Chapter 12

“ H e’s a journalist.” My voice held a touch of wonder in it, which Harry picked up.

“You shouldn’t judge a man by his face,” he said with an admonishing arch of his brows. It was an echo from the days when I’d pegged him to be too handsome to be clever.

“It was our other witnesses who called him a thuggish type with his flattened nose and workingman’s clothes.” I stood and picked up the newspaper. “May I hold onto this?”

“Only if I can come with you.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your important work of solving dastardly crimes.”

He collected his hat and jacket from the coat stand by the door. He seemed to assume I would let him accompany me to question Thomas Salter. “I’m sure justice can wait a little longer. I doubt the horse in question will form a criminal gang over the next few hours.”

As we walked to Fleet Street, I told Harry about my discovery that Mrs. Scoop was in fact Mrs. Blaine, and was married to Clement Blaine, also known as Beecroft. He was surprised by the revelation, but not surprised at the cruel nature of their relationship.

“He treats her abominably by carrying on with other women right under her nose,” he said. “It’s a surprise they haven’t divorced if their marriage is so bitter.”

I’d wondered about that, too. What did either of them gain by staying together? “They have a long history, having met when they were both living in the slums as children. Perhaps they know too many secrets about each other to trust they could separate amicably, without those secrets coming to light.”

The London Tattler had an office just off Fleet Street, not far from its larger rival, The Evening Bulletin. The smaller newspaper felt like a calmer place to work, with more space between the desks, and fewer typists and journalists rushing about. It also didn’t have a stentorian editor like Finlayson.

We spoke to Thomas Salter at his desk, tucked away in the corner. Just as the witnesses had described him, he wore ill-fitting clothes over a bullish frame. His jacket and cap hung on a coat stand nearby, and he’d rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows, revealing forearms more typical of a navvy than a journalist. His wide, flat nose suited the rest of his blunt features, although I doubted it was like that from birth.

I introduced Harry and myself as private detectives. “We’re investigating the death of Ruth Price.” I’d been prepared to launch into the reasons why I’d taken on the case, but he didn’t give me an opportunity.

A look of relief came over him. “I’m pleased someone is taking her death seriously. Scotland Yard aren’t interested. I’ve tried to investigate, but I’m not getting anywhere.” He grabbed spare chairs and moved them to his desk. “Please, sit. Tell me what you know.”

If he’d killed Ruth, he was a better actor than Clement Beecroft. He seemed like a concerned friend, eager to find her killer.

“First of all,” I began, “why did you go to Scotland Yard and try to encourage them to change their verdict? You and Ruth work for different newspapers. Wasn’t she a rival?”

“We were friends.” Mr. Salter rubbed a hand over his face and jaw. When it came away, he looked like a changed man with all the vitality gone. I suspected he hadn’t slept properly for days.

I felt awkward confronting this man about his relationship with Ruth, but fortunately Harry had no such qualms. “You were more than friends, weren’t you? You were lovers.”

“Ruth and I were courting. We were going to be married, but hadn’t told anyone yet. We needed to think of a diplomatic way to announce it. She introduced me to her brother when we first started courting, you see, but he reacted badly so she told him she ended it.”

“What do you mean by badly?” I asked.

“He lost his temper and ordered her to never see me again. Enoch didn’t like me, because I’m not particularly religious. I don’t go to church. I don’t even think I believe in God.” He shrugged boulder-sized shoulders. “Enoch wanted Ruth to marry someone from their church community, someone of deep faith, like him.”

“Ruth didn’t want that, too? It’s my understanding she was very religious herself.”

“More than me, yes, but not as devout as her brother. She pretended to be, to keep the peace at home. Enoch could be a bully to her. That’s why she told him she’d ended our courtship. She was worried he’d spy on her if he thought we were still together.”

“Spying is a little drastic, isn’t it?”

“Have you met their housekeeper, Miss Fox? Ruth was certain she’d seen that woman follow her one day.” He cracked his knuckles. His fingers were gnarled, as if they’d been broken and not healed properly. “Enoch Price didn’t deserve such a kind, thoughtful sister.”

Would Enoch do something terrible if he discovered Ruth lied and was still being courted by Salter? Would rage fueled by religious zealotry drive him to end the life of the sister who’d strayed from her beliefs?

Enoch hadn’t been on that train, however, so my theory didn’t hold water.

Mr. Salter continued. “We didn’t tell her employer at The Evening Bulletin either. Mrs. Scoop would have dismissed her. She would accuse Ruth of feeding information to me, even if she wasn’t.”

“Did she ever feed information to you?” I asked.

“Sometimes, usually only when Mrs. Scoop wasn’t interested in what Ruth uncovered.”

That would be anything about Clement Beecroft, including the latest scandal of his visit to Brighton at the same time as Geraldine Lacroix.

Harry nodded at the bulging joints of Mr. Salter’s hands. “You were a boxer?”

“What gave it away?” Mr. Salter’s voice was thick with sarcasm. He instantly regretted his tone. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. Yes, I was a boxer in my youth. After one knock too many, I threw it in. I’d noticed reporters attending the fights then writing up an account for their newspapers, so I decided to try my hand at journalism. I specialized in boxing tournaments, and given I knew many of the contenders, I gained access where others couldn’t. I started at The Evening Bulletin , which is where I met Ruth. I moved to The London Tattler after they offered me a job writing about all sports, not just boxing.”

“Including scandals that happen in sports,” I said. “You’ve got a nose for them, it seems. Pardon the pun,” I added when I realized he might be sensitive about his most distinguishing feature.

“This face is why I find the scandals that others don’t. People underestimate me. They think I’m just another former boxer with mashed potato for brains. They don’t hold their tongues in my presence, and they don’t worry about hiding evidence when I stroll in. It’s impossible for them to believe that I’m capable of saying a grammatically correct sentence, let alone writing one. As ugly as it is, this face has opened up possibilities for me. I’m just fortunate it didn’t disgust Ruth.” He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath before opening them again. “I was fortunate. She loved me despite my appearance.”

“People underestimated her, too,” I said gently.

He nodded. “She looked as though a harsh word would reduce her to tears, but she was strong, tenacious. More tenacious than me.”

“Did you go to Brighton to be with her? It would be the perfect escape for you both, outside of London and away from Enoch and Mrs. Scoop. You could be together, and no one would care.” I already knew he hadn’t stayed at the same hotel as Ruth, but I wanted to test him. If he lied and said he was with her, I’d have to doubt everything he said.

“I went to Brighton to speak to someone who works with Alastair McAllister, the driver and part-owner of an automobile company who a source claims cheated in the Thousand Mile Trial back in April. I’d made contact with one of the other engineers and organized to meet him. I decided to take the opportunity to also watch McAllister. It just so happened that Ruth needed to go to Brighton for work, too. We didn’t meet each other, but I saw her when McAllister met with the man she was following. She saw me, too, but didn’t approach. We just nodded in acknowledgment and left it at that. We would have discussed their meeting when we were both back in London, but…” He lowered his gaze.

“Lord Pridhurst and McAllister were in cahoots?” Harry asked.

“It’s likely Pridhurst invested in McAllister’s motorcar company. Given he’s a gambling man in heavy debt, he probably knew about the cheating scheme.”

“Did McAllister see Ruth?” I asked.

“I don’t know. If he has anything to do with her death…” He passed a hand down his face. “Ruth left a message at the inn where I was staying to meet me on the night before we were due to leave, but I didn’t return until very late and was only given the message the following morning. I assume she wanted to discuss Pridhurst and McAllister meeting.” He studied his brutalized hands, then closed them into fists. “If I had met her, perhaps she wouldn’t have died.”

“Or perhaps you would have died, too,” Harry told him.

Mr. Salter continued to stare at his hands.

“Where did you stay?” I asked.

“The Horse and Cart Inn. I chose it because it’s located closer to McAllister’s team’s workshop than most of the hotels. It was also cheap. I’m sure the staff will remember me if you want to ask them.”

I wrote the name down in my notebook. “We know Ruth was in Brighton to watch the Pridhursts, and we know she saw Clement Beecroft and Geraldine Lacroix there, too. We also know she telephoned Mrs. Scoop on her last day in Brighton, telling her to print a story she’d uncovered. A witness says she was very insistent, so it seems it was a big story. Do you think it was about McAllister and Pridhurst meeting?”

He thought about it a moment then shook his head. “McAllister was my story. She wouldn’t have told Mrs. Scoop about the connection without first asking me how much to share, and how much to withhold so I could use it.”

I wasn’t sure an ambitious woman would be so generous as to simply hand over information, but I didn’t know how ambitious Ruth was, or how much she cared for Mr. Salter.

Something just occurred to me. Something that, if I was correct, could give us the identity of the last remaining mystery passenger. “What does McAllister look like?”

Mr. Salter sifted through the newspapers stacked on the floor beside his desk and opened one to an article he’d written about Alastair McAllister cheating. The illustration showed a smiling man standing beside a vehicle. His face was side-on. It was the same article as the one in my bag.

“Are there any photographs of him, rather than sketches?”

“Not in our paper, I’m afraid. The budget doesn’t extend to photographs. Not that the photographs would tell the full story. McAllister makes sure they’re all taken of his right side, not his left.”

I turned to Harry, but he’d already realized the same thing as me.

“Is that because of a burn scar on his left side?” Harry asked.

Mr. Salter nodded. “He’s sensitive about it.”

So much so, that when he dressed as a woman to catch the train from Brighton, he lowered the large hat over the left side of his face to cover as much of the scar as possible.

I tried to contain my excitement, but Mr. Salter was too observant.

He sat up straighter. “What is it? How is McAllister connected to Ruth’s death?”

“He was on the express from Brighton that morning,” I said. “He sat in the compartment next to Ruth’s.”

Mr. Salter cracked his knuckles again.

Harry suddenly rose, as if he expected Mr. Salter to become violently angry.

But Mr. Salter proved he wasn’t ruled by his emotions. He shook his head and calmly explained why he didn’t think McAllister had anything to do with Ruth’s death. “Even if McAllister saw Ruth, he would assume she was just a young woman. He wouldn’t know she worked for a newspaper, or that she was spying on his associate, Pridhurst.”

I had further thoughts, but I didn’t express them. There was a problem with his entire account, and it was time to put it to him. “You said you didn’t speak to Ruth at all while you were away.”

“That’s right.”

“You sat in the third compartment of the first-class car with Clement Beecroft on the way home.”

“Yes.”

“Did he leave at any point on the journey?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone pass your compartment?”

Mr. Salter shook his head. “I’ve been asking myself the same questions, trying to recall who I saw on the train. I can assure you, I saw no one pass, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t bob down, or that the murderer wasn’t in her compartment all along, or in the one between hers and mine.”

My heart sank. I’d wanted him to admit that he’d gone to her cabin for a lover’s tryst where he’d left her alive and unharmed before the Ouse Valley Viaduct. But my questions hadn’t led him to correct himself, meaning the absence of an admission wasn’t simply a mistake. It was a deliberate omission, and it went against three witnesses who’d seen him.

Three was too many to dismiss as a mistake.

If Mr. Salter sensed I suspected him, he didn’t show it. He seemed distracted by his thoughts. “That moronic detective from Scotland Yard wouldn’t tell me anything. I have so many questions. Were any of her injuries inconsistent with a terrible fall? Was there poison in her system that would have rendered her incapable of screaming as she fell? What had she written in the final pages of her notebook?”

“Did she have her notebook with her in Brighton?” I asked.

“She took it everywhere. She kept it in her bag and guarded the bag as if it were her most prized possession.” He sighed. “I suppose it was.”

“Can you please write down where we can find Alastair McAllister?”

“Of course. You’ll want to question him and see if the woman in his compartment got up and left at any point on the journey.” He tore a page out of his notebook and scribbled down an address.

Harry and I thanked him and left.

“He’s lying,” I said.

Harry wasn’t so sure, however. “I think he’s genuinely upset about her death.”

“ Three people saw him leave his compartment, Harry.”

“I agree that it’s an overwhelming condemnation on the face of it, but think about who claims they saw him. Beecroft and Geraldine are lovers. He could ask her to lie for him and she’d probably do it without question.”

It was a valid point. “Or vice versa— she could ask him to lie for her. But the conductor?”

“Bribery.”

“All right. We need to know for certain. We’ll confront the conductor with the allegation. We also need to return to Brighton to speak to Alistair McAllister.” I patted my bag where I’d slipped the piece of paper with his address. “Even if he had nothing to do with Ruth, as Salter thinks, and didn’t kill her, he’s still a witness. If he says he saw no one pass his compartment, then it means Salter is telling the truth and the other three lied. If they lied, then any one of them could have done it, as well as Odette Pridhurst who the conductor claims he saw. But I’m not sure we can believe anything he says now.”

“Leave that to me. I’ll get the truth from him.”

“How?”

Harry merely smiled.

Fortunately, the conductor was still at Victoria Station after arriving on the latest train from Brighton. If we’d missed him, we would have had to wait several hours, and even then, I’d probably miss him again as I was due to meet one of our main suspects and her mother for afternoon tea.

There were fewer travelers on the platform than during our last visit, as it had been several minutes since the Brighton train arrived and it wasn’t due to depart again for several more. Jack West was taking advantage of the break by chatting to the sweaty, sooty fireman whose job it was to keep the engine’s firebox fed with a constant supply of coal.

Jack West stepped away when Harry told him we wanted to speak to him privately. He’d greeted us with a friendly smile, but Harry’s somber tone wiped it away.

Mr. West scratched his beard. “How can I help you this time?”

“I think you know why we’re here.” Harry said in that same ominous tone.

The conductor shifted his weight to his other foot, and in doing so, moved a little away from Harry.

Harry stepped closer, within reach of Mr. West. He closed his fists at his sides. “Don’t attempt to run. I will catch you, and I don’t care if it causes a scene.”

Mr. West glanced around. Realizing escape was impossible, he heaved a sigh. “All right, I admit it. I took money from that actor and lied about seeing that passenger moving about.”

“Go on.”

“I needed the money. My girl is sick, and doctors are expensive. The good ones, anyway.” He paused, perhaps waiting for a sympathetic response from us. We didn’t fill the silence and he continued unprompted. “That actor came to me and offered me a few quid to tell anyone who asked that I saw the flat-nosed fellow go into compartment one. I don’t know why he wanted me to lie.”

“When did Beecroft approach you?” I asked.

“Late last Sunday.”

That was the same day we’d spoken to Beecroft at the theater, when he’d run off upon seeing us, only to calmly answer our questions in his office when we caught up to him. He must have realized then that he needed a false witness.

“Tell us who you did see,” I said. “Be honest, this time.”

“The posh girl and the mannish woman with the big hat both entered the dead woman’s compartment. The girl made sure she wasn’t seen by passengers in the compartments she passed by ducking down, and the woman just walked in, but she only came from the next compartment along so no one would have seen her except me.”

It was the same passengers he’d told us about last time, minus Thomas Salter. The problem was, if the mannish woman—who we now suspected was Alastair McAllister—had left the compartment he shared with Geraldine Lacroix, why hadn’t she told us? She’d clearly lied about seeing Thomas Salter, but why had it been necessary to omit seeing her compartment companion leave?

“What about Beecroft?” I asked. “Did he move compartments?”

“No.”

“Geraldine Lacroix? The beautiful actress?”

He shook his head. “She was in the same compartment as the ugly woman but unlike her, the beauty didn’t leave.”

“Are you sure?” I pressed. “You didn’t see either Clement Beecroft or Geraldine Lacroix leave their compartments?”

“I didn’t.” He scratched his beard. “But I think I nodded off for a while.”

It was a sentence that set our investigation in a backward direction. A number of passengers could have slipped out of their compartment, bobbed down below the windows, as they moved along the corridor, and entered Ruth’s compartment. We had to rely on the statements of each passenger as to whether their companion got up and left or not, if we couldn’t rely on the conductor.

Considering the passengers in compartments two and three were strangers to their fellow passenger and therefore unlikely to lie for them, it left the Pridhursts firmly in the frame.

“What do you think?” I asked Harry as we crossed the road.

He tossed a coin to the street sweeper who’d swept aside the horse deposits to make a clean path for us. “I think Beecroft bribed the conductor to frame Thomas Salter for Ruth’s murder. But why, when Beecroft didn’t get up and move about?”

“That we know of. Perhaps the conductor is continuing to lie for him, or he did fall asleep and didn’t notice.”

“I don’t think West is lying anymore. He must realize it’s not worth continuing.”

I agreed. So that left us with one of our suspects taking advantage of the conductor napping. “Given Beecroft bribed him to lie about Salter, it must be either he or Geraldine who killed Ruth. We should question them again.”

“We will. But I want to speak to McAllister first. He was in the same compartment as Geraldine. If we believe his version of events, and he didn’t kill Ruth, he might have seen the murderer pass his compartment.”

“Or leave it,” I added, “if the murderer was Geraldine.”