Chapter 16

D etective Sergeant Fanning looked tired. He told Harry and me that he’d arrived before dawn to work on the investigation. I felt little sympathy for him. If he’d started investigating when I’d first suggested Ruth may have been murdered, maybe he wouldn’t be scrambling now.

We sat at his desk, a file opened between us and him. He shuffled through the papers until he found a series of photographs. “First things first. I asked for the body to be exhumed and for an autopsy to be carried out.”

I reached for the photographs. “You did? When?”

“After Miss Price’s beau came to see me. He was very convincing when he explained why he didn’t think she would kill herself.” He looked at the photographs still in his hand and passed them to Harry. “A lady shouldn’t see these.”

I didn’t bother to argue with him. I simply moved my chair closer to Harry and studied the photographs, too. All three clearly showed the ligature mark and bruising around Ruth’s neck.

“The coroner says she was strangled,” Fanning went on. “Her neck was fractured. The injury wasn’t fatal, however. The amount of blood at the site where the body was recovered suggests the fall killed her.”

“Strangulation cut off her airway and rendered her unconscious,” Harry murmured as he handed back the photographs.

“Correct. That’s why she didn’t scream as she fell.” Fanning returned the photographs to the file. “I wanted to tell you myself, in person, since you helped me capture West’s accomplice.”

“We didn’t help you,” I said. “We did the entire thing.”

Fanning glanced around to see who’d overheard, but I’d made sure to keep my voice low. Most of the policemen would already know that we’d driven this investigation, not Fanning, but it wouldn’t help us in the future if we publicly rubbed his nose in his incompetence.

“Speaking of Blaine, there’s a development on that front, too.” Fanning looked pleased with himself. “I did some research in our old files early this morning and found out that Clement Blaine was convicted of a robbery fifteen years ago, along with another member of his gang.”

“Jack West,” I said.

“Jack Wilson .” He sifted through the papers again and removed a photograph of a prisoner. It was a beardless Jack West. “He changed his name when he was released a few months ago, probably to hide his identity in case a potential employer dug too deeply into his past. He got a job as a conductor easily since he knew what to do. He was working as a conductor at the time of his arrest, you see. The Manchester police got him after a tip-off from Scotland Yard. Guess who told our boys where to find him.”

“Clement Blaine,” Harry said with a wry smile. “He grassed up his former friend. No wonder he was afraid of West when he saw him again after all these years. He suspected West would retaliate.”

“He’s lucky to be alive,” I added.

Fanning pointed at me. “I reckon there’s a reason why West didn’t kill him. You see, Blaine got a much shorter sentence from the judge after laying the blame for the robbery on his more senior partner, Wilson. But the stolen property was never recovered.”

He showed us a report on the original robbery, where a large sum of money had been stolen from a train. It was being transported to the Manchester branch of a London-based bank, but had never made it. Evidence led them to arrest Clement Blaine, but the police had always suspected he had the help of an insider from the railway. Blaine gave them Jack Wilson’s name during an interrogation.

“I’ve spent some time questioning Blaine this morning,” Fanning said. “He hasn’t told me where to find either the money or Wilson. I’ll keep trying.”

Harry told him it would do no good. “I doubt he knows where Wilson is. As to the money, it’s probably all spent.”

“It is,” I said. “The missing money is the key to everything. It’s why Jack West killed Ruth. He murdered her to protect Beecroft’s—Blaine’s—reputation, just as we suspected, Harry. But not out of a sense of loyalty or because Beecroft is, or was, his friend. He did it because Beecroft is the one who has all the money now. Beecroft spent what they stole after he got out of jail to reinvent himself as an actor and impresario.”

Fanning sat forward. “You mean he used it to put on plays?”

“It’s a costly endeavor. I’d never quite believed him when he said he simply worked hard as an actor and saved enough to convince the bank to give him a loan.”

“Banks want proof of identity,” Harry agreed. “If there’s any doubt, they hire private detectives to investigate. They also want collateral and a solid foundation already in place in which to grow their investment. They don’t loan money to just anybody.” It sounded like he was speaking from experience.

Fanning glanced over his shoulder to the corridor that led to the interview rooms. I suspected Beecroft was in one of them, or had been, earlier. “Wilson was blackmailing him?”

“In a way, yes,” I said. “He must have demanded money in some form or other from Beecroft. Either an outright payment, or proceeds from his plays, perhaps.”

Fanning nodded slowly. “So, if the story about Beecroft’s past got into the newspapers, his reputation would be ruined. Theater managers would refuse to house his plays, no one would work for him, and Wilson’s source of funds would vanish.”

“Precisely.” I removed my watch from my waistcoat pocket and checked the time. “I’m afraid I must go. Thank you for inviting us to hear your side of the investigation, Detective.”

Fanning stood and tugged on his jacket hem to straighten it. “My pleasure, Miss Fox. And may I say, good work.” This last part he said to Harry.

Harry pointed his hat at me. “It was all Miss Fox.” He placed his hat on his head. “And you know it, Detective. It’s time you admit she’s brilliant.”

Fanning turned pink as he peered along the corridor. “I believe I’m wanted in the interrogation room.”

We saw ourselves out.

It was a perfect day for a wedding, but I needed to get back to the hotel quickly to change my outfit. Harry signaled for a cab to wait as its passengers alighted onto the pavement. We climbed on board, and Harry gave the driver the name of the hotel.

I settled on the seat. “Thank you for defending me, but we both know it wasn’t all me. I couldn’t have done it without you, Harry.”

He nodded sagely. “True.”

I laughed.

“Does this mean you’re going to continue to work with me?” he asked. “There’ll be no more little tantrums in which you attempt to keep your distance?”

He could be very direct when he wanted to be. He knew me well enough to know it wouldn’t upset me. “If you want to work with me again, calling my very reasonable doubts tantrums won’t work.”

“Your doubts weren’t based on reason, Cleo. They were based on fear.”

“I’m not afraid of you, nor of my reputation as a detective being overshadowed by yours.”

“I know.”

It was best if I didn’t press him for his opinion further. I knew that he knew I was afraid of getting too close to him. If he told me as much, I could no longer pretend my feelings for him had nothing to do with my fear.

“No more keeping our distance if we work on an investigation together that satisfies my uncle’s requirements,” I clarified. “We got away with it this time because he believes we’re still looking for Mrs. Hessing’s gossip columnist.”

“I’m not afraid of Sir Ronald.”

“Nor am I. But I am aware that I live under his roof. I have to respect his wishes until such time as I can afford to move out of the hotel.”

His hand had been resting on his thigh, which was almost touching mine. It now curled into a fist. “Cleo?—”

“Don’t, Harry. Let’s just enjoy the glow that comes with successfully solving a case.”

Neither of us spoke for the rest of the journey.

The Mayfair Hotel’s foyer was almost too calm, considering the wedding reception was mere hours away. I’d expected frantic staff running hither and thither, arguments with suppliers, and the mother-of-the-bride making demands in a shrill voice. But everyone was smiling as they went about their business. Mr. Hobart and Peter were absent, however. Goliath informed me that all the senior staff were in a meeting.

Not only was the foyer calm, but so was the fourth floor where the bride was getting ready. I changed my outfit with Jane’s help. The pastel blue trimmed with white lace and beads arranged in a wavy pattern at the hem and across my décolletage flattered my figure. It wasn’t too frilly, and the beading gave it a summery seaside effect. Jane used tongs to turn the loose strands of my hair into curls. She was pleased with how they looked and declared me ready with a clap of her hands. I asked her to inform Flossy that I’d wait for the family in the foyer, then I took the lift down.

The foyer was no longer calm.

There was some confusion over who was using the hotel carriages—the Bainbridge family or the bridal party. Peter tried to sort that out, while Mrs. Short and Mr. Chapman directed delivery men wheeling carts filled with flowers into the ballroom. Mr. Chapman looked rattled, probably because the delivery was late, and Mrs. Short looked annoyed. That could have been because the men should have taken the service entrance, not the front door, although annoyance was an expression never far from her face, so she may have been perfectly fine. Frank, holding the door open, merely shook his head.

Harmony and Mr. Hobart were in rather terse discussions with some men. A few guests not involved in the wedding stood idly by, looking somewhat confused. The poor clerk was attempting to check new arrivals in, but there was quite a queue at the desk, many of whom had no luggage. They were most likely already checked in and simply had the sort of questions that Mr. Hobart or Peter usually dealt with.

I introduced myself to the line of guests and asked if I could assist anyone. I fielded some questions about the routine of the hotel and gave directions to attractions. I handed out maps of the city and railway timetables, freeing up the check-in clerk to perform his main duty more efficiently.

I’d just finished noting down a name for dinner reservations that evening to pass on to Mr. Chapman when I spotted Mrs. Scoop enter the hotel. She paused beneath the central chandelier and looked around. Our gazes met.

I hurried toward her before she took too much notice of the chaos. “The press isn’t welcome,” I told her. “You’ll receive official reports after the wedding to print as you see fit.”

“I’m not interested in the wedding.” Her gaze betrayed her, however. It darted about, taking in the harried staff and last-minute deliveries. It settled on the lift door. In a few moments, Miss Hessing would emerge through it wearing her wedding dress and clutching a bouquet of white roses.

“Then why are you here?” I asked.

“I visited my fool of a husband in the holding cell at the Yard. He told me all about his involvement with Jack Wilson, and the part he played in Ruth’s death. I’d like to point out that he in no way encouraged Wilson to murder her.”

“You knew your husband met Wilson in Brighton. Ruth telephoned you and urged you to print a story about them being in a gang together. Yet you said nothing to me about it.”

“I didn’t know he was the conductor on that train, and I certainly didn’t know he murdered Ruth. Like you, I believed Clem when he told me that the man Ruth saw him speaking to was simply someone he knew years ago.”

I scoffed. “Do you expect me to believe you didn’t know your husband was in a criminal gang? Or that he was arrested and questioned over a train robbery?”

“I only became aware after the arrest. I’d just lost my baby and I wasn’t particularly interested in his life. But I didn’t connect that incident to the man Ruth saw him speaking to in Brighton.”

If she was lying, she was a very good actress. “Have you come here to convince me of your innocence?”

She studied me coolly. “Why do I need to convince you , Miss Fox? I’m here because I think I know where Wilson is hiding.”

“Where?”

“My husband keeps a flat in Pimlico. He takes his mistresses there. He thinks I don’t know about it, but of course I do. I can’t be absolutely sure, but I think you’ll find Wilson hiding there.”

“You do realize if he is, that means your husband helped him by giving him the key. It won’t look good for him in court.”

Her brittle laugh held no humor. “I no longer care. I’ll be filing for divorce soon. I’ve had enough of Clem’s behavior. This is merely the icing on the cake. I’ve known for a long time that we ought to part, but like most unpleasant things, I put it off. Now…well, I simply have no interest in protecting him anymore. I won’t fall with him, Miss Fox. I’ve worked too hard to watch him burn it all down.”

“You won’t be able to escape this scandal entirely. Everyone will find out about your marriage.”

“They will find out that Mrs. Blaine is divorcing her no-good husband. Mrs. Scoop will be safe. It’s why I’ve never given anyone at the paper my real name, other than the solicitor who drew up my contract. Not even Finlayson knows.” She withdrew a piece of paper from her bag and held it out to me. “This is the address of the flat.”

“Why not give it to the police?”

“Because I think you want the accolades. Why let an idiot of a detective get all the glory when you did the work?” She shook the paper. “Take it. And take the glory that comes your way when the world finds out you solved Ruth’s murder.”

“If you’re implying that the Bulletin will print my name in an article about the case, please ensure that doesn’t happen. My family are aware of my investigations, but they would prefer I kept that part of my life private.”

“Very well, if that’s what you want.” She must have realized I didn’t quite trust her, because she tried to reassure me. “I give you my word, Miss Fox. That ought to be enough when you consider that I never told the police about you.”

“Pardon?”

“Your name was on Ruth’s list of people associated with this hotel who could potentially be swayed to talk about the wedding.”

“Ruth was wrong. I wouldn’t have talked.”

“Didn’t you say she also blackmailed you in Brighton, or was about to? Some would call that motive.” She glanced at the lift again as the door opened, but lost interest when a couple of guests emerged, not Miss Hessing. “There will be an article about Ruth’s murder in tonight’s paper. Finlayson insists on it, now that there has been a development. I’ll make sure your name is not mentioned.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. You may print the name of Armitage and Associates instead. Harry Armitage worked with me every step of the way.”

The columnist shook her head in disappointment. “You’ll never get ahead if you give others credit. Particularly a man. Unless you own your investigations, you will never make a name for yourself, never attract clients or make any money. Take some advice from someone who had to fight in a man’s world and won—take credit for your accomplishments, Miss Fox. Don’t let your family’s wish for a polite, discreet niece smother your dream. I didn’t let my husband’s wishes smother mine. Now I have my name on my own office door.”

I’d once wanted my name alongside Harry’s on his office door. I’d also wanted to have my own agency. I still did. But I didn’t want to distance myself from my family in the process. Mrs. Blaine’s relationship with her husband was probably in dire straits before she became Mrs. Scoop, but I didn’t want to model my life on hers. Not a single part of it.

I read the address on the piece of paper. “I’ll telephone Scotland Yard immediately.”

She didn’t leave, however. Her continuous glances at the lift told me why. I had an idea, but first, there was one more item of business to attend to.

“I noticed you haven’t printed the story about Lord Pridhurst yet,” I said.

“Finlayson won’t allow it to run without further proof. I’d planned to get that proof from Ruth’s journal, but it has disappeared.”

I didn’t tell her the police had it. She would find that out eventually, but not from me. “I have a proposal for you.” I opened my bag and showed her the money Lady Pridhurst had slipped to me at afternoon tea. “I was tasked with giving you this in exchange for your paper dropping the story.”

Mrs. Scoop hesitated. Then she reached for the money.

I drew the bag away and closed the clasp. “Instead, I have another idea. I’ll allow you exclusive access to the wedding reception. You may observe discreetly. You may not speak to any guests.”

Her breath hitched in excitement. “No other journalist will be allowed in?”

“Only you. Beginning from the moment Miss Hessing walks out of that lift.”

Her sharp gaze shifted to the lift. “You have the authority to make this promise?”

“I do. However, there are some conditions, but I don’t think you’ll disagree to them. Firstly, you can only write favorable things.”

She stiffened. “I write what I observe, Miss Fox. I won’t be compromised.”

I looked to Harmony and Mr. Hobart, just finishing tense discussions with suppliers. Harmony tucked her clipboard against her chest, a look of sheer determination on her face. Mr. Chapman hurried past on his way to the ballroom, his tie impeccably straight, a fresh rosebud pinned to his lapel, his hair perfect. He was the personification of a dapper gentleman with better taste than most women. Together with Mrs. Poole’s cooking and management of the kitchen, I knew this team would ensure the wedding reception was a spectacular success.

“All right. You can write what you like, but I insist you mention every single supplier by name, from the designer of Miss Hessing’s dress to the florist and other decorations. I will provide you with a list before the end of the evening. And the entire column must be dedicated to the wedding. Those are the final conditions.”

Mrs. Scoop thrust out her hand. I shook it.

She settled into one of the armchairs where she could see the lift door, and I approached Mr. Hobart and Harmony.

“Is that the gossip columnist, Mrs. Scoop?” Harmony asked, peering past me. “She shouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve allowed her exclusive access in exchange for a glowing report on the event in which she will mention every supplier.”

Mr. Hobart pumped his fist in triumph. “Well done, Miss Fox. Mrs. Hessing will be glad to hear it. She has wanted to control what was written about the wedding all along, but knows how cruel the British press can be. You can reassure her now. Meanwhile, I’ll inform Frank to be very careful about not letting in any more journalists. If Mrs. Scoop wants an exclusive, she’ll get it.”

I turned to Harmony to give her advice, but she had already realized the implications for her role. “I should be able to catch the suppliers before they leave. I’m sure they’ll agree to a renegotiation if their businesses are mentioned in glowing terms in the city’s most popular society pages.”

“When you’ve done that, pass a list of suppliers to Mrs. Scoop,” I told her.

Harmony smiled. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

I clasped her hand. “Thank you.”

Before Mr. Hobart departed, I asked if I could use his telephone. I placed a call to D.S. Fanning and gave him the address of the flat in Pimlico. On a whim, I tried Harry’s office, too, but he wasn’t there.

The church ceremony was lovely. The happy couple stared into one another’s eyes as they exchanged vows, then beamed as they left the church. I’d been one of the first guests to arrive at the church, so I didn’t notice those who arrived after me.

Seeing Harry on the church steps as I left stopped me in my tracks. He always looked handsome, but there was something particularly alluring when he dressed in a tailcoat. He touched the brim of his hat in greeting but didn’t approach. I kept my distance, too. My uncle would not approve of me chatting to his former employee at a social function. He hadn’t seen Harry yet, but he would if Harry was returning to the hotel for the reception.

Mr. Liddicoat’s polo-playing cousin joined Harry and the two men fell into conversation. Harry must be a guest of Mr. Liddicoat’s, out of gratitude for clearing his cousin’s name recently. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Hessing inviting a private detective she’d hired to her daughter’s wedding. She was too much of a snob.

Some guests walked back to the hotel, but I climbed into one of the Mayfair’s carriages along with my aunt, uncle and Flossy. Floyd had already returned to the hotel to be there to welcome the wedding guests when they arrived. The journey was short, but everyone was in a good mood. Even my aunt smiled, although it was wan and thin, like her figure. When we alighted from the carriage outside the hotel, she told us she needed to return briefly to her suite. I suspected she would take a dose of her tonic before joining us in the ballroom for the reception.

Uncle Ronald supported her through the front door, held open by Frank. Flossy followed close behind. I smiled at the doorman and was about to engage him in a chat about his favorite topic, the weather, when a figure rushed out of the shadows.

He grabbed my arm and shoved my back against the wall. The breath whooshed from my body, but thankfully I didn’t hit my head.

The face of Jack Wilson filled my vision, lips twisted in a grimace within his unkempt beard. But it was his eyes that frightened me. The pupils were huge, making him look like a wild animal in the grip of a murderous fever. I’d seen eyes like that before, and knew it wasn’t a fever that gripped him. It was cocaine.