Chapter 8

T he starless night shrouded the backstage door of the Laneway Theater in darkness. It was the perfect evening for breaking and entering. Any roaming constables wouldn’t spot us in the recessed doorway of the lane.

Once Harry inserted the lock picks, he was able to do the rest by sound. The satisfying click of the lock signaled his success. He rose, catching me yawning. “Long day?”

“Yes, and even longer evening.”

I could just make out his chiseled cheekbones and jawline as he studied me in the darkness. “What happened?”

“Not now, Harry.” I gave his arm a little shove. “We have work to do.”

Once inside, I struck a match and lit the lantern I’d brought with me. It hissed to life and cast enough light so that I could lead the way along the corridor without knocking over props.

Clement Beecroft’s office door wasn’t locked. The desk surface was tidy, with no sign of the script there or in the drawers. There were bills and receipts, contracts to be signed and correspondence about future projects. Nothing out of the ordinary. In the closet with the long mirror on the door, we found two woolen coats, a cape, three hats and a spare pair of shoes. A selection of ties hung from a rack on the inside of the door. Like the desk, it was neat and tidy.

My hopes of finding a journal belonging to Ruth were dashed. If she had made notes on Beecroft’s movements while in Brighton, and he’d taken them before pushing her out of the window, they weren’t in his office. There was no evidence that he’d gone anywhere near her at any time.

We left and headed back along the corridor. I paused at Geraldine Lacroix’s door. I had a hunch and hoped it might be confirmed if I searched her dressing room. I tried the handle. Unlocked, just like Beecroft’s office door. Either they both had trusting natures, or they had nothing to hide.

Harry followed me inside. With the lantern held high, we took in our surroundings. Unlike Beecroft’s office, Geraldine’s dressing room was untidy. A petticoat and skirt hung over the privacy screen, and an annotated script was strewn across the dressing table, the pages out of order. There seemed to be no organization to her pots of stage makeup and the odd hairpin appeared here and there on the floor where she’d dropped them.

But what struck me was the fashionably large hat decorated with wine-red flowers and feathers.

I plucked if off the corner of the privacy screen. “This is the same hat the woman in compartment two wore. I think we can safely assume that was Geraldine, considering The London Tattler reported she was in Brighton.”

“And she and Beecroft are most likely having an affair.”

Harry rifled through the dressing table drawers while I checked the closet. Neither of us discovered a journal or any other incriminating evidence.

We left the dressing room and exited the theater. Outside, we clung to the shadows near the shops along St. Martin’s Lane as we hurried back to the hotel. Most of the city was asleep, but London was never completely silent, even at three AM. A hansom cab sped past, and somewhere in the distance, the motor of an automobile spluttered to life. Two drunken youths stumbled arm in arm down the other side of the road, talking loudly about their female conquests. They didn’t see us.

While their crude discussion of a particular woman’s attributes made me giggle, Harry must have been embarrassed. He tried talking over the top of them. “Why didn’t Geraldine remove the hat? She must know it made her easily identifiable, not just by us, but by gossip columnists who might be out to learn more about her affair with Beecroft in Brighton.”

“I don’t think she particularly cares who knows,” I said. “I don’t think he does, either. It seems to be common knowledge that he takes his current leading lady as his lover. The secret is well and truly out, and there’s no point attempting to hide it now, either from the public or his wife. Either Mrs. Beecroft doesn’t mind or suffers in silence.”

Harry agreed with me, but pointed out one thing I’d overlooked. “If Beecroft isn’t overly concerned about keeping his affair with Geraldine Lacroix a secret, why did he hurry to his office when you introduced yourself as a private detective? What did he have to hide, if it wasn’t evidence of his extramarital relations?”

That was a very good question. “Evidence of Ruth’s murder?” But that didn’t make sense either. “Why would he murder her, though, if he’s not concerned about his relationship with Geraldine being discovered?”

“It seems he doesn’t have much of a motive for murder, after all.”

“He rushed back to his office for a reason, Harry. Unless we believe his excuse that he thought I worked for a private debt collector, he is hiding something.”

Harry escorted me down the lane beside the Mayfair to the servants’ entrance. He caught me yawning. “Get some rest, Cleo. Meet me at my office mid-morning and we’ll question Geraldine together. With opening night so close, she should be at the theater by then for rehearsal.”

He seemed to assume I’d involve him in the investigation from here on. I didn’t refuse, since his assumption was correct. The ruse had to be convincing to make Uncle Ronald think I was helping him with Mrs. Hessing’s gossip problem.

That was absolutely, positively, the only reason I was involving him.

The hotel wasn’t a place I wanted to linger the following morning. Everyone from my uncle down to the maids were busy as a stream of deliveries arrived. With the wedding only days away, there were many things still to be done, some of them small, others large. Yet not a single guest would have realized. The foyer was calm. The front-of-house staff smiled as they carried out their duties with professional pleasantness. The engine of the hotel, however, hummed with activity.

I bought two coffees from Luigi and took them up to Harry’s office. I entered without knocking, a common enough occurrence that he no longer commented on it.

We discussed the plan for our interrogation over coffee, then set off. As planned, we asked the box office attendant selling tickets whether Geraldine had arrived for rehearsal yet. It took Harry slipping him a few coins for the youth to confirm.

“We can ill afford bribes,” I told Harry. “There’s no client for this case.”

“My business is doing fine, Cleo. Don’t worry.”

I knew he was getting more work thanks to his agency’s name appearing in the newspaper a number of times in relation to cases we’d solved together, but I didn’t know whether that translated into a trickle of income or a flood. “How well is it doing?”

His lips tilted with his smirk. “Sorry, I can’t tell you that. Only staff can know my financial situation.”

I gave him a withering glare. “Need I remind you that you refused to take me on as an associate when I suggested it months ago.”

His smirk became a devilish grin. “Is this another attempt to get your name on my door?”

Before I could answer, the theater door opened, and Clement Beecroft exited. Harry and I both turned our faces away. Thankfully he didn’t see us, and continued on, striding up St. Martin’s Lane. At least we could question Geraldine without worrying he would catch us.

We found her rehearsing a jaunty song in her dressing room. She hesitated upon seeing us, then said we should come back later if we wanted her to sign something.

Harry set her straight. “We’re investigating the death of a woman named Ruth Price. She was a passenger on the ten-thirty express from Brighton, the same train you caught back to London after your holiday.”

She glanced past us to the door.

I closed it. “You’re not a suspect,” I lied. “Indeed, the police think Ruth killed herself. Mr. Armitage and I are simply trying to tie up loose ends for her family.”

Geraldine visibly relaxed. She was quite the beauty, with fair hair and wide blue eyes. Her languid movements as she invited us to sit on the sofa held a dancer’s grace and the self-awareness of someone used to being noticed. She didn’t seem to recognize me, so I didn’t tell her I was also on the train, and that she’d bumped into me on the platform in her hurry to catch it.

“Witnesses mentioned seeing you in the second compartment of the first-class carriage.” It was another lie, but I had to explain how we knew she was the woman beneath the red hat without telling her we’d seen it in her dressing room the night before. The hat was in the same place, perched on the corner of the privacy screen. “Ruth Price was in the first compartment. Do you recall seeing her?”

“No, sorry.” Her voice was as smooth and assured as everything else about her. “Who did you say saw me on the train?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” I gave her a description of Ruth, but she simply looked blankly back at me. “She was an assistant to a gossip columnist.”

Geraldine’s nostrils flared. “Was she following me?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps she was following Mr. Beecroft.”

Her gaze held mine before shifting to Harry. “I thought you said I wasn’t a suspect.”

“We’re just trying to establish the movements of everyone in that carriage,” he said, his voice friendly, encouraging. “You occupied the compartment next to Ruth’s, but our sources say you weren’t alone. Who sat with you?”

The concern that had tightened her face disappeared, replaced with the eagerness to impart some shocking knowledge. “I don’t know. He was a stranger.” She waited for us to take in what she’d said with a look of triumph. “That’s right, I said he . ‘E was most definitely a man dressed as a woman, which I can see from yer faces that yer didn’t know.”

I tried to digest her revelation and think of a follow-up question. Indeed, it wasn’t just what she’d said, but how she’d said it. The twang of a cockney accent was unmistakable.

Harry beat me to it. “Are you sure she wasn’t simply a woman with masculine features?”

She laughed. “Mr. Armitage, I work in theatrical comedy. I’ve seen my fair share of men dressed as women.” The cultured accent had returned. If she was aware she’d slipped into a cockney one, she gave no indication. “A man can’t hide his Adam’s apple without a high collar, and hers—his—wasn’t high enough.”

“Can you give us a more thorough description? Was he tall?”

“Not really. He was quite slim, too. But he was awfully ugly, either as a woman or man.” She touched the left side of her face. “The skin here was all wrinkled and puckered. I’d say it was an old burn scar.”

“Did you speak to him at any point?”

“No.”

“Did he get up and leave?”

“No. But someone did pass our compartment, as it happens. Another man, also rather ugly but in his case, it was because of his flat nose. There was a mean look about him, too. I didn’t like him.” She made a face. “I’m not sure which compartment he came from.”

“Did anyone else pass yours?” I asked.

“Just him.”

That matched with what Beecroft had claimed. Of course, if someone had ducked low, Geraldine wouldn’t have seen them.

“Thank you for your time,” I said, rising. “As for the gossip columnists, if they print that you were in Brighton, it’s not because of us. We don’t share our findings with journalists.”

She lifted one shoulder, unconcerned. “Be sure to purchase a ticket for the production. It’ll be spectacular.”

We saw ourselves out and waited until we were away from the theater before discussing the interview.

“We need to find that thug with the flat nose,” Harry said.

“He does seem guilty. Did you also notice her accent change? Beecroft’s did, too. I think they both had humble origins. The question is, is there something from their pasts they want to hide?”

“You think Ruth found out something scandalous and they killed her to keep her quiet?”

“It’s possible. I don’t want to rule anything out yet.” I glanced at the clock above the theatrical wigmaker’s shop. It was five minutes past eleven.

“Where to now?” Harry asked.

“Victoria Station. The express from Brighton will arrive soon. Hopefully the same conductor as last Thursday is working.”

According to the stationmaster, the same conductor was indeed working on the morning express from Brighton. We’d arrived a few minutes before it was due, and I would have liked to ask the stationmaster some questions, but he was too busy to chat. The platform was thick with passengers waiting to catch the next train, many making last-minute purchases of newspapers or sweets. Porters and other staff dressed in smart uniforms sporting the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway company’s badge on their caps were just as busy, so we could do nothing but wait.

The train’s arrival was announced by the staff moments before the locomotive appeared. It chugged to a stop in a cloud of steam. Harry and I rushed to the first-class carriage, determined to have the maximum time to speak to the conductor before the train departed.

The bearded fellow was indeed the same conductor working on that fateful journey. I introduced myself as one of the passengers that day and introduced Harry as a fellow private investigator.

“We’re making inquiries into the death of another passenger whose body was found at the Ouse Valley Viaduct. Do you know about it?”

“’Course I do! It was the talk of the railways when they found her. Sad business.”

“Her connections would like us to tie up some loose ends. Can we ask you some questions, Mr…?”

“West. Jack West. Aye, you can ask. I remember you, Miss Fox.” He removed a battered cigarette tin and matchbox from his pocket. “You asked me about the woman from the first compartment when we arrived here at Victoria. I should have been more concerned then, when she didn’t get off, but I just thought she’d moved to the next carriage when I wasn’t looking. If I’d listened to you…” He shook his head. “I feel real bad about it.”

“You couldn’t have done anything by then. It was much too late. Tell us what you recall of Ruth Price.”

He lit his cigarette then shook out the match to extinguish it. After drawing in his first puff, he blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Only that she sat in the closest compartment to the door here.”

“Did you hear any noises or voices coming from that compartment?” Harry asked.

“Nothing.

“Do you recall any other passengers from that journey aside from Miss Fox?”

“Aye. Let’s see now.” He scratched his beard with the hand that held the cigarette. “I definitely remember that actor, Beecroft, and the actress. I can’t recall her name.”

“You recognized them from their posters?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m not interested in the theater. The stationmaster at Brighton pointed them out. He and his wife like to go to Beecroft’s shows whenever they get up to London. He was real excited to see them.” He shrugged. “But they stayed in their compartments the entire journey. I s’pose they could’ve moved about when I wasn’t looking.”

I glanced past him to the conductor’s seat at the front of the carriage. Unless he closed his eyes, it would be impossible to miss a passenger in the corridor. “What about anyone coming and going? Do you remember seeing passengers moving between compartments?”

“Aye.” He tapped the side of his head. “I’ve got a good memory for faces. There were three passengers that I saw, and they all went into that poor woman’s compartment. A young girl who didn’t want to be seen by the folk in the compartments between the one she occupied with her parents and the first compartment.”

He must be referring to Odette Pridhurst. “Do you mean she bobbed down so they couldn’t see her pass?”

He nodded. “When she stepped out of the dead woman’s compartment again, she was crying. Another woman also entered the first compartment. She wore a big hat.”

“Was it red?”

He shook his head. “That actress wore the red hat. It was another woman.”

I removed my notebook and pencil from my bag. “Can you describe her?”

He hesitated. “I don’t like saying this, but if it helps…she wasn’t very nice to look at it. Her face was disfigured here.” He scratched the side of his beard. “And she looked mannish, if you get my meaning.”

Geraldine Lacroix had described her compartment companion in a similar fashion. “And the third person you saw moving around?”

“Another ugly person, this time a man. Flat nose, a laborer’s clothes. If I hadn’t seen his first-class ticket with my own two eyes, I’d have thought he snuck on without one. But I swear to you, I gave it a good look before I clipped a hole in it.”

“He also entered Ruth’s compartment?” I clarified.

“Aye.”

“At which point of the journey did the passengers enter her compartment?”

“And in what order?” Harry added.

Mr. West leaned one shoulder against the carriage as he blew out a puff of smoke. “This is where my memory fails me. I think the cove with the squashed nose was last, but as to the other two, I’m not sure. I reckon they all paid their visits to compartment one in the first half of the journey.”

“Before the viaduct?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about the flat-nosed man? Did you see him meet anyone here when he arrived?”

“Sorry, Miss, I didn’t. I get busy, seeing off passengers, communicating with the guards, that sort of thing.”

The stationmaster approached and cleared his throat to get Mr. West’s attention. The conductor hurriedly extinguished his cigarette and apologized to us. “I have to get back to work, but can I ask why you want to know everyone’s movements? I was told that girl threw herself off the train, but your questions make it sound like you suspect someone pushed her.”

I wasn’t sure whether to tell the truth or not. I didn’t want to worry him that there might be a murderer on the loose, but he could prove useful if he remembered something important. If he did, he’d be more inclined to inform us if he knew why it was important.

While I dithered, Harry stepped in with a ready explanation. “The police think she killed herself, but her brother doesn’t believe it. We hope our investigation will confirm one way or another for his peace of mind.” He handed the conductor a business card. “You can contact Miss Fox or me at my office. Thank you for your time, Mr. West.”

The conductor tucked the card into his pocket and gave us a nod before joining the stationmaster.

Harry suggested we stop and ask the other railway staff if they recalled the flat-nosed man getting off the first-class carriage last Thursday. Considering they saw hundreds of passengers pass them by every day, we weren’t surprised when none could remember him.

“He’s the key to this,” Harry said as we crossed the concourse to the exit. “Three witnesses have now claimed to have seen him moving about the carriage—Beecroft, who shared his compartment, Geraldine who saw him pass hers, and now the conductor says he saw him enter Ruth’s compartment.”

“How do we find the identity of one man in this city? His appearance is distinctive, but that’s all we have to go on.”

“Don’t get discouraged, Cleo. We’ll keep digging.”

“We will, but I don’t want to discount the other suspects yet. West says he saw the man dressed as a woman moving about, but Geraldine didn’t mention him leaving the compartment they shared.”

“She probably fell asleep,” Harry said.

“She didn’t mention it when we questioned her, and she did notice the flat-nosed thug. So she must have been awake when he passed. West also mentioned Odette, but no one else did, likely because she ducked under their windows. I think it’s time we question Lord Pridhurst. I want to hear his explanation for why his daughter was seen entering Ruth’s compartment.”

“Do you know where to find him?”

“Hopefully he still has business here in London. If he does, he’ll be staying at the Coburg Hotel.”

“Are you sure you want to be seen entering enemy territory?”

We stepped out of the station and into the sunshine. I raised my parasol and lowered it enough so that it hid part of my face. “No one will recognize me. You, however, are distinctive, Harry. Perhaps I should go alone.”

“You have it the wrong way around. I’ll go alone. Nobody cares if I come and go from rival hotels, and I have the business cards to prove I’m a private detective. Pridhurst knows who your family are, Cleo. If he doesn’t like your questions, he’ll have no qualms informing Sir Ronald.”

He didn’t need to explain what would happen if my uncle learned what investigation I was really working on. “All right, you can question him. But I want to hear what he has to say.”

Being the middle of a warm August day, the Coburg Hotel was relatively quiet. Lord Pridhurst wasn’t there. The manager told Harry that he hadn’t checked out, but was merely conducting business elsewhere in the city. Harry left a written message for his lordship at the post desk requesting he meet him at Speakers’ Corner at Hyde Park since the closer garden of Grosvenor Square was for the use of residents only.

In Hyde Park, I sat on a bench seat, pretending to read a newspaper, while Harry stood near the temperance reformer decrying the evils of alcoholic consumption from her platform of an upturned milk crate. She didn’t attract much of a crowd, so I easily spotted Lord Pridhurst when he arrived. Harry approached him and, after introductions, led him toward me. They sat on the bench seat next to mine. Even though Harry made sure Lord Pridhurst had his back to me, I kept my newspaper raised so that only my eyes and hat would be visible if he looked.

“What is the meaning of this?” Pridhurst snarled. “Your message mentioned my daughter is in some sort of trouble. How can she be when she is safely at home?”

“The trouble relates to the journey from Brighton to London last Thursday,” Harry said. “I’m investigating the death of a passenger. She was thrown out of the moving train as it traveled over the Ouse Valley Viaduct. A witness saw your daughter enter the woman’s compartment.”

I expected Lord Pridhurst to spray Harry with a blistering denial, but he went very quiet. When the denial finally came, it was ice-cold. “Your so-called witness is lying. I don’t know why he or she is trying to besmirch my name, but leave my daughter out of it. She is innocent. She never left our compartment.”

“There’s a second witness who saw Odette looking upset at the end of the journey.”

“Another lie. You, Armitage, have a responsibility not to smear the names of the innocent. Tell the dead woman’s family that the police verdict is correct. Whether they like it or not, that is the truth.” He stood.

“Sit down, Pridhurst,” Harry said, calmly. “I haven’t finished.”

Lord Pridhurst pointed a finger at Harry. “Now hear this. If you continue to harass my family, I will not hesitate to inform the police. I have friends in high places who will destroy your pathetic little agency.” He slapped his hands together behind his back and marched off.

“Will you tell them Ruth Price knew about your meeting with Keats?” Harry said. He did not rise from the bench. He didn’t even raise his voice.

But Lord Pridhurst stopped dead.

Harry continued. “Will you also tell the police that to repay the debt you owe Keats you’ll have to sell your share of the shipping company, and that if Mr. Holland discovers you no longer have ownership, he no longer has a reason to court Odette?”

“How dare you.” Lord Pridhurst’s low voice was barely audible. It seemed it finally worried him that I could overhear.

I raised the newspaper higher, completely obscuring my view. I heard Harry get up and join him. Now out of earshot of their whispers, I could only guess what transpired between them. I lowered my newspaper to my lap.

Lord Pridhurst’s finger did a great deal of aggressive pointing. Harry let him rant, perhaps hoping he would drop an important detail in the verbal stream. It ended when his lordship stormed off. The problem was, he stormed off in my direction. He looked at me, frowned harder, then walked on by.

I didn’t dare glance over my shoulder to see if he turned back around.

Harry joined me. “I’m not sure if you caught any of that, but if not, you didn’t miss anything. There were a lot of vague threats that usually began with him saying ‘Do you know who I am?’ or ‘I know people in high places.’ He finished with the accusation that I was ‘no better than the gutter press’, which I thought was ironic.”

“I’m sorry to put you through that, Harry.”

“I’ve experienced worse from angry hotel guests who didn’t get things they wanted when they wanted them. At least now I don’t have to be concerned I’ll be reported to my superior. I rather like being my own governor.” It seemed to be a new personal revelation for him, one that pleased him.

We walked past the new orator, a wizened old man with a flowing white beard. Although the crate on which he stood appeared to be the same, his topic was quite different to the temperance reformer’s. He’d attracted a larger crowd, too, who listened intently as he told them the end of the world was mere weeks away.

Neither of us was in a hurry as we made our way to the Apsley House end of Hyde Park. The weather was warm without being hot, and Hyde Park was in full summer glory. Picnickers lazed beneath shady trees after enjoying their midday feast, and children played games on the lawn while their governesses or mothers sat nearby, reading or chatting. A lady and gentleman on horseback passed us, heading to Rotten Row to show off their high-stepping mounts. Somewhere in the distance, a band played. The bright, brassy tune reminded me of the ones preferred by the bands in Brighton, and instantly conjured memories of the joys of holidaying at the seaside.

“We should go to Brighton,” I blurted out.

“That’s a bold suggestion, but all right. I’ll pack my bathing costume.”

I knew he was joking and didn’t really think I was proposing a seaside tryst, but I felt compelled to set him straight anyway. “Just for the day. If we catch the first express there and the last one back to London, we can spend several hours investigating. We’ll begin with speaking to the staff at the hotel where Ruth stayed.”

“Do you know which hotel?”

“No, but Mrs. Scoop does. We’ll head to her office now and ask her.”

I quickened my steps, and Harry’s long strides effortlessly kept pace. “What will you tell your family?” he asked.

“I’m not sure yet, but it will either involve the library or museum.”

He laughed softly. “We’ll also make sure we don’t get on the train together, just in case someone on the station recognizes you.”

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind, and I don’t think you should come, Harry. There’s no need, and as you say, we don’t want anyone seeing us together.”

“I’m coming, Cleo.”

“I don’t need you there.”

“I’m not going to help you. I’m going because I haven’t been to the seaside in a long time, and I have a desire to go. Honestly, you think everything is about you.”

I was about to defend myself when a quick glance at him revealed he was grinning at me.

“Besides,” he went on, “I’m rather enjoying seeing you panic about spending an entire day with me at a seaside holiday town. I want to see how it plays out.”

“I am not panicking. Honestly, Harry, you’re the one who thinks everything is about you. Fine. I will allow you to come, but do not pack a bathing costume. There’ll be no time for anything other than investigating.”

I hoped he didn’t see my face heat as the panic he’d noticed set in further. He was right. I’d realized after suggesting it that spending time at the popular destination for newlyweds and holidaying couples was a dreadful idea.