Chapter 6

“ I ’ll explain,” I said. “Once you close the door.” I did not want Mr. Finlayson to throw me out before I had a chance to get answers from the woman who employed Ruth.

The gossip columnist closed the door and held out her hand for the envelopes. I passed them to her, and she slotted them back into the desk drawer with a vigorous shove. She remained standing and crossed her arms, her needle-thin eyebrows raised. Now that I was closer, I could see she’d drawn them on.

“Well? Answer me. Who are you?”

“My name appears on the bottom of your list of potential sources at the Mayfair Hotel.”

Her gaze lowered to the drawer.

“Miss Cleopatra Fox,” I clarified. “I won’t be a source, by the way.”

“You were always an unlikely option, but we weren’t sure how loyal you were to the family that you were once estranged from.” She knew far more about me than a stranger ought.

“Now that I know which staff are on your list, they won’t be a source of information, either.”

She pulled out the chair and sat. “As you wish. The wedding reception is only a sidepiece anyway. It doesn’t interest me overmuch.”

She hadn’t invited me to sit, but I sat anyway. “Then why did you make a reservation to stay at the hotel?”

She stilled. Then she waved her hand in dismissal. The movement was jerky, abrupt, as if she barely had the time to do it. “I could have you arrested for trespass, Miss Fox.”

“And I could warn Lord Pridhurst that you plan to print something about him. I met him in Brighton. He would believe me.” I looked around her office, but it was quite bare. There was nothing of a personal nature on display, no photographs or even newspaper clippings that she might be proud of writing. “Do I call you Mrs. Scoop?”

She opened the top drawer of her desk and removed a slender silver tin. She opened it and pulled out a cigarette. She offered me one. I tried not to reveal my surprise—few women smoked—as I declined. “Anonymity keeps my work and private life separate. A woman in your position would understand the necessity for separation from time to time.”

I gave her a tight smile. “You’ve heard that Ruth Price is dead.”

She used a match to light the cigarette, then leaned back in the chair, cigarette held near her lips. “Ruth was supposed to come into the office after returning from Brighton on Thursday. She didn’t. Nor did she come in the next day. Yesterday, I called at her home. Her brother told me he’d reported her missing, then early this morning he sent a message to say her body had been found at the Ouse Valley Viaduct. I didn’t want to trouble him at such a time, so I went to Scotland Yard to find out more. I was informed by a rather stupid officer that Ruth threw herself off the train.” She rolled her eyes as she took a drag on her cigarette.

“I agree with your opinion of D.S. Fanning and Ruth’s cause of death. I’ve decided to look into it. The first time I saw her, she was watching the Pridhursts. Then, later, I received a note asking me to meet her. I did, and she told me that if I didn’t help her, she would expose me in this very newspaper.”

Mrs. Scoop watched me as she drew on her cigarette then blew the smoke across the desk between us. “And you think she wanted your help to gather information about the wedding reception?”

Her question surprised me. “Is there another reason?”

“No,” she said before slotting the cigarette between her lips.

“What scandal was she investigating in Brighton?”

Mrs. Scoop tapped the closed drawer. “Lord Pridhurst.”

“Yes, but what was he involved in?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential until it appears in my column.”

“Mrs. Scoop, you don’t understand. If Ruth was killed because she was watching Lord Pridhurst and reporting to you, then your life could also be in danger.”

She gave a brittle laugh. “Don’t be absurd. Lord Pridhurst isn’t a killer.”

“Then what is he? What has he done? I can be discreet. No other newspaper will discover the scandal from me.”

She watched me closely as she sucked on her cigarette. “All right.” She blew out smoke through her nose. “He’s in enormous debt. He’s about to lose everything, including part ownership in a shipping company. That isn’t unusual and, while devastating for him personally, it’s not a scandal. However, he has plans to marry his daughter to the son of a very wealthy man by the name of Holland. The union will solve Pridhurst’s immediate financial problems.”

“And Mr. Holland doesn’t know?”

“Precisely. Again, not so much of a problem if he finds out, as long as he cares for the girl. The thing is, I doubt he’s marrying her for love. You see, Mr. Holland’s canned goods business wants to expand into America, and he can’t do that without a shipping company to ship his cans. I have it on good authority that part of Odette’s dowry was an exceptionally good rate.”

“No shipping company, no incentive to marry,” I said.

She pointed the cigarette at me. “Precisely.”

“You don’t think that’s enough of a motive for Pridhurst to kill Ruth? Or you? Kill the journalist, kill the story.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type, but…” She lifted one shoulder. “I concede that it’s a possibility. Don’t worry, I will be careful.”

“What other stories was Ruth working on?”

“Just the Pridhurst file and the Hessing-Liddicoat wedding.” She watched me as she drew on her cigarette. “Perhaps we’re reading too much into this, Miss Fox. Neither you nor I know much about Ruth. We don’t know her state of mind when she caught that train.”

“You didn’t discuss personal matters with her?”

She scoffed. “She was my assistant, not my friend. Perhaps there were events or people in her life that drove her to end it all. That brother of hers, for example.” She sniffed. “Controlling misogynist.”

I heard the booming voice of Mr. Finlayson in the newsroom outside, shouting at the hapless journalists for their tardiness and ineptitude. I ought to go before he came in to speak to Mrs. Scoop about printing a story on Ruth’s death before their competitors got wind of it. “If you think of anything relevant, please contact me at the Mayfair Hotel.”

“Am I welcome there?”

I simply smiled. Before I exited, I peered through the glass pane in the door but couldn’t see Mr. Finlayson. I opened the door, then something occurred to me. “Ruth was the one who was supposed to check into the Mayfair Hotel under the name Blaine, wasn’t she? Not you. But she never arrived, because she died.”

Mrs. Scoop huffed, sending smoke from her cigarette billowing from her mouth and nose. “Very clever, Miss Fox. Yes, I made the reservation intending for Ruth to check in, although I hadn’t told her yet. I planned to, when she got back. She was better at that sort of thing than me. She was extraordinarily observant. Wallflowers often are. People underestimated Ruth all the time.” She placed the cigarette between her lips, but removed it again without taking a puff. “My style is more direct, which is why I approached Mrs. Hessing first. I thought she’d be the sort who would appreciate it and allow me to exclusively cover the wedding.” She huffed again. This time it was self-deprecating. “I was wrong.”

Back at the Mayfair, I found Harry seated on the same armchair with a current edition of The Times opened to obscure his face as he watched the comings and goings of the hotel foyer. As I’d done the first time I saw him there, I hooked a finger over the top of the newspaper to draw it down.

“I hope you plan to stay awhile,” he said, folding it up. “I could do with the company.”

I sat in the other armchair. “Is your investigation dull?”

“Immeasurably. Yours sounds far more interesting. Tell me about your suspects, the clues you’ve found and theories you’ve formed. They don’t even have to be fully formed, just talk to me to keep me awake.”

“I can do better than that. I can tell you who your gossip columnist is, as well as which hotel staff she was hoping to blackmail or bribe into being a source of information about the wedding.”

He blinked slowly at me. “Are you muscling in on my investigation on purpose?”

I knew he was joking, but even so, I felt compelled to deny it. “I would never do that, Harry.”

“Not even to get your name on my office door?”

I laughed softly. “In the process of conducting my own investigation into Ruth Price’s death, I happened to stumble upon your target. Ruth worked for her.”

“I thought she was assistant to a journalist.”

“I think it’s what she wanted everyone to believe, even her brother. The gossip columnist works for The Evening Bulletin and goes by the pseudonym Mrs. Scoop. I’ve just come from her office.”

“What’s her real name?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. I recognized her from the description Mrs. Hessing gave you.”

“And she simply gave you the names of staff she planned to interrogate about the wedding?”

“I wouldn’t say she freely gave the list to me. I found it in her office before she arrived.”

“She didn’t have that sort of information securely locked away?”

“Um…”

“You broke into a locked cabinet, didn’t you?”

I put up my hands in surrender. “She caught me red-handed, but I managed to convince her not to throw me out. You’re not the only one who can charm people, Harry.”

He smirked. “Give me the list of names and I’ll warn them not to talk.”

“I can’t remember them all, and anyway, you may not need to. Ruth Price did most of Mrs. Scoop’s dirty work. She was the one who was going to check in here and speak to the staff, but her death put an end to that. I don’t think Mrs. Scoop has plans to come in her stead. She doesn’t seem all that interested in the wedding, actually. She seems to have bigger fish to fry.”

“Such as?”

“Lord Pridhurst.” In a low voice, I told Harry what I’d learned about Lord Pridhurst’s debts and how he didn’t want Mr. Holland to find out. “If Holland learns the shipping company will be lost to Pridhurst, Mrs. Scoop thinks he won’t make an offer for Odette’s hand, and Pridhurst needs him to. That’s a motive for murder. If he found out what Ruth knew, he could have killed her to silence her. He was also seated only three compartments away from her on the train. That’s opportunity.”

“But clearly Mrs. Scoop also knows about Pridhurst, so killing Ruth won’t stop the story.”

“ He may not know that. I’ve warned Mrs. Scoop to be careful, but she doesn’t seem too concerned.”

“Are you going to talk to Pridhurst?”

I’d been thinking about my next move on the way home and decided that Pridhurst would most likely deny it if confronted. I needed more evidence before I accused him of anything. “I want to talk to him without letting him know that I know about his financial troubles. I plan to speak to as many passengers as possible who were seated in the compartments between ours and Ruth’s and ask them if they saw anyone moving about the carriage. If his name is mentioned, then I’ll confront him.”

“Mapping out their movements is a good plan,” Harry said, nodding. “Although the killer will lie.”

“Hopefully I can catch them out in the lie. I already know where everyone was seated. I just need to speak to them. There are three passengers I can’t yet identify, unfortunately. Without their statements, I’ll be leaving a rather large gap in my knowledge.”

“Draw me a seating plan of the carriage,” he said.

“I already have one, but I have no intention of showing it to you. I’m working this case alone.”

“Don’t be petulant.”

“Petulant! I simply want to solve this one on my own, thank you.”

“I know you, Cleo,” he purred. “You’re afraid if you spend too much time with me, you’ll succumb to your feelings and kiss me again.”

“Again? Ha! You kissed me , Harry.”

“Last time, yes, but you kissed me first in St James’s Park. I know you remember it.”

He was so sure of himself, so arrogant. It was even more irritating because he was right. I remembered that kiss very well. “I am not involving you in my case, Harry.”

“Then why did you sit down and tell me about it?”

I liked to pride myself on being good at thinking on my feet, but Harry had a way of making me trip over them instead. Going by his satisfied smirk, he knew he’d caught me out.

The appearance of Mrs. Hessing stepping out of the lift was a welcome distraction. The arrival of Uncle Ronald via the front entrance was even more welcome. Both he and Mrs. Hessing looked directly at us.

Harry rose and did up his jacket button. “I need to speak to my client about these latest developments.”

Uncle Ronald stopped in the middle of the foyer. His gaze tracked Harry as he intercepted Mrs. Hessing. He frowned, something he did a lot, but this time I worried it was the precursor to a lecture about being seen with Harry. I would set him straight before he had the opportunity to open his mouth.

“Good morning, Uncle,” I said.

He checked his watch. “It’s the afternoon.” As he tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket, his narrowed gaze sought out Harry again.

“We were just chatting,” I said quickly. “It would be rude of me not to greet him.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Cleopatra.”

“Pretend?” I asked weakly.

“I’m pleased that you and Armitage are working together for Mrs. Hessing. I like that you’re taking an interest in hotel affairs.” His gaze softened. “You’re an asset when you put your mind to it.” He stroked his moustache, seemingly embarrassed at speaking so affectionately. “Make sure his paramour doesn’t find out. You don’t want to upset her.”

He hailed Mr. Hobart before I had the opportunity to reply. Not that I would have spoken up. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him Harry and Miss Morris were no longer together. It would only make him worry that I was in Harry’s sights, then he’d forbid me from seeing him, and perhaps even forbid me from investigating. Uncle Ronald still didn’t believe I had no interest in marriage, and therefore no interest in Harry. If he wasn’t going to listen to my continual denials, I wasn’t going to set him straight now.

Harry rejoined me as Mrs. Hessing headed to the post desk, her walking stick clicking on the floor tiles with firm precision. “You waited for me. Is everything all right with Sir Ronald?”

“He thinks we’re working together for Mrs. Hessing. He likes that I’m taking an interest in hotel affairs.”

His smile was rueful. “So that’s why he doesn’t mind us talking.”

“That, and he believes you are still with Miss Morris.”

He arched his brows at me. “Cleo, you should tell him I’m not.”

I cleared my throat. “You get your wish. You may help me with my case so that it appears we’re working together to appease my uncle. Shall we discuss it over lunch at Luigi’s?”

He indicated I should leave the hotel ahead of him. “I knew you’d give in.”

“You did not. Anyway, I’m not giving in because I want to be near you. I’m giving in because if I don’t, Uncle Ronald will grow suspicious. If he finds out I’m not helping you with Mrs. Hessing’s situation, but am trying to solve a murder, he might forbid me from sleuthing. I am merely protecting my freedom.”

We both greeted Frank as we passed him, then headed up Piccadilly.

“Of course,” Harry finally said. “Have it your way.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you can tell yourself whatever you like, but you gave in without much of a protest, from what I could see.”

“Then you weren’t looking properly. I’m hungry. Are you hungry? It’s been an age since I’ve had a bowl of Luigi’s pasta. I think I’ll have the spaghetti today. What about you?”

I walked off before he could tease me about my tendency to chatter when I was nervous.

Fifteen minutes later, I placed the sketch I’d made of the first-class carriage on the table between us. Harry and I sat in our usual spot in the window of Roma Café below his office on Broadwick Street, Soho. One of the other tables was occupied by two women speaking in rapid Italian to each other. They looked a little familiar, but it wasn’t until one of the dark-eyed beauties gave Luigi a simpering smile as he approached us that I recalled seeing her in the café before.

Harry and I placed our orders for spaghetti Bolognese, and I also ordered a pot of tea. Luigi shook his head in disappointment as he walked off, then repeated my order in Italian for the benefit of the women and the two leathery-skinned men seated on the stools at the counter. I didn’t speak much Italian but understood enough to know that Luigi told them I was still drinking dirty water.

I took out my notebook and pencil from my bag and placed them beside the diagram. “Starting from the front of the carriage is Ruth Price’s compartment. She sat alone. In compartment number two were two women, both wearing large hats. The one with the wine-red flowers decorating her hat bumped into me on the platform in Brighton. I don’t know their names and didn’t see their faces.”

I flipped open my notebook. At the top of a blank page, I wrote ‘Compartment Two’ and ‘Woman in Red Hat’ beside it. On the next page, I repeated the compartment number and wrote ‘Other Woman in Big Hat.’

“In the third compartment was the actor and impresario, Clement Beecroft.” I wrote that down on the next page of my notebook as I told Harry how my maid had seen Beecroft swimming up to a bathing machine. “I overheard the woman in the hut giggle, so I presume they were enjoying themselves.” I wrote that detail down, then suddenly looked up. “Jane thinks he’s married, so the woman could have been his wife, but he has a reputation as a philanderer.”

“It won’t be difficult to find out if he’s married.”

“Mrs. Scoop didn’t mention Beecroft to me when I asked if Ruth was investigating other scandals, but that doesn’t mean Ruth didn’t stumble across him having a romantic liaison while she was in Brighton watching Pridhurst.” I wrote down the word ‘Affair’ on Beecroft’s page. “He wasn’t alone in the carriage compartment. There was a man with him.” I described the flat-nosed fellow’s clothing. Harry agreed that he sounded out of place in the first-class carriage. I assigned the fellow a page of his own in my notebook then moved on to the final compartment. “Lord and Lady Pridhurst sat in there with their daughter, Odette.”

Harry traced his finger along the corridor from compartment four to one. “If Pridhurst is the killer, he had to pass these two compartments without being seen. Did all the doors have windowpanes in them so the occupants could see into the corridor?”

“Yes, but if someone bobbed down as they passed the door, they wouldn’t be seen.” It wouldn’t be comfortable for a woman to bend over, thanks to her corset, but it wasn’t impossible. I gave each of the Pridhursts their own page in my notebook. “As far as we know, Lord Pridhurst is the only passenger with a motive for murdering Ruth.”

He tapped his finger on compartment number four. “Lady Pridhurst and Odette must also be considered suspects. Neither would want Mr. Holland to learn about Lord Pridhurst’s financial troubles.”

“That’s if they’re aware of it. Not all men confide in their wives and daughters.” Even as I said it, I thought of something. “When Flossy and I met them on the pier, Odette was happy. But when I saw her later, just before I got off the train at Victoria Station, I saw her teary reflection in the window. I think her father took the opportunity to tell her about his predicament.”

“She might have been upset enough to confront Ruth then and there, and perhaps kill her.”

“That would be a shame. Odette seemed sweet.”

“Even sweet women can turn nasty when they’re worried about losing the man they love.”

“Speaking from experience?” I couldn’t help asking.

“So far, no woman has murdered for me.” He indicated the compartment with the two ladies in hats. “Do you think they knew one another?”

“I didn’t see them talking, so it’s impossible to say. The same with Mr. Beecroft and the man in his compartment. Speaking of Beecroft, we’ll begin with him. Someone in one of the theaters around here should know where we can find him.”

“We can start with the theater near my flat. I know several of the regular actors and dancers now.”

Luigi set bowls of pasta in front of us, stopping me from teasing Harry about how well he knew the dancers. It was probably best that I didn’t know anyway.

While we ate, I told him about my visit to Ruth Price’s home, and why I’d come to the conclusion that she wouldn’t have taken her own life. “Ruth was too devout to do something she saw as a terrible sin. Her brother, Enoch, made a point of telling me how devout. He doesn’t want her death recorded as suicide.”

“Perhaps he’ll pay you a fee when you prove it was murder,” Harry said. “What was he like, Enoch? Could he be a suspect?”

“He wasn’t on the train.”

“He could have hired the unknown man seated in compartment three with Beecroft.”

I stopped eating, my fork halfway to my mouth. “You think that man is a hired assassin?”

“You did say he looked like a thug with his battered nose. We certainly can’t discount the possibility.”

If he was, then anyone could have hired him, including Enoch Price. “Enoch was condescending about Ruth’s occupation. He also told me she wanted to settle down one day.”

“So?”

“What if she wasn’t interested in settling down? What if she told him just before she left for Brighton that she never wanted to marry and would rather work? What if that angered Enoch?” A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t imagine being killed because my family didn’t like my choice for my future. I wasn’t convinced Enoch would do such a thing either. “I think he was ashamed, rather than angry,” I went on. “He didn’t want anyone knowing she’d gone to Brighton alone. It wasn’t respectable, so he said. He ushered me out of the door while the priest wasn’t looking, too. Even after her death, he wanted Ruth’s career to remain a secret.”

“It will probably come out at some point.”

“Particularly if the editor at The Evening Bulletin thinks there’s enough of a story surrounding her death to sell more newspapers.” I made a face. “Horrible man. Ruth was nothing to him, just another nameless employee he passed in the office.” Mrs. Scoop hadn’t shown any emotion either, and even Enoch was more worried about how Ruth’s death would be recorded than the loss of his sister’s life. The dispassionate reactions made her death seem all the more tragic.

With our bowls of pasta finished and our stomachs full, we walked to the street where Harry lived. He greeted the tobacconist smoking a slim cigar on the pavement outside his shop and pushed open the backstage door of the theater opposite.

The air in the dimly lit corridor was cooler than outside. It smelled faintly of sweat, but that scent gave way to a mixture of florals further along. Voices and laughter drifted down from the far end. The closer we drew to them, the busier the corridor became. A man wearing a red cape and waistcoat rehearsed the words for his act as he passed, not even pausing when he nodded at Harry. Going by the way he announced the disappearance of his assistant, he must be a magician.

We stepped to the side to allow two stagehands carrying a crate between them to pass, then again as a woman holding a crimson gown over her arms bustled along the corridor. Three giggling dancers clad in white feathers and very little else emerged from a room up ahead and stopped upon seeing us. Or, rather, upon seeing Harry. They smiled.

The tall one with legs almost as long as Harry’s thrust a hand onto her hip. “Back again? Leave something behind last time?” The lick of her lips was as bold as her outfit of white beaded bodice and feathered skirt that reached only to mid-thigh. Long white ostrich plumes shimmered high above her head, making her seem even taller.

“You’re wasting your time trying to make her jealous, Claudine.” Harry jerked his head in my direction. “Miss Fox and I are merely colleagues.”

The dancer named Claudine smiled silkily. “So, there’s hope for me yet?”

“I think Sir Garfield would have something to say about that.”

Claudine shrugged her bare shoulders and pouted. “You do know how to deflate a girl.”

“Can we ask you some quick questions for an investigation we’re working on?”

She looked at the other two girls who both nodded. “We have a few minutes before rehearsal starts.”

The three dancers headed back into the room, but Harry held back.

Assuming he was being gentlemanly, I peered inside where a further nine scantily clad women filled the space. “They’re all dressed,” I told him.

He bent to whisper in my ear. “In case you weren’t aware, Claudine was teasing. Sometimes I stop to chat to them if they’re outside getting air between their performances, but I haven’t been back here in months.”

“You don’t have to explain to me, Harry. What you do in your spare time is your business. You said it yourself, we’re merely colleagues.”

The room smelled better than the corridor, thanks to the bottles of perfume on each of the four dressing tables. There were at least two girls sharing each of the dressing table mirrors as they applied color to their lips and cheeks, and kohl around their eyes. A seamstress knelt behind one of the girls, fixing her tail feathers. They paid us little attention until Harry closed the door.

Once they noticed him, they greeted him with smiles. Even the seamstress knew his name. Some cast curious glances at me, and I recognized a few from a previous visit. Harry introduced me.

“Miss Fox and I are investigating the death of a woman on the express train from Brighton. Clement Beecroft was on that train. Do any of you know him?”

“His productions appear at the Laneway Theater,” Claudine said. “I’ve never met him.”

“I have,” one of the others said. “I used to dance there last year.”

“What’s he like?” Harry asked.

“Like all the leading actors. He thinks we should worship him.” She rolled her eyes.

“Is he married?” I asked.

“Yes, but it didn’t stop him from looking.”

“Just looking?”

“Depends whether you believe the rumors or not. Apparently, he always installs his current mistress in the lead female role of his plays.”

In my experience, rumors usually held at least a kernel of truth, and sometimes much more. “Have you met Mrs. Beecroft?”

“No. He used to joke that she didn’t like the theater, and that’s why their marriage worked.” The dancer shrugged. “I don’t know what he meant by that.”

It meant that Mrs. Beecroft’s absence from his workplace allowed her husband to get away with having affairs with his leading actresses.

We thanked the dancers and headed to St. Martin’s Lane, not far away. The posters outside the Laneway Theater announced the upcoming production of a musical comedy starring Clement Beecroft and Geraldine Lacroix. The illustrator had drawn an excellent likeness of Beecroft smiling down at a pretty woman who stared simperingly back at him. According to the posters, the opening night was a week away.

We found the backstage entrance and asked a stagehand carrying a toolbox where we could find Mr. Beecroft. He instructed us to follow him to the stage where more staff were constructing a house without walls over two levels. The only way I knew it would be a house was because the upstairs area had a fireplace painted on the backdrop and the downstairs one had a stove. There was obviously still a lot to be done in the next week.

Clement Beecroft clearly thought so, too, going by the way he shouted at the set designers from where he stood in front of the first row of seating. “I’m not paying you to stand there and stare at me! Get back to work!”

The orchestra in the pit started tuning their instruments. The whine of violin strings set my teeth on edge. It sent Beecroft over the edge, figuratively and almost literally. He clutched his clipboard in both hands and leaned over the barrier to shout at the musicians in the pit.

“Stop that infernal noise! I can’t hear myself think.” He slammed the clipboard down on the barrier.

The men constructing the set stopped and glanced anxiously at one another. The musicians dutifully kept quiet, and a stagehand who’d been hovering nearby, turned and left.

Harry and I brazened it out. Using the theory that he wouldn’t shout at a woman he’d just met, I indicated to Harry that I would do all the talking. Harry hung back.

“Excuse me, Mr. Beecroft.” I put out my hand. “My name is Cleopatra Fox. I’m a private detective. May I ask you?—”

He flung the clipboard at me.

I ducked and it clattered to the floor. By the time I’d recovered my balance, Clement Beecroft had run off. Harry had been a few feet behind me and stopped to see if I was all right. If he hadn’t, he might have caught Beecroft. Nevertheless, Harry was quick and should be able to stop Beecroft leaving the building.

But how far would the angry actor—who clearly had something to hide—go to avoid answering questions?