Chapter 1

Brighton, August 1900

T he annual summer exodus from London was a boon for seaside towns like Brighton, but it made for a rather crowded experience for those of us holidaying there. I didn’t mind. I’d never been to Brighton, and the excitement of visiting a new place outweighed the negatives. It was also my first seaside holiday since I was a child, and the salty tang of the fresh air and the carnival-like atmosphere brought back fond memories of happy times with my parents.

Despite the crowds and the busy attractions, most of the holidaymakers were relaxed. The lazy pace of the passing days meant our two weeks were over too soon. Although I missed my London-based friends and I looked forward to seeing them again, I didn’t want to return to the bustle of city life yet.

My cousin, Flossy, felt the same way, but Aunt Lilian did not. She was keen to go home, and expressed it by finding fault with everything. The weather was too warm, it was too windy, the bedsheets were either too crisp or not crisp enough, the other guests too loud, and the hotel itself lacked in every department. She’d become so ill-tempered, and her headaches so frequent, that Flossy and I had gone out alone the last few days and stayed out all day to avoid her.

It was no hardship. There was plenty to do in the seaside leisure capital of England. With the Bainbridge family holidaying in Brighton every year for as long as Flossy could remember, my cousin had seen all the sights many times, but she took great delight in visiting them again with me. We toured the Royal Pavilion, had picnics in Preston Park, shopped for hats and bathing costumes, attended concerts and dance halls, and walked until our feet hurt. She particularly liked promenading along the Palace Pier, since it only opened the year before, making it all rather new for her, too.

The pier provided visitors with all manner of opportunities to part with their money, from games in the amusement arcade to live concerts, dances and carousel rides, and enough refreshment stands and shops to satisfy even my spendthrift cousin. By the second week of our holiday, I had to forbid her from slotting more coins into the fortune-telling machine. She’d already spent far too much in an unsuccessful attempt to discover where she’d meet the man she would marry.

On the final day of our holiday, Flossy wanted to return to the Palace Pier again, but I insisted on visiting the West Pier. It lacked the flashy amusements of its newer rival—and its popularity had dwindled since the Palace Pier opened, according to Flossy—but I liked its old-world charm. Flossy agreed to spend our last afternoon on the West Pier, but only after I promised to buy her ice cream.

We paid our entrance fee at the kiosk then began the long amble to the pavilion at the other end. Flags on the kiosk roofs flapped in the sea breeze, but it wasn’t so strong that we needed to hang onto our hats or lower our parasols. Seagulls coasted high above, or perched on the railing, waiting to swoop on morsels of fish and chips that fell out of paper wrappings.

We listened to the band performing a lively tune on the bandstand as we marveled at the view back to the promenade and Kings Road. The creamy stone facade of the Grand Brighton Hotel where we were staying gleamed in the sunshine. Perhaps Aunt Lilian sat on the balcony outside her room, gazing out to the sea and the pier, but I doubted it. We’d left her lying on the sofa with a damp cloth over her forehead, the electric fan whirring soothingly in the corner.

We purchased our ice creams and enjoyed them while seated on a bench in the shade with several other holidaymakers. Just as we were about to walk back, a trio of guests staying at the same hotel as us arrived. We greeted Lord and Lady Pridhurst and their daughter, Odette. Lord Pridhurst introduced the handsome young gentleman with them as an associate, Mr. Holland. Judging by the way Odette batted her eyelashes at him, she hoped he would become more than an associate.

“Mr. Holland works at his father’s canned goods business,” she said enthusiastically. “He’s very dedicated to it. He came down to Brighton just to discuss some particulars with my father.”

That explained Mr. Holland’s attire. He was rather overdressed for a warm day at the seaside. Where Lord Pridhurst wore a white straw boater and light gray lounge suit, Mr. Holland looked as though he was going to the office in London with his black suit and high, stiff collar that must make it impossible for him to inspect his own footwear of polished black shoes.

“I came to see you, too, Odette,” Mr. Holland said with a smile for her and a flick of his gaze to her father.

She blushed and nibbled on her lower lip. Lord Pridhurst seemed pleased with their flirtation, although his face was partly obscured by the handkerchief he dabbed across his sweaty forehead. Even though he was the more appropriately attired of the two men, he looked more uncomfortable in the heat.

Odette took Flossy’s hand. “It’s such a pity to be leaving tomorrow. I was just saying how much I will miss the friends I made in Brighton this summer, and that I hoped to see you again in London when next I visit with Mama.”

Flossy didn’t miss the opportunity to promote her family’s business. “You must stay at the Mayfair Hotel when you do. My parents would be pleased to have you as our guests.”

Odette flushed with embarrassment. “Oh. We always stay at the Coburg Hotel when we come to the city. Papa will be there all next week, as it happens, but Mama and I must return home.” At Flossy’s downcast face, Odette appealed to her parents. “Perhaps we could consider staying at the Mayfair next time.”

Lady Pridhurst smiled benignly. “We shall indeed consider it. It would be a delight to see your mother again, Miss Bainbridge.”

I knew a noncommittal answer when I heard one. They had no intention of switching their allegiance to the Mayfair. My suspicion was confirmed by Lord Pridhurst’s flat refusal.

“Unfortunately, the Mayfair is not conveniently located,” he said in a tone that invited no argument.

I failed to see how the Coburg’s position was better. Situated near Grosvenor Square, it nevertheless did not overlook it. Nor did it overlook any kind of park, unlike the Mayfair Hotel. Neither Flossy nor I mentioned that both were well situated in the best part of London. Wisely, she changed the topic of conversation altogether.

“Which flavor of ice cream is your favorite, Odette? I’m rather partial to chocolate, but Cleo prefers lemon sorbet on a hot day.”

Odette proceeded to list her favorites in order from most to least with an enthusiasm that rivaled my cousin’s.

In many ways, Odette reminded me of Flossy. They were both aged about nineteen, with an innocence that could be either endearing or immature, depending on the situation. At their core, they were sweet-natured, with a romantic sensibility that left them open to either heartbreak or a grand love.

I wasn’t sure yet which category Mr. Holland fell into. It wasn’t fair to judge a man on a first encounter. After all, I’d found Harry Armitage—the former assistant manager at the Mayfair and now a private investigator—to be somewhat arrogant and far too charming on our first meeting. While I still found him charming, he was so much more. It was why I’d decided to keep my distance from him.

A glint of metal in the sun caught my eye as a woman lounging against a lamppost lifted a pair of opera glasses and peered through them at us. I quickly looked away so as not to let her know I’d noticed, but I continued to watch out of the corner of my eye as Flossy and Odette chatted.

Mr. Holland cleared his throat to gain our attention. “All this talk of ice cream means you must want one, Miss Pridhurst. May I have the honor of purchasing the flavor of your choosing for you? And for Miss Bainbridge and Miss Fox, too, of course.”

Odette dipped her head coyly. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Flossy and I declined, given we’d just finished ours, and Lord and Lady Pridhurst also declined, although Lord Pridhurst insisted that he be the one to buy his daughter an ice cream. He marched off toward the ice cream shop before Mr. Holland could say another word.

Odette batted her lashes at Mr. Holland while her mother stared out to sea, her gaze distant. She gave no sign she’d been listening to the exchange.

I watched the woman who was observing us through her opera glasses. She’d watched Lord Pridhurst as he walked to the shop, before focusing her glasses on us once more.

An awkward silence threatened to descend. Flossy seemed unsure what to say or do, so I suggested we return to our hotel to pack.

“Are you leaving tomorrow, too?” Odette asked. “We’re catching the ten-thirty express to London, where Papa will leave us. Mama and I will continue home to Wellingborough.”

“We’re taking the ten-thirty as well,” Flossy said. “Perhaps we’ll see you checking out in the morning.”

Lady Pridhurst and Odette asked us to give Aunt Lilian their regards, then we went on our way, while they waited for Lord Pridhurst to return with Odette’s ice cream.

We passed the woman with the opera glasses. She looked out to sea, or pretended to, the opera glasses clasped tightly in her gloved hand. Like Mr. Holland, she seemed out of place in a seaside town with her dark clothing and a narrow-brimmed hat that didn’t keep the sun off her face. She was no older than me, with light brown hair arranged in a simple style at the nape of her neck. Her dress was plain, her shoes sensible, and she wore no jewelry. A pair of spectacles on her freckled nose made her seem bookish, and the brown leather satchel at her feet added to the cliché. A brass name plaque was attached to the satchel’s smooth leather, just below the clasp. I couldn’t read the inscription.

She did a terrible job of feigning interest in the sea. Her gaze flicked to us as we passed, only to return to the water after it connected with mine.

When Flossy and I reached the kiosks at either side of the pier’s entrance, I looked behind me, but the woman was no longer there.

The beach was busy. Holidaymakers sat on the chairs provided or on the sand, while children made castles and dug holes. Several of the bathing machines were already in the water, their female occupants hidden from view for the sake of their modesty. The male bathers required no machines, but were relegated to a spot further along the beach away from the public.

“Are you sure you don’t want to have a dip?” I teased Flossy. “It’ll be our last opportunity.” It was a conversation we’d had almost every day since our arrival. I’d enjoyed getting in the water numerous times from the safety of one of the horse-drawn bathing machines, but she’d refused without giving it even a moment’s consideration. No amount of pleading had encouraged her to join me, so I’d ended up going alone.

She didn’t even bother to refuse this time. She lowered her parasol with a snap and strode off. I caught up to her and we entered the hotel together.

The Grand Brighton Hotel lived up to its name in both size and opulence. The entrance foyer oozed elegance from every marble column and gold-leaf ceiling rose glinting in the light cast by the crystal chandeliers. Like the Mayfair, the building was powered by electricity and had a comfortable lift, coincidentally also operated by a man named John. The manager and assistant manager both greeted us and inquired about Lady Bainbridge’s health. Their attention to detail and friendly service reminded me of the Mayfair’s extremely capable Mr. Hobart and Peter, and Harry before him.

When I pointed out the similarities to Flossy, she merely sniffed and said the Mayfair had a more welcoming, homely feel. I did not remind her that it was her home. I suspected she was missing it and her life in London, and at that moment, even a royal palace would fall short of her expectations.

As Flossy inserted the key to the room we shared, I caught her elbow. “Let’s collect our costumes and head back to the beach. You don’t want to go this entire holiday without going for a swim, do you? It would be a shame for the costume you bought to go unused.”

“I think I should sit with Mother for a while. You go.”

Instead of entering our suite, she headed to the next room where Aunt Lilian would be resting alone. Uncle Ronald had stayed in Brighton for only a week before returning to London. He’d claimed something at the Mayfair needed his attention, but I suspected that was a ruse. For one thing, he wouldn’t tell us what it was, and Mr. Hobart was very capable of handling any issues. Secondly, Uncle Ronald had been restless the entire week. Like Aunt Lilian, he found fault with the Grand Brighton Hotel at every turn. Nothing was good enough. But his restlessness seemed to stem from the fact he was bored. He grumbled every time we suggested going for a walk or picnic. He behaved like a child when we sat on the beach, asking every five minutes if we were ready to leave. The only time he seemed to enjoy himself was when we met other guests in the foyer or at dances or the theater. He took those opportunities to make new friends and suggest they stay at the Mayfair Hotel next time they were in London.

Flossy said her father had always been like that on holidays. The Mayfair Hotel was his life and he was incapable of relaxing when not there. Neither Flossy nor I minded when he decided to leave. We breathed a sigh of relief when we waved him goodbye.

My other cousin, Floyd, had elected to remain in London. Since he was planning the Hessing-Liddicoat wedding reception, his presence at the hotel was necessary. Although Harmony would do most of the work, Floyd needed to be visible. The bride-to-be’s mother expected a Bainbridge to be at her beck and call, and she was too important to disappoint.

Harmony would have come to Brighton as maid to Flossy and me, but her temporary promotion to Floyd’s assistant meant she had to miss out. Her replacement, a maid named Jane, was in our suite, arranging clothes on the bed to pack. She bobbed a curtsy when I greeted her and offered to order me tea from the kitchen through the speaking tube.

“I think I’ll take a dip,” I told her. “The packing can wait.”

She curtsied again. “I’ll gather your costume and towel, Miss Fox.”

“Will you enter the water with me? It’s our last day here, and it really is quite invigorating. You can borrow Miss Bainbridge’s costume if you don’t have one.”

“No, thank you.”

I’d asked Jane every time I went into the water, and she’d declined every time. She accompanied me to help me change into and out of my bathing costume, but she always refused to get in. She was afraid of being washed out to sea or eaten by a shark. Both reasons were illogical, given the shallow depth, and I’d told her as much on our first day, but she still refused. Perhaps a similar fear stopped Flossy, too.

Although I’d never learned to swim, I managed to move through the water by kicking my legs and making circular motions with my arms, although my heavy wet costume didn’t make it easy. I spent some time in the water while Jane watched on from the safety of the bathing machine. Or so I thought. When I paddled back to her, her attention was focused on the hut next to us, and she failed to notice me until I cleared my throat.

She jumped up and helped me up the steps. “Sorry, Miss Fox! I’ll get your towel.” She threw it around me and rubbed my arms to warm them. “Come inside and dry off quickly. The clouds have come over and it’s a little cool now. You don’t want to catch your death, all wet as you are.”

“I don’t think a little cool weather will harm me, but thank you.”

She closed the hut’s door for privacy, but not before she glanced again at the bathing machine alongside ours. A woman’s giggle drifted on the breeze, followed by a gentleman’s deeper voice. I couldn’t make out his words, but merely hearing it piqued my interest as much as it had Jane’s. The bathing machines were supposed to be for women only.

Jane pulled the cord to raise the flag on the hut’s roof, signaling to the operator on the beach that we were finished, then she joined me inside. By the time she’d helped me out of my wet flannel costume and into my dry clothes, the horse had brought us back to the shore. We alighted from the hut onto the sand and headed up the beach to the promenade. Once on higher ground, Jane and I both had the same idea, and turned to face the water. The bathing machine that had been beside ours was still out. Someone appeared to be swimming away from it.

When Jane saw me also watching, she leaned closer and whispered. “He swam up to it while you were paddling. It’s quite shocking, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure it happens all the time. Those carriages provide the perfect cover for a tryst. Besides, we don’t know if those two are a married couple.”

“He is married. I recognized him, and he’s a well-known philanderer, so I doubt she’s his wife.”

“Who is he?”

“Clement Beecroft.”

I’d heard of him. Indeed, most people would have known his name. He produced some of the most notable plays in London, and usually took the lead role himself. He was also famous for bedding his leading ladies, if the gossip columns could be believed.

“He’s always in the society pages,” Jane went on. “I’d know his face anywhere. He’s extraordinarily handsome, and cuts a very fine figure, too. It’s a pity you didn’t see him climbing up the carriage steps in his bathing costume, with water sliding off his bare arms and legs.” She suddenly blushed and mumbled an apology.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” I said with a smile to ease her embarrassment.

She giggled behind her hand.

We parted ways near the hotel. I used the main door while Jane took the servants’ entrance. The doorman greeted me, followed by the hotel manager who asked if I’d enjoyed my swim. The assistant manager joined us and informed me there was a letter for me at the post desk. Assuming it was from London, I was surprised to find it had no stamp or postmark, and no return address. It must have been hand delivered.

I tore open the envelope and read the note then and there. It was brief and to the point, brutally so.

I know what you are , the message said. Meet me at 6PM at the entrance to West Pier or I will tell the columnist from The Evening Bulletin that the niece of hotelier Sir Ronald Bainbridge is a private detective.

There was no signature or any indication who I was supposed to meet. I glanced at the clock on the wall behind the post clerk’s head. “Who delivered this?” I asked him.

“I didn’t see, Miss Fox, sorry.”

I tucked the letter back into the envelope and exited the hotel. I had five minutes to reach the meeting point. There was no question whether I should go. I could not afford for my occupation to be splashed over the pages of The Evening Bulletin , the most notorious of all the gutter dailies. Uncle Ronald would have a fit, right before he disowned me. He’d made it very clear that if I were to continue my investigative enterprise while living under his roof, no one must find out.

It wasn’t simply that concern that propelled me toward the West Pier, however. I was also terribly curious. The author of the note had not asked for money. So, what did he or she want from me?