Chapter 5

O ver breakfast the following morning, Harmony agreed with my decision after I told her about our gruesome discovery and my frustrating encounter with Detective Sergeant Fanning.

“I’m afraid I lost my temper with him,” I told her. “I called him an idiot.”

She peered over her coffee cup at me. “Is he an idiot?”

“Evidence and witness accounts suggest he is.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

“I might need his help in the future.”

“You have Monty for that.” Her sly tone and smirk implied what she thought about me being on a first-name basis with D.S. Forrester.

Time to change the subject. To make it appear that I was making casual conversation and not fishing for her opinion on her future with Victor, I picked up a piece of cold toast and pretended to give it a thorough inspection. “What do you think about women continuing to work after marriage, by choice, not necessity? Is it possible to do both or would the effort of keeping house while working be too much?” I nibbled a corner of the toast.

She lowered her cup so quickly a little liquid spilled over the rim. “Are you considering marrying him?”

I choked on a crumb. “I hardly know Monty!”

“Not him, Harry. Did he ask you? When? How? Did he get down on one knee?”

I put the toast back on the plate and dusted off my fingers. “Harry hasn’t asked me, nor will he. He knows my views on marriage. I was specifically asking about your views.” I waited, but she sat back with a disappointed look on her face.

“Speaking of Harry?—”

“We weren’t,” I said.

“Are you going to ask him to help you with this case?”

I sighed. It seemed we both had topics we wished to avoid. “I have no reason to involve him. Besides, he’s busy with his own case.”

“Ah, yes, the reason he’s camped out in the foyer.” She lifted her cup again and peered at me through eyes sparkling with mischief. “The maids were all aflutter with the news that he was back. They hope he’s on the verge of returning to work here. He has been missed.”

If she was trying to make me jealous, it wasn’t going to work. I already knew some of the maids placed Harry on a pedestal.

“Mrs. Hessing told Mr. Bainbridge she hired Harry to keep an eye out for a gossip columnist,” Harmony went on. “He informed Sir Ronald.”

That explained why my uncle hadn’t thrown Harry out when he saw him in the foyer yesterday. “He’s watching for anyone matching her description arriving at the check-in counter. Apparently, she should have checked in yesterday.”

“You could find out if he’s still in the foyer when you leave the hotel.”

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Yes, you do.”

I sniffed. “His case is none of my business. I have no reason to speak to him. If I do, he’ll get the wrong idea.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” she muttered into her coffee cup.

Harry was in the foyer again. I did not approach him. I barely even looked at him. Not properly, anyway, merely out of the corner of my eye as he approached.

He cut me off before I reached the door. “Are you hurrying in order to avoid me?”

“I’m hurrying because I have things to do.”

He lowered his voice. “I heard you found a body yesterday. Nasty business.” I liked that he didn’t comment on my feminine sensibilities being overwhelmed by the sight. He knew I could cope with it more than most.

“News travels fast,” I said.

“One of my father’s former colleagues told him last night when they met for a drink. They meet regularly to discuss cases, both old and new. My father enjoys it, and my mother likes getting him out of the house.”

“Most retired men take up fishing or bird-watching.”

“He tried fishing once. His line got tangled and he came home grumpier than when he left.”

I tried picturing D.I. Hobart relaxing, but couldn’t. It didn’t suit the hearty man whose life had revolved around his work. If he hadn’t been forced out by the commissioner, he’d still be there. His departure was a loss for Scotland Yard. He would have been an ally for me now, too, although it seemed I’d made a name for myself if he’d been informed that I discovered Ruth’s body.

“Was it Monty who mentioned my involvement?” I asked.

Harry shook his head. “Another sergeant. He doesn’t know you, but he told my father that an annoying female private investigator suggested the woman was murdered, when it was clearly suicide. Based on a description like that, my father knew it was you.”

I shot him a withering glare. “Very droll. Your father doesn’t find me annoying at all. He likes me.”

I’d been trying to make him laugh, but instead, his gaze softened. “He is an excellent judge of character. He wanted me to tell you to trust your instincts over Fanning’s. If you think the woman was murdered, you should investigate.”

“I already planned to. But tell him thank you when you see him. Speaking of the case, I should begin.” I made to leave but stopped when he spoke.

“I can help you, if you need it. You only have to ask.”

“You already have a case of your own.”

He glanced toward the desk where guests were checking out. Even though London was quiet at this time of year, the Mayfair Hotel was always busy mid-morning. “Your investigation is more interesting than mine.”

“Mine has no client and therefore no fee. Yours does. But thank you, I’ll keep it in mind if I need another mind to mull over clues.”

“I hope you do.”

The sound of his warm, rich voice stayed with me all the way to Enoch Price’s house in Chelsea. The area wasn’t as exclusive as Mayfair, but it was still appealing with handsome houses, clean porches, and respectable shops. A pinch-lipped housekeeper answered my knock and wouldn’t let me inside until I told her I was there about Ruth.

She clutched the cross hanging around her neck and left me waiting in the sunny front parlor. Either the room was rarely used, or the housekeeper was very good at her job. There wasn’t a speck of dust on any surface and the grate gleamed. Photographs on one of the occasional tables were positioned for best viewing from the doorway and the wooden cross on the wall was perfectly straight. Even the fringing on the carpet was aligned.

A few minutes later, a man entered. The resemblance to Ruth was obvious, from the spectacles and freckled nose to the serious set of his mouth. Although I suspected his balding head made him appear older than he was, I still guessed him to be at least ten years older than his sister.

I introduced myself. “May I begin by saying I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Price. Losing a loved one is difficult, but when she was so young…”

He invited me to sit then hitched up his trouser legs and sat too. “Thank you, Miss Fox. I’m still in shock. My little sister…gone. It’s quite awful.”

“The police informed you yesterday?”

“Early evening, yes.” He blinked dry eyes back at me through his spectacles. “Forgive me, how did you say you knew Ruth?”

“I met her in Brighton. She asked for my help, but never told me why. She said she’d contact me when we returned to London.”

He stiffened at the mention of Brighton. “I don’t understand. What sort of help could she have needed from you?”

“I was hoping you might shed some light on that. I’m a private detective, so I think she wanted to employ me.”

The curl of his top lip was ever so slight, but I noticed it. I suspected I was meant to. “I can’t think of a reason.”

“Ruth worked for a journalist at The Evening Bulletin , didn’t she? Is that why she was in Brighton?”

The top lip rose higher. It would seem he wasn’t just appalled by my profession, but by his sister’s, too. “I don’t know. We didn’t discuss it.”

“What was the name of the journalist she worked for?”

His gaze lifted to the wall behind my head where the cross hung. “I don’t recall. Miss Fox, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have no need of a lady detective. The police are looking into Ruth’s death. I’m sure they’ll be thorough.” He stood, a prompt to get me to leave.

I stayed seated. “Are you aware that Detective Sergeant Fanning thinks Ruth killed herself?”

“She didn’t! She wouldn’t!” The explosive denial held more emotion than anything he’d said since my arrival.

“I agree. Someone making plans, such as a meeting, has no intention of committing suicide. But why do you say Ruth wouldn’t? Was she happy? Did she have something to look forward to?”

“Marriage, children, a settled life.” Enoch sat down and glanced at the cross on the wall again.

“She was engaged to be married? Can you tell me her fiancé’s name?” I reached into my bag for my notebook.

He shook his head. “You misunderstand. I meant she would one day have those things to fulfill her. A girl such as her looks forward to having her own home and family.”

“A girl such as her?” I echoed.

“She was a good girl. Naturally, she wanted those things. Her interest in journalism was merely a passing phase that she would grow out of when the novelty wore off. It’s not uncommon these days for females to perform a little task here and there to earn some pin money before settling down. As long as it’s respectable, no harm is done, and there’s nothing wrong with being an assistant to a journalist.” It sounded like a speech he’d practiced. Or one he’d heard.

I had so many thoughts about his comments, but I held them all back. Allowances had to be made for his grief. “Is there a more specific reason why she wouldn’t take her own life? She was happy?”

He indicated the cross. “She was deeply devout. Taking one’s own life is a sin. She simply wouldn’t do it, and I’ll explain as much to that detective.”

“I’m afraid it won’t do any good. D.S. Fanning believes Ruth threw herself off the train and he is disinclined to look for another cause of death.”

He shot to his feet again. One arm crossed his middle, and he lifted a hand to nibble on the thumbnail before turning away so I couldn’t see his face. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so blunt, but I needed him to realize that an incorrect cause of death would likely be recorded, and it would be there forever.

“I’m not asking for money, Mr. Price. I want to take on this case for Ruth’s sake, as well as for my own satisfaction. All I want from you is to answer a few questions. And to let me see her room.”

He turned back to face me, calmer and more composed. He nodded.

“You reported her missing when she didn’t come home after her visit to Brighton, is that right?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you know why she was there?”

“No. I didn’t even know she’d gone until I read the note she’d left for me in her room.”

“Why wouldn’t she confide in you?”

He hesitated before answering. “Because I wouldn’t have approved of her going to a place full of licentiousness.”

“It’s not like that at all. Most of the holidaymakers in Brighton are families.”

His jaw firmed. “The note said she’d return on the ten-thirty express three days later. I telephoned the police when I got home from the office that day, and she wasn’t here. They said she’d probably missed her train and to call back the next day if she still hadn’t returned, which I did.”

“Can you think of a reason why she would go to Brighton?”

“No.”

“Was it to do with her work for the journalist?”

“I don’t know. We never discussed the particulars of her employment.”

It was hardly surprising Ruth kept the details to herself. Mentioning it would probably start an argument with her brother, given his views.

“How was her demeanor when she left London?”

He shrugged. “Fine.”

“What was on her mind in the days leading up to her departure?”

He looked at me askance. “I am not a mind reader, Miss Fox.”

“What did you talk about?”

He shrugged again. “Nothing out of the ordinary. She asked me what I’d like for dinner. We discussed the Sunday sermon.” He swallowed heavily. “I scolded her for not listening. She has—had—a habit of not paying attention, but I’d catch her out by asking certain questions about the service.”

“Did she have any friends she might confide in?”

“Ruth confided in God. She needed no other confidante.”

I closed my notebook and returned it to my bag. “May I look through her belongings?”

He led the way upstairs to her bedroom and stayed while I searched. The bed was made with a precision I was used to at the hotel, but never bothered to achieve when I made my own bed. A Bible sat on her nightstand; a set of rosary beads draped over it. The pages of the Bible were well thumbed. A plain wooden cross hung above the bed. Enoch was right. Ruth was devout. Her faith wasn’t just for appearances to satisfy her brother.

I searched through drawers and cupboards, checked inside coat pockets and under the mattress. I found no papers or journals, nothing out of the ordinary for a young woman.

In the corridor, the housekeeper watched me, her pinched lips even thinner than when I’d first introduced myself. “May I ask you some questions about Ruth, Mrs…?”

Her nostrils flared. “I have nothing to say. Mr. Price, Father Dominic is here to give his condolences.”

“Take him through to the parlor. Close the door so he doesn’t see Miss Fox leave.” Mr. Price watched the housekeeper head down the stairs. When she was out of earshot, he turned to me. “When you make your inquiries, please respect my sister’s stature in the community and do not mention her work at the newspaper. It wasn’t an important part of her life, so not worth making a song and dance over. Also don’t tell anyone that she was in Brighton alone. We’ll put it about that she visited a friend there.”

I made no promise, since I couldn’t keep it. It was likely I’d need to mention both those points as I made my inquiries. I merely thanked him for his time.

His final request was that I leave silently. That was a request I could accommodate. I tiptoed down the stairs and exited without another word.

The Evening Bulletin had a reputation for a sensational style of journalism. Facts were only printed if they were scandalous, speculation was rife, and provocative headlines were the norm. It was a formula that sold a lot of copies.

While I waited my turn to speak to the harried clerk at the front desk, I peered through a large window behind him to the inner sanctum. Like Fleet Street outside, the newsroom was a scene of hectic activity, despite it being Sunday. Newspapermen with pencils tucked behind their ears wrote furiously at their desks or dictated to a stenographer. Sometimes they clicked their fingers above their heads and a youth standing off to the side would come running to accept the handwritten papers. The papers were then either added to a pile on a typist’s desk or taken into an adjoining office. I was surprised by the number of women. All of the stenographers and typists were young females.

A member of the public in front of me had a lot of complaints about the latest edition’s inaccuracies. The poor clerk dutifully wrote them down, although I doubted the editor would see them. I picked up a copy of the latest edition from a pile and skimmed the articles while I waited. There was no report of Ruth’s death. I didn’t even know if the journalist she worked for knew she’d died. I’d forgotten to ask Enoch Price if he’d informed her employer.

The man in front of me finally finished his diatribe and left the building. The clerk set his notes aside and looked at me as if he expected me to spout a long list of grievances against the newspaper, too.

“How may I help you?” he asked blandly.

“My name is Cleopatra Fox. I’m a private detective investigating the death of Ruth Price.”

He straightened, his gaze sharpening. “I…uh… Who?”

“I already know she worked here, and I can see that you recognize her name. What I don’t understand is why you’re denying knowing her.”

“Let me find someone for you to talk to.”

He pushed open the door to the newsroom and strode past the journalists and typists to the far side where he opened another door. Moments later he returned with a white-bearded, pink-faced, red-nosed man in tow.

I put out my hand. “Cleopatra Fox. Private detective.”

“Finlayson. Editor.” He shook my hand.

“I’m looking into the death of Ruth Price. She worked here, I believe.”

The editor’s pursed lips emerged like two slugs from his snowy beard before disappearing again. “She did.”

“You know about her passing?”

“We were informed early this morning.”

“May I speak with the journalist she worked for?”

“Journalist?” His burst of laughter sent spittle flying out of his mouth and onto his beard. The laugh evolved into a chesty cough that turned his face even pinker and his nose redder.

The clerk rose, as if to fetch help, but sat again once Mr. Finlayson’s cough subsided.

“She isn’t a journalist,” the editor went on. “She writes our gossip column.”

Puzzle pieces I didn’t know I needed slotted into place, but I wouldn’t jump to conclusions yet.

“Who told you she was a journalist?” Mr. Finlayson went on.

“It’s not important. May I speak to her?”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

“Why?”

“You may speak to me instead.”

“Do you know what stories Ruth was working on at the time of her death? Do you know why she went to Brighton?”

His lips pursed again as he considered his answer.

I saved him the effort of coming up with something. “It seems you can’t help me, Mr. Finlayson. What is the gossip columnist’s name?”

He picked up the newspaper I’d put down a few minutes earlier and flipped the pages until he reached the relevant section. He pointed to the byline. “We call her Mrs. Scoop.”

“Is that her real name?”

“Of course not. She stipulated anonymity in her contract.” He folded up the newspaper and slapped it back onto the pile. “The passing of Ruth Price is very sad. That’s all The Evening Bulletin has to say on the matter at this point.” He indicated the door to the street. “If that’s all, Miss Fox…”

Something wasn’t right. The clerk had fetched someone to speak to me about Ruth, and Mr. Finlayson had immediately put aside whatever he was doing to meet me. The newspaper’s editor would be very busy. So why bother with me at all?

“Why won’t you talk to me about Ruth?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Mr. Finlayson said.

“Her work here may be related to her cause of death. You see, I don’t believe she threw herself off that train.”

“Why not?”

“I met her brother this morning. He claims she believed suicide to be a terrible sin.”

“What led you to speak to the brother? You must have already had a reason to think she wouldn’t kill herself. What was it?”

I could have told him I’d met Ruth in Brighton, but I held that information back. His questions were unsettling, particularly when I was supposed to be the one questioning him. “I don’t understand why you’re obstructing me, Mr. Finlayson. Don’t you want me to get to the bottom of the mystery? Don’t you think Ruth Price deserves justice?”

“You seem to be suggesting she was murdered, Miss Fox. If you are a private detective, someone must have hired you. Was it her brother?”

His habit of answering my question with his own was becoming frustrating. My patience was thinning. Was this how it felt to be on the other end of one of my interrogations?

I employed a tactic some of my suspects used on me and stayed silent.

Mr. Finlayson was undeterred. “Are you a private detective, or are you an assistant to a journalist at another newspaper?”

I blinked at him. “Why would I lie?”

“The death of a young woman on a train from Brighton to London is a good story, particularly if there’s more to it than suicide. If anyone prints the story, it will be The Evening Bulletin , not one of our rivals. She was our employee, and we should be the ones to print it first. But thank you for confirming a common opinion around the office. Now we know to pursue the story.”

I stared at him, open-mouthed.

He indicated the door again but did not wait for me to leave. He turned and marched back into the newsroom.

The clerk at the desk cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at the exit. At that moment, the door opened and two people entered. The first was an elderly gentleman brandishing a copy of the latest edition of the newspaper. He slapped it down on the front desk and began to list his complaints about the contents.

The person who entered behind him was a thin, blonde woman around forty years of age with hawkish features. She brushed past me, her head down as she read a piece of paper. An unkind person would describe her as having a long nose and sunken chin.

Seeing her confirmed the earlier thought that had taken root when Mr. Finlayson told me Ruth worked for a gossip columnist. The blonde woman must be the same one Harry was looking for, the one who wanted to gather information about the Hessing-Liddicoat wedding. Her features were too distinctive for there to be another. Ruth Price worked for her. When she saw us in Brighton, or overheard the Bainbridge name, she linked us to the hotel venue for the wedding reception. I doubted we were the reason she was in Brighton, but she saw an opportunity to gather information while we were there.

I was that opportunity. Somehow, she knew I solved murders, and she was counting on the fact I wouldn’t want my sleuthing becoming public knowledge. When she returned to London, she planned to blackmail me into revealing some wedding details to pass on to her employer, Mrs. Scoop.

While the clerk’s head was bent over his notes to write down yet another complaint from a member of the public, I slipped into the newsroom. Despite the open windows, it was warm and smelled faintly of ink. The chorus of chatter and mechanical rhythm of typewriter keys was surprisingly comforting. Perhaps that was because it meant everyone was too busy to notice an intruder in their midst.

Before I reached the room where Mrs. Scoop had gone, the door opened, and she re-emerged. She passed me with a long-legged strut, her attention once again focused on the paper in her hand. She exited the newsroom altogether.

Sometimes, situations change, and a good detective must pivot accordingly. Mrs. Scoop’s departure could benefit me. Like Mr. Finlayson, she probably wouldn’t divulge anything to me willingly. I needed to employ more devious methods and her absence was perfectly timed.

I reached the door with the name Mrs. Scoop painted on the glass pane. Not a single person in the newsroom had stopped me and asked why I was there. For a profession that prided itself on being inquisitive, the journalists were surprisingly unobservant within their own environs.

I slipped into the office and closed the door. The information Mrs. Scoop dealt with was sensitive, so I wasn’t surprised to find one of the three desk drawers locked. I quickly set to work with my picking tools and unlocked it. Inside were two large envelopes. I removed two photographs from one of the envelopes, along with some handwritten notes. In one of the photographs, Lord Pridhurst was seated at a table playing cards. In the second, he stood on the street with another man, exchanging something. It wasn’t clear who was handing what to whom, but they seemed to be attempting to hide behind a tree.

I returned the photographs to the envelope then quickly scanned the page of notes. Someone had written sample headlines in a spidery scrawl: ‘Lord Pridhurst’s Shame’, ‘Does his Family Know?’, and the most provocative, ‘Duped! Lord Desperate to Marry Off Daughter Before Truth Exposed.’

The rest of the notes appeared to be a list of times and dates with a single name attached: Keats. I doubted it referred to the poet. It was probably the other man in the photograph.

I returned the paper and photographs to the envelope and opened the second one. It contained a single piece of paper. My breath caught in my chest. The heading stated ‘Hessing-Liddicoat Wedding at the Mayfair.’ Below that was a list of names. All were staff at the hotel, except for the last one.

Me.

It confirmed what I’d realized when I saw the woman who fit the description Mrs. Hessing gave Harry for the gossip columnist. His quarry was Mrs. Scoop, the woman who employed Ruth Price. Among other tasks, Ruth was trying to find out details about the Hessing-Liddicoat wedding, and she planned to blackmail me into being her source. Her death had put an end to that plan before it had begun. What I’d merely speculated until now was here in black and white for anyone to see.

It was evidence of a motive for murder. If Detective Sergeant Fanning suspected Ruth’s death was the result of foul play, he would place me on the list of suspects if he saw these notes.

I no longer felt compelled to push him in that direction.

The door suddenly opened and Mrs. Scoop stood there, one clawlike hand gripping the door handle. “Who are you?” Her voice was as needle-sharp as her glare. “What are you doing in here?”