Coronation Year by Jennifer Robson

Author:Jennifer Robson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-04-04T00:00:00+00:00

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The note, she realized with horror, had been written on a piece of the Blue Lion’s letterhead.

“This note was delivered to the Times yesterday. Other letters with the same message, all written out on identical stationery, were delivered to the Mail, the Mirror, the Telegraph, the Herald, the Sketch, and the News Chronicle.”

Her mouth had gone dry. “I don’t know what to say. It’s ridiculous. Some horrible prank.”

“It may well be, but we can’t discount it. Not so close to the coronation. And since it’s anonymous, and was sent to most of the papers at the same time, I feel bound to look into it. Never mind that experience tells me it’s likely the work of some pathetic crank with too much time on his hands.”

“I see.”

“I am not accusing you of anything, but I am concerned that the person issuing these threats has chosen to do so on stationery from your hotel. This is your stationery, is it not?”

“May I pick it up?”

“Go ahead. We’ve gone over it for fingerprints.”

Edie held it to the light, and then she opened her desk drawer and took out a fresh piece of letterhead. The watermark was the same on both pieces of paper, and the rampant lion at the top of each page, a simplified version of the hotel’s ancient sign, was identical. For economy’s sake the printing was in black ink, with the hotel name and address at the bottom of the page.

“Yes. It is the same as ours,” she admitted.

“Do you provide a supply of stationery to hotel guests?”

“We do. A half-dozen sheets with two envelopes.”

He had taken out a notebook and began to write down her answers. “And it’s refreshed with each new guest?”

“Yes.” And then, though it was mortifying to admit, she added, “We haven’t been very busy in recent weeks.”

“Are there desks in each room?”

“Yes.”

“With a blotter beneath?”

“Yes.”

“And how often is it refreshed?” he asked. “The blotter, I mean.”

“Only if it’s stained with ink.”

“Apart from the guests themselves, who might have access to the stationery? Where is it stored?”

“There are several boxes of it in the storage closet—you can see the door over there. That’s where the maids go when they need to refresh the supplies on their carts.”

He nodded, still scribbling away. “So the maids—how many work here?”

“Four girls, all very steady and hardworking. I doubt very much they’d be behind this.”

“As do I,” he agreed, “but I may wish to speak with them at some point. It’s possible one of them may have noticed something.”

“I suppose so. But you won’t frighten them, will you?”

“I will do my very best to appear as unthreatening as possible,” he said. “To confirm—it’s only the maids and yourself who have access to the stationery? Might anyone else have cause to fetch things from that office?”

“I suppose the assistant manager might. Ivor Brooks. He’s away for a few days, but I expect him back soon. And there’s our night manager, Arthur Swan, and our doorman, Mick Nelligan.

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