Chapter 11

M rs. Scoop spun around. Her eyes flared wide upon seeing me and hearing me call her by her real name, but she quickly schooled her features. Her gaze turned cool. “Congratulations, Miss Fox. Or should that be Miss Ferret, since you have a knack for sniffing things out?”

The neighbor’s door opened, and a couple emerged. Mrs. Blaine quickly turned her face away from them. It would seem she didn’t even want her neighbors knowing she was married to Mr. Beecroft. Or, rather, Mr. Blaine.

I made a point of greeting the couple, even going so far as to mention the weather. I wanted them to remember me. I wanted Mrs. Scoop to realize they would remember me, too, just in case she or her husband posed a threat.

“Shall we discuss this inside, or do you want your neighbors to overhear?” I asked her. “But before we do, I should warn you that several friends know I am here, and one of them is even watching this house now.”

She glanced along the street then pushed open the front door.

I brushed past her and entered the dark entrance hall.

She stood at the base of the stairs. “Clem! Down here! Now!”

“Why?” he shouted back.

“Because you’ve been a fool.” She flicked her hand in the direction of the front reception room then followed me in.

The room was decorated with solid, ornately carved furniture popular in the mid-eighties, with heavy brocade curtains in rust-red to match the floral wallpaper. The lighter fabrics in pastel shades and delicate furniture favored by modern tastes were nowhere in sight. Mrs. Scoop was a practical woman, not a fashionable one.

I opened the curtains to make my ruse that I was being watched more believable.

Clement Beecroft—Blaine—stopped in the doorway and stared at me.

“Close your mouth, Clem, and come in,” his wife snapped. “Miss Fox requires a satisfactory explanation, or she’ll blame one of us for Ruth’s death.”

“I didn’t kill her!”

“Sit.”

He swore under his breath as he dutifully sat. “I didn’t kill her,” he said again. “I never left my compartment. Ask that thug who was in there with me. He’ll tell you. Unless he’s lying, which he might do to save his own skin. He left the compartment, you see. Have you found him?”

“Stop prattling,” Mrs. Scoop said with a roll of her eyes.

“Be quiet, you ugly crone.”

Mrs. Scoop pressed her lips together and removed the cigarette case from her bag. She didn’t open it and retrieve a cigarette, however. Perhaps they didn’t smoke in the house. The smoking room at the hotel smelled like the tobacco had seeped into the very walls, no matter how much the maids cleaned, but the Blaines’ parlor smelled only of furniture polish.

“Ruth didn’t know you were married to Clement Beecroft,” I said to Mrs. Scoop. When she didn’t answer, I continued. “You sent her to Brighton to learn more about the Pridhursts, just as you told me that first day I met you. But she happened to see a famous actor staying in the same hotel as her. That was a coincidence I’m sure you didn’t anticipate when you made the reservation.”

Mrs. Scoop’s jaw firmed as she nodded at her husband. “We holidayed in Brighton years ago and stayed near Rutherford House. We couldn’t afford a room there at the time, but we admired it so much that we planned to return when we could.”

“Happy times,” he sneered.

“I can’t believe you took your whore there.”

“It is one of the nicest. It’s also discreet.”

“Not that discreet,” I told him. “Ruth overheard you speaking on the telephone and reluctantly arranging to meet someone. She followed you and discovered something rather scandalous.” I waited, hoping one or both would react and tell me what that scandal entailed. They were smarter than that, however. “Ruth then telephoned her employer, but Mrs. Scoop refused to print it. She has a clause in her contract that states she won’t print anything about Beecroft.” I fixed my gaze on her. “You told me you had the clause written into your contract because Beecroft knows something about your past that would hurt you if made public. I presume that secret is your marriage. Why is it so awful if the public knew?”

“Would you want the world to know you’re married to a man who has a new mistress every time he puts on a new play? Not to mention he is ridiculous. I have a reputation to uphold, Miss Fox. Being married to him is embarrassing.”

He made a sound of disgust in his throat. “She has a reputation as a gossip, snoop, and thoroughly mean witch to uphold.”

Mrs. Scoop rolled her eyes again. “Pathetic.”

“Your name is really Blaine,” I said to Mr. Beecroft before their conversation became even pettier. “Is that what Ruth uncovered in Brighton? That you had humble origins?”

Mr. Beecroft shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know who she was until after she died.” He looked to his wife.

She nodded. “You’re right, Miss Fox. That’s what Ruth told me over the telephone. She said she heard Clem’s cockney accent when he spoke to that man.”

“Who was he?”

“Someone who knew Clem when he was younger, demanding money to keep quiet. They grew up together, you see, and he knew Clem worked as a laborer and lived in the slums before he became famous.”

Mr. Beecroft tugged on his cuffs. “I have an image to protect. My audience adore me, because they believe I’m a debonair and cultured gentleman. They’d stop coming to my plays if I talked like I crawled my way out of a gutter.”

“Stop throwing themselves at you, too,” Mrs. Scoop snarled. “What a tragedy.”

“I paid the man money to keep him quiet.”

“Why did he approach you now and not years ago?” I asked.

“I suppose he’s not much of a theatergoer and only just discovered who I became. I didn’t ask. It wasn’t an amiable chat over a pint between old friends. He demanded money and I paid him.”

“Was he on the same train that day Ruth died?”

“If he was, he didn’t travel first class. Nor have I had any contact with him before or since.”

Mrs. Scoop glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Is that all? I have work to do.”

Mr. Beecroft rose and did up his jacket button. “And I have someone waiting for me.”

His wife’s lips twisted with disgust. “You must wonder how we got together, Miss Fox.”

I was actually wondering why they didn’t get a divorce, but nodded. “Did he charm you?”

“Why would I charm her ?” Mr. Beecroft snorted. “You’ve seen the sort of woman I like, Miss Fox. Beautiful, elegant, vivacious.” He wrinkled his nose at his wife.

I expected one or both of them to tell me he charmed her because of her money, but they did not.

Mrs. Scoop simply said, “Don’t,” in a waspish whisper. She led the way out of the parlor.

Her husband ignored her. Indeed, he looked rather triumphant as he told me the story. “We’ve known each other since we were children. Anyway, one night I was drunk and got her with child. We were eighteen. Her father forced me to marry her.” He rubbed his jaw. “A month after the wedding, she lost the baby.”

I’d assumed she’d come from a wealthy family, but it seemed her origins were as humble as his. She was better at hiding the cockney accent.

“It’s quite a feat to rise from nothing to become one of London’s leading impresarios,” I said. “How did you get started?”

“The usual way. I was a popular actor in successful shows. I quickly built a reputation and was able to borrow money to put on my first production. It was extremely well received, and the rest is history.” He stretched out his arms, as if inviting accolades. “My wife’s assistant discovered the truth about my upbringing, but I didn’t kill her. I never left my compartment, and if anyone says I did, they’re lying. Find that man with the flat nose. He’ll confirm it.”

Mrs. Scoop stood by the open front door, her fingernail tapping on the frame. Her flinty gaze followed me as I stepped outside. “Yes, Miss Ferret will suit nicely when I write about you in my column.”

“Are you threatening to expose me, Mrs. Blaine?”

“Are you threatening to expose us, Miss Fox?”

“If one or both of you are guilty of Ruth’s murder, I’m afraid I have no choice but to go to the police.” I descended the steps to the pavement. “Print what you want about me. My family are aware of my occupation.”

Her thin lips stretched with her smile. “But are their friends and the hotel guests?”

I walked away, my heart hammering in my chest. They were a thoroughly nasty couple, not only to me, but to each other. I’d seen some unhappy marriages, but that one went beyond unhappy. Their dislike had turned to hatred over the years, and that had made them cruel. Surely the scandal of a divorce was better than their current miserable existence.

Detective Sergeant Fanning’s shift had already ended. I was told to return to Scotland Yard the following morning. I considered contacting Harry’s father, but decided against it. Although he and Harry would be worthy sounding boards for my theories, I still didn’t know who murdered Ruth. I simply wanted to pass on what I’d learned to the detective who’d been assigned to the case.

I returned to the hotel to find a rather contrite Frank. It was an unusual emotion for him to display, so I stopped to ask what was wrong.

“I let in a reporter,” he muttered. “Sir Ronald just finished scolding me. But it’s not my fault, Miss Fox. They’re tricky. They dress like guests.”

“But you usually know the faces of all the guests currently staying with us, which I must say, is quite a feat.”

“I do, but it’s the ones who come just for afternoon tea that trip me up. A lady can come with her friends just once and never be seen again. If she dresses appropriately and speaks like a toff, how am I supposed to know she’s not one?”

“It’s a dilemma for you. I’ll speak to my uncle on your behalf.”

“Will you?”

“Of course, if you want me to. Now, put on that lovely smile you’re famous for and end your shift in good humor.”

If he realized I was teasing, he didn’t show it. He didn’t smile, either, but I hadn’t expected him to. At least he didn’t look quite so downcast.

Inside, Mr. Hobart saw me from across the foyer where he was chatting to a guest. He excused himself and approached.

My spirits lifted. “Do you have a message for me?”

“How did you know? Lady Pridhurst telephoned.”

“Oh.”

“You were hoping someone else called?”

“No, not at all. What did she have to say?”

“She asked to have afternoon tea with you tomorrow, here. Just you and her daughter. If you can’t make it, you’re to let her know. She’s staying at the Coburg Hotel.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hobart.” I saw him glance at the clock on the wall behind the front desk. “Are you about to head home?”

“I am. Mrs. Hobart will have my dinner ready at seven, as usual. I don’t like to be late when she’s gone to all that effort.”

“You’re a good husband.”

“If I am, then it’s because she makes it easy for me.”

It was such a simple statement, said in rather an offhanded manner, yet it resonated with me. Being married to the right person ought to make life easy, even when times were difficult. Especially when times were difficult. Mr. Hobart was fortunate in that he’d found someone who did that for him.

Perhaps some couples didn’t work because they were mismatched in too many ways. Perhaps those couples were doomed from the start. Marrying someone because she fell pregnant after a drunken night together wasn’t the sturdiest foundation for a long, loving relationship.

I recounted my findings to D.S. Fanning the following morning at his desk. He didn’t have his own office, but sat with the other policemen in a crowded, noisy room. In many ways, it was much like the office of The Evening Bulletin , with its hum of activity and people coming and going, squeezing past desks and talking over the top of each other. Unlike the newspaper, however, Scotland Yard didn’t employ typists. I was the only woman in the room.

Detective Fanning didn’t make any notes. He listened with his arms crossed, if he was indeed listening at all. He probably wouldn’t have agreed to meet me if it hadn’t been for Monty taking me through from the front desk when I arrived. Monty wasn’t his superior—they were both sergeants—but Fanning seemed to respect him enough to humor me.

Unfortunately, Monty was called away and Fanning was growing more disinterested by the minute.

I wrapped up my account by summarizing what I wanted from him. “You have to find the man who shared Beecroft’s compartment. Have the press put out a description of him. He’s very distinctive. Perhaps an illustrator could speak to the other travelers on that train, including Beecroft, and make a sketch to pass around.”

“So, Beecroft’s real name is Blaine?”

“Yes. Clement Blaine. His wife called him Clem, so I assume he only changed his surname, not his first.”

“And he’s no better than me, you say?” He huffed a humorless laugh. “The lads will like that.”

“Secondly, an autopsy needs to be conducted to find Ruth’s cause of death.” I put up my hands to ward off the argument I knew was coming. “I know you think it was suicide, but in light of new evidence, the possibility of murder must be considered.”

“What evidence? You’ve presented me with nothing substantial, just theories. The family have buried the body, Miss Fox. It would be ungodly to dig it up now. You and that other fellow need to leave this alone. There’s no definitive evidence to suggest she was murdered.”

“Other fellow? Do you mean Harry Armitage?”

He shook his head. “The one who came here telling me the girl would never have killed herself, and that she was probably murdered. Real insistent, he was. He had to be removed by three constables.”

“Was it her brother, Enoch Price?”

“Big brute of a fellow. Looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Ruby Robert. The boxer, Bob Fitzsimmons,” he added when I stared back, open-mouthed.

“That’s him! That’s the fellow who shared the compartment with Beecroft, the one the conductor said entered Ruth’s compartment. Geraldine Lacroix also saw him pass her compartment. He’s the one whose likeness you should have distributed to the press.”

Detective Fanning scratched his sideburns. “You think he murdered her?”

“It’s a strong possibility. I place him at the top of my suspect list.”

Fanning shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. If he murdered the girl, why would he come here and tell me to reopen the investigation? Wouldn’t he be relieved I concluded it was suicide?”

His point took the wind out of my sails. He was right. The man probably wasn’t the murderer. But he was an important witness. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“Sorry, Miss Fox. I only have a name.” He removed a file from his drawer and flipped through the pages until he came to the one he wanted. “Here it is. Thomas Salter. Ring any bells?”

“Ye-es,” I said as I tried to recall it from the depths of my memory. I couldn’t quite grasp it, however. “Is there anything you can tell me about him? Anything at all that might help me locate him?”

He slotted the file back into his drawer. “He had a cockney accent. Does that help?”

“Not really.” I stood. “Sergeant, that’s three people who don’t believe Ruth killed herself. Thomas Salter, Enoch Price, and me. Please, consider reopening your investigation.”

He lifted a stack of papers off his desk and released them. The resounding thud drew the attention of several of his colleagues. “I have too much to do. I don’t have time to reopen closed cases.”

I shot to my feet. “If the murderer strikes again, it will be your fault, Sergeant.”

Fanning swallowed heavily as he looked around at his colleagues, who were staring at him. I strode away without a backward glance, my head high. Sometimes, with the right people and at the right moment, a little histrionics can achieve the desired result.

I’d have to wait and see if it worked on D.S. Fanning.

It was time to call on Harry. The name Thomas Salter was vaguely familiar, yet I still couldn’t remember where I’d heard it. Perhaps Harry’s memory would prove better than mine.

Fortunately, I found him in his office. I’d worried he might be out investigating his own case, and I’d have to wait in the Roma Café for his return. He did appear to be working when I entered without knocking. There were several pieces of paper strewn over his desk, but he had his eye to a microscope, peering at something under the lens.

“Cleo, take a look at this,” he said without looking up.

Once upon a time, I would have asked him how he knew it was me, but these days he expected me to enter without knocking. He finally sat back when I joined him on that side of the desk.

I bent to look through the microscope. My vision filled with a thick horizontal line bordered top and bottom by a dark center that lightened at the edges. “What is it?”

“A short hair. It proves that my client’s dog is innocent, as it can’t possibly belong to him.”

“Innocent of what crime?”

“Theft of some apples left unattended in a basket outside a coach house in Belgravia. My client lives with his dog above one of the neighboring coach houses in the mews.” Harry removed the slide containing the hair and placed it alongside two paper bags, each labeled in his neat handwriting. I could hardly see the hair, it was so short. “Several strands like this were found at the crime scene. I can tell the victim that his apples were stolen by his own horse.” He tapped the paper bag labeled HORSE. “Not the dog.” He indicated the other bag, labeled DOG.

I sat on one of the guest chairs on the other side of his desk. “Well done. London is safer now.”

His lips twitched. “I agree it’s hardly riveting stuff, and I wasn’t paid much, but I took it on because I knew it would be fast to solve. Also, I wanted to use my new microscope on a real case.” He placed the lens inside the small drawer of a wooden box then slotted the brass microscope into the box before closing it. He looked immensely satisfied with himself. The microscope and the possibilities of its uses appealed to Harry’s curious mind.

“Did you buy it from that scientific instrument shop in Regent Street?”

“My father bought it from a deceased estate. It’s an early birthday gift from my parents.”

“Very early. Your birthday is in October.”

He placed the microscope box in a cupboard and locked it. “You remembered.”

“I have an excellent memory. Usually. That’s why I’m here, actually. D.S. Fanning accidentally found out the name of the thug who shared Beecroft’s compartment.”

“Accidentally?”

“He showed up at Scotland Yard, demanding Fanning reopen the case because he didn’t believe Ruth killed herself.”

“Ah. So, he’s not the murderer.”

“It would seem he isn’t, but I still need to speak to him. His name is Thomas Salter. It rings a bell, but I can’t for the life of me remember where I’ve heard it.”

“You wouldn’t have heard it, you would have seen it.” Harry reached for a newspaper placed to one side of his desk and flipped through the pages. When he found the article he wanted, he showed it to me. “Look at the byline.”

The report about an automobile driver cheating in an endurance event was written by Thomas Salter. I’d noticed others taking a keen interest in the story over the last few days, but had merely skimmed the articles about it. I must have seen Salter’s name attached to one of them. I checked the masthead.

The London Tattler.

I gasped. The man seen entering Ruth’s compartment by multiple witnesses worked for the closest rival newspaper to The Evening Bulletin where Ruth worked. It couldn’t be a coincidence that they were both on the same train.