the Honeymoon Suite?”

“There must be some mistake. Mr. Wingrove is staying there tonight.” The clerk purposedly dodged Lyndy’s piercing stare, keeping his attention on his boss.

“But I arranged for those rooms in advance,” Lyndy said.

A little over two weeks ago, they’d attended the races in Doncaster. Seeing how much Stella had enjoyed the area, Lyndy had suggested exploring more of Yorkshire and honeymooning at the Majestic Hotel in York. She had wholeheartedly agreed.

“How could this have happened?” Mr. Haigh demanded.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

“You’re the desk clerk, Charlie. How can you not know?” The manager sputtered, trying his best to contain his fury.

The clerk shrugged as if as baffled by the mix-up as anyone. “Bright side, Mr. Haigh. It’s only for tonight.”

“Bright side? Only for . . . ?” The manager struggled to regain his composure. Mimicking a restrained smile, he spoke through his teeth. “Where then do you propose His Lord and Ladyship spend the night?”

“The Royal Suite’s available.”

The manager waved Charlie off. “Go help with the luggage. Forgive me, my lord, my lady,” Mr. Haigh said as Charlie sauntered way. “This is most irregular, but rest assured, I will see you’re well situated. We have many well-appointed rooms.”

He slid his spectacles down again, referred to the registration book briefly, grabbed a key, and held it out to Lyndy. The brass key and fob glinted in the harsh electric light.

“The Royal Suite. It is identical in almost every way to the one you reserved. A night free of charge, of course. I will see to it that complimentary champagne is sent up as well.” Mr. Haigh peered over the rim of his fogged-up spectacles. “Would that suit Your Lordship?”

Lyndy grumbled, about to say something to the contrary, when Stella leaned in and whispered in his ear. “The sooner we get our key, the sooner we can get out of these wet clothes.”

“Right you are.” Lyndy snatched the key from the relieved manager, and the couple eagerly headed toward the elevator.

Despite his eagerness to be alone with Stella, Lyndy’s ardor had been severely dampened, not by the miserable weather (he’d quite enjoyed having to keep each other warm), but by the affront of being denied his suite. They were on their honeymoon, were they not? Then why were they not staying in that said suite, which was hailed as the finest guest accommodation in the city? Lyndy had wanted nothing but the best for his new bride.

“The audacity of them to give our rooms away.”

Stella playfully shook his arm she held tightly, a mischievous grin on her bow-shaped lips. “What difference does it make? As long as it has a bed, a fire, and you.”

My God, how I love this woman.

She was right. Why should Lyndy care what the suite was called as long as they were alone? Not waiting for the porter, Lyndy unlocked the door. It opened onto a good-sized room, much about the size of the drawing-room at Morrington Hall, with a scattering of plush sofas, rosewood armchairs, and an intimate dining area. The ceiling-to-floor windows, streaked with rain, promised bright light and a view of the towers of York Minster, providing the skies cleared by morning. Unlit coals sat ready in the carved stone fireplace. To the right was the bedroom, equipped purportedly with an adjacent bath and dressing room. Off to the left was a small sitting room with a secretary desk and a second fireplace. Yes, the rooms were quite suitable but for the rich purple accents throughout. The drapery, the chair cushions, the table linen, all were in varying shades of purple. Threads the color of aubergine were woven into the thick Persian carpets. The four-poster bed’s counterpane was the color of spring lilacs. Even the bouquets of pink roses on the side tables were accented with spikes of lavender.

Royal, indeed. Despite its association, Lyndy had never been fond of the color. Mother adored it.

With no such repulsion, Stella threw her overcoat over the nearest chair and hurried to the fireplace. Not waiting for the servants or porter to do it, Stella, as proficient as a housemaid, located the matches from the coal scuttle, stuck one against the box, and cupping her hand to prevent the draft from extinguishing the flame, lit the prebuilt fire. Red and yellow flame licked the wood beneath the coals, and soon tendrils of gray smoke from the burning coal ascended the chimney.

“Care to join me?” she said, slipping gracefully to the carpeted floor. An adorable smudge of ash dotted her nose where she’d touched it.

Instantly dismissing his misgivings, Lyndy strode eagerly toward her, sloughing off his overcoat, jacket, and tie. He never made it. Without warning, a small brown winged creature darted from the chimney and shot into the room.

“Augh!” Stella squealed, flapping her hands about her head and face, as the tiny pipistrelle bat, barely the size of her hand, swooped back and forth above their heads.

Lyndy couldn’t help but chuckle as the woman he loved, who could tussle with a thousand-pound racehorse and win, leaped to her feet and ran scurrying from the room. From the safety of the hall, she demanded he do something.

“What would you have me do?”

“I don’t know. Open a window and shoo it out!”

This wasn’t the moment to enlighten her about Morrington Hall—bats that frequently roosted in its chimneys were much larger than this tiny pipistrelle. He was surprised she hadn’t encountered one there yet. He turned the wrought-iron latch and shoved the windows open. A chilly breeze swept in, ruffling his open collar. He doubted the bat would choose to fly back out into such weather but didn’t say so.

“There’s a bat in our suite,” Stella told the distinctive young porter arriving with the luggage; his hair was so light, it looked almost white.

“Can I help, m’lord?”

“Yes.” Lyndy pointed to the brown spot perched almost imperceptibly above the bedroom door frame. “It’s just there. Remove it if you would.”

“But don’t kill it,” Stella directed as the porter took to his task.

“It’s only a bat,” Lyndy teased, but he instantly regretted it.

He’d found her fright amusing at first, but to see the tips of her ears flaming red in distress, the bulk of her silky light-brown bun flopping to one side, her hand pressed against her mouth as she hugged her arms against her chest, chastened him. She’d been petrified.

This isn’t how I envisioned this at all.

Someday he’d get her to tell him why (he imagined her father at. . .