Chapter 9

T he clerk at the front desk at The Evening Bulletin recognized me from my last visit. Somewhat reluctantly, he went to fetch Mrs. Scoop only to return without her. “She says to go through, Miss Fox.”

I hesitated. Through the window behind him, I could see Mr. Finlayson railing at a hapless journalist. The ridged veins on the editor’s forehead were visible from where we stood, his words also clearly audible. The journalist had missed a deadline.

“We’ll wait a moment,” I told Harry.

After shooting a final round of blistering words at his target, Mr. Finlayson stormed into his office and slammed the door. The young journalist looked like he wanted to crawl under his desk, but he stayed to accept the sympathetic pats on the back from colleagues.

“Now we can go in,” I said, leading the way.

As with my last visit, few of the journalists paid us any attention. The typists and stenographers, however, looked twice—at Harry, not me.

Mrs. Scoop was the only woman to give me more attention than Harry. Her gaze narrowed upon seeing him, but she otherwise paid him no mind. “The police still think Ruth died by her own hand, Miss Fox. I spoke to them myself. So why is your investigation ongoing?”

I took my cue from her and didn’t bother with pleasantries. I didn’t even introduce Harry. “Is that why your newspaper hasn’t printed anything about her death?”

“It’s hardly newsworthy. People throw themselves off trains all the time.”

Considering the person in question was her assistant, her response seemed heartless. “What hotel did she check into in Brighton?”

Mrs. Scoop reached for her cigarette tin and removed one. Was she delaying? Why would she, if she had nothing to hide? “Rutherford House.”

It wasn’t familiar to me, but Brighton had many accommodation options catering to a variety of visitors. I thanked her and was about to leave, but Mr. Finlayson emerged from his office at that moment to shout at another journalist.

I dawdled in the relative safety of Mrs. Scoop’s office. To make conversation, I asked her again what investigations Ruth was working on.

“I told you last time,” she said. “Pridhurst and the Hessing wedding. A short memory will do you no good in your profession, Miss Fox. Is that why he’s here? To take notes for you?” She jabbed her lit cigarette in Harry’s direction. “Or is it for his looks?”

I bristled. “Mr. Armitage is an excellent private investigator. We’re working on this case together.” Considering I teased Harry about his looks and the way women responded to him all the time, my defensive reaction surprised me.

Mrs. Scoop blew smoke through her nose along with her huff.

My annoyance drove me to press her harder. “Don’t you find it surprising that Ruth didn’t see Clement Beecroft or Geraldine Lacroix in Brighton?”

She rounded the desk and reached for the door handle. “Not at all. Ruth had enough on her plate.”

“ The London Tattler knew about Geraldine. Did it upset you to miss out on the scoop?” At the sound of Mr. Finlayson’s office door slamming shut again, I added, “Did it upset your editor?”

She gave a brittle laugh as she opened the door. “I’ll see you out.”

Harry waited for us to exit ahead of him, but Mrs. Scoop insisted he go first. I suspected that was so I could see the effect he had on the typists. Their heads turned to follow him as he passed their desks.

My assumption was proved correct when Mrs. Scoop caught my elbow. She bent to whisper in my ear. “Be careful, Miss Fox. Handsome men can ruin an intelligent girl’s life.”

I pulled free and hurried after Harry. Once in the reception area, I peered through the window behind the front desk, catching Mrs. Scoop watching us.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Harry as we exited onto Fleet Street.

“For what?”

“For teasing you about your looks.”

“I don’t mind it coming from you, because I know you value me for all my other attributes.”

My irritation with Mrs. Scoop suddenly vanished. Harry had a way of dragging me out of bad moods like no one else. “ All your other attributes?”

“I could list them for you, but it would take too long, and you already know them anyway.”

I laughed. “Careful, Harry. Your arrogance might have me changing my mind.”

“Would you like me to balance it by listing all the wonderful things about you, too?”

My cheeks flamed. For the second time in as many hours, I quickened my pace to outstrip him. Once again, it was no use. His long strides easily kept up. A sideways glance proved he realized his compliment unsettled me, and he was enjoying himself.

Drat him.

The Mayfair’s old restaurant, now the ballroom, was off-limits to everyone, including me. Mr. Chapman had instructed a footman to stand guard and turn away curious guests and staff alike. The steward smirked at me after my attempt to peek inside failed. I wondered if he would also refuse my uncle entry or whether it was just me. I was probably the only family member banned from entering. Mr. Chapman didn’t like me much.

I took the stairs to the fourth floor, but didn’t enter my suite. I’d not spoken to my aunt for more than a few minutes since returning from Brighton. I couldn’t avoid her forever. Nor should I. She needed to know we all cared about her. If she was irritable, I wouldn’t take it to heart. Indeed, I’d see it as a good sign because it meant she hadn’t taken her tonic and the withdrawal was affecting her mood.

My uncle and aunt’s suite was larger than mine, with the best view over Green Park of all the hotel’s rooms. While my suite had been furnished in fine style, it had few personal touches aside from my photographs and books. Theirs housed paintings and decorations chosen by my aunt, as well as dozens of framed photographs on the occasional tables. There was even a photograph of my mother and father on their wedding day. Considering Aunt Lilian had been forbidden from attending her sister’s wedding by their parents, the photograph must have been sent directly to her by my mother. It was a testament to her love for my mother that she’d kept it, and most likely even hidden it from her parents while they were still alive.

Aunt Lilian reclined on the sofa in a loose-fitting gown that made her thin frame seem skeletal. A whirring electric fan ruffled her hair, which was hanging past her shoulders. The silvery-gray strands were a similar color to her skin. There were no books or magazines within reach, just a dry cloth and a basin of water.

She didn’t smile at me. She didn’t even attempt one. Nor did she greet me with her usual kindness. In the past, even when Aunt Lilian was at her worst, she always gave me a warm welcome. Now, she could no longer manage even that.

“What is it, Cleo?” she asked on a heavy sigh.

I didn’t want to tell her I was worried about her, or that I felt guilty for not seeing much of her these last few days. In her current mood, she’d accuse me of pitying her. Instead, I asked for help.

“You always know so much about members of society, Aunt. I hoped you could tell me about Lord and Lady Pridhurst of Wellingborough.”

She raised herself up from the cushions and swung her bare feet to the floor. Her lips pinched. I thought it was because the movement caused her pain, but it may have been because my question, or my presence, irritated her. “What do the Pridhursts have to do with anything, Cleopatra? Are you investigating again?”

“I… Uh…”

“Can you not leave good people alone? Everyone has secrets, but it doesn’t mean they should be exposed for all and sundry to gossip over. Why must you open old wounds?”

My last investigation had indeed opened old wounds for a family my aunt would consider ‘good people’ and this investigation threatened to expose fresh ones the Pridhursts were trying to hide. She’d only just met them in Brighton, but that encounter was enough for her to identify with their need for privacy.

“I’m sorry, Aunt.” I took the cloth and dipped it into the basin. The water was no longer cool, but a damp cloth should give her a little relief. “Place this on your forehead then I’ll leave you be.”

She pushed my hand away. “Fetch my tonic. It’s beside the bed.”

I chewed the inside of my lip.

“Cleopatra! I asked you to fetch my tonic.”

“I don’t think you should have any more. It’s not good for you.”

She clicked her tongue in irritation and pushed herself to her feet. “You’re not a doctor,” she snapped as she carefully made her way to the adjoining bedroom.

I slipped out of her suite and almost bumped into Uncle Ronald about to enter. He must have realized from the look on my face that I’d had an uncomfortable encounter with Aunt Lilian.

He reached past me and closed the door. “Perhaps I’ll come back later.”

He went to walk off, but I stopped him. “She’s still taking the tonic.”

“We have a dinner party to attend tonight. She needs to get through it in lively spirits.”

“She needs to stop taking the tonic altogether. It’s doing more harm than good.”

He patted my shoulder. “It’s kind of you to worry, but her doctor has prescribed it. He knows what he’s doing, Cleopatra. He has a great deal of experience with treating female melancholia.”

I watched him walk to his office, wondering if I should continue to press my point.

Floyd didn’t give me a chance to make a decision. He raced out of the stairwell, glanced at the lift door beside it, and grabbed my arm. “Your rooms, Cleo. Now.”

He ushered me inside before closing the door behind us. He leaned back against it, his breathing coming in ragged bursts.

“Did you run up the stairs?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Who are you avoiding?”

“The Hessing witch.”

“That’s not nice, Floyd.”

“Trust me when I say it’s the nicest word I can think of. I was waiting for the lift in the foyer when she saw me. She called out to me, so I pretended not to hear and took the stairs instead. I’d wager good money she caught the lift and followed me up here.”

“She may not be following you. Her room is on this floor.”

He pressed his ear to the door, listening. “I should’ve taken the service stairs down to the kitchen instead of coming upstairs. She wouldn’t chase me there. She abhors seeing how hard the staff work almost as much as she abhors subtlety.”

I was about to tell Floyd that she may have merely wanted to say hello, when a sharp rap on my door startled him. It sounded like it was made with the end of a walking stick.

Floyd jumped. “Get rid of her, Cleo.” He hurried away down the short corridor to my sitting room.

“Floyd,” I hissed.

“I know you’re in there, Miss Fox,” came the brusque American voice of one of our most important guests.

I wasn’t sure how Mrs. Hessing knew I was in my suite. She could have been guessing, but I opened the door anyway. I smiled. “Mrs. Hessing, what a lovely?—”

“Is he in here?” She tried to peer past me, but I stood my ground. She couldn’t enter unless I got out of the way.

“Who?”

“Don’t act the fool. Your cousin, Mr. Bainbridge. I saw him run up the stairs.”

“He’s probably in his own suite.”

“I doubt that. If he’s avoiding me, he’d come here. He knows you’d protect him.”

“My dear Mrs. Hessing, why would I want to protect him? I think my cousin is a ridiculous fellow, not to mention a coward, and I’d find it amusing to see him squirm.” I folded my arms over my chest and smiled.

She narrowed her gaze at me. She wasn’t sure if I was joking or not. “When you see him, tell him I do not like to be taken advantage of by anyone.”

“Is Floyd taking advantage of you?”

“Not him. The florist and the suppliers of the decorations. Tell Mr. Bainbridge that he must negotiate prices down. I will not be the laughingstock of London’s tradesmen. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Mrs. Hessing, no one would dare laugh. I think they’re all very aware that there is nothing amusing about you.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “Good day, Miss Fox.”

“Good day, Mrs. Hessing.” I closed the door and marched into the sitting room.

Floyd sat on the edge of my writing desk, his arms and ankles crossed. “Ridiculous? A coward? Good lord, Cleo, it’s lucky I know you adore me or my feelings might be hurt.”

“Very amusing. We both know you don’t have feelings, Floyd.”

He pushed off from the desk and pecked the top of my head. “Thank you, Cousin.” Genuine warmth softened his voice. “You saved me.”

“I ought to charge you a fee for every time I rescue you.”

He grinned. “But that would take all the fun out of it for you.”

Early the following morning I passed Mr. Hobart entering the hotel, a newspaper tucked under his arm. I told him that if anyone should ask for me to tell them I was spending the day at the museum. I could see from his smile that he didn’t believe me, but he asked me which one.

“All of them,” I said before strolling past Frank as he held the door open for me.

I met Harry on board one of the second-class cars of the express train to Brighton. Neither of us wanted to pay the first-class fee. The carriage was full. Harry and I sat opposite a couple who were clearly newlyweds going by the way they stared into one another’s eyes. Harry and I didn’t speak.

A chill ran down my spine as we passed over the Ouse Valley Viaduct. I glanced at Harry, only to see him watching me. We exchanged grim looks.

A taxicab took us from Brighton Station to Rutherford House. Situated a few streets back from the beach, it was quieter than the Grand Brighton Hotel, and a great deal smaller. The hotel occupied two elegant cream-colored Georgian terraces with black wrought iron balconies outside every window on the lower floors. The terraces would have been originally owned by wealthy gentlemen, but now guests paid by the night. I suspected the cost was high enough to ensure the tradition of wealthy occupants continued.

Understated elegance continued inside. The cool marble columns and counter were welcome on such a warm day, while the soft greens, blues and sandy colors of the furnishings oozed seaside luxury rather than city opulence. Like the Mayfair, floral arrangements and potted palm trees were popular. Thanks to its small size, however, the greenery made the Rutherford House foyer feel a little too much like a jungle. The detective in me couldn’t help thinking that it offered numerous places to hide, for both clandestine meetings and to eavesdrop.

Not only was the foyer small, but the entire hotel couldn’t have had more than twenty rooms. With so few guests at one time, it would be easier for the staff to remember Ruth Price. Her name didn’t ring any bells at the check-in desk, however. When I told the clerk that I was investigating her death, he even searched through his register. Her name didn’t appear.

Harry and I left without any clue where to try next. We stood on the pavement near the portico entrance, both of us lost in thought. There were so many hotels in Brighton. It would be impossible to find where Ruth had stayed.

“Why did Mrs. Scoop lie?” I looked up at the black lettering of the hotel’s name above the entrance. “She must know we’ll return to London and accuse her of being deceitful. It only makes her look suspicious.”

Harry shrugged. “Perhaps she simply forgot, and this is a hotel she once stayed in herself.”

I wasn’t convinced. Mrs. Scoop was too sharp to forget the name of the hotel that she must have booked and paid for. I gasped as a thought occurred to me. “Mrs. Scoop organized Ruth’s accommodation, just like she planned for Ruth to stay at the Mayfair Hotel to spy for her. She made that reservation under a false name: Mrs. Blaine.”

Harry indicated I should walk back inside ahead of him. The doorman, who’d been standing there watching us with a curious expression, opened the door again.

“Do you recall a guest named Mrs. Blaine staying here about a week ago?” I asked him.

“The name is familiar. What did she look like?”

“Young woman, spectacles, brown hair, freckles. Oh, and she carried a brown leather bag with her.”

“I remember her! She wouldn’t let the porter carry her bag.”

“What else do you remember about her?”

“She was very interested in some other guests staying here. I saw her watching them from behind a palm tree. Sometimes she’d write notes in her notebook, too.”

So, she did have a notebook. It hadn’t been found with her other belongings at the Ouse Valley Viaduct.

“Who were they?” I asked.

The doorman shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

Harry held out his hand. The doorman shook it then slipped his hand and the bribe into his pocket. He closed the door he’d been holding open the entire time. “An actor and actress from London. Beecroft was his name, but I don’t recall hers. It sounded foreign. They weren’t staying together, but they were together, if you understand my meaning.” He winked, to make sure that we did.

Not only did we now know for certain that Geraldine and Beecroft had conducted an affair, we also knew that Ruth knew about it. According to Mrs. Scoop, Ruth hadn’t been sent to Brighton to watch them, so she must have simply stumbled upon them while staying in the same hotel.

“Do you think either Beecroft or his lady friend noticed Ruth watching them?” I asked.

The doorman scrubbed his jaw. “Hard to say. Beecroft did seem anxious from the very start of his stay. When he got out of the cab on his arrival, he looked around, as if he was worried he’d been followed from the station. Then for the duration of his stay, he kept asking me if I’d seen anyone lurking nearby who shouldn’t be here.”

“Did he describe the person he thought might be watching him?” I asked.

“No.”

“ Was anyone lurking?”

“Not that I noticed. His anxiety got worse after the first telephone call.”

“First?” Harry prompted.

“Beecroft received two while he was here. The only telephone device is at the front desk, but it’s not for the use of guests to make outgoing calls. It shouldn’t really be for the guests’ use at all, but he’s famous and the front desk clerk told me both callers wanted to speak to Beecroft in person, not leave a message.” The doorman leaned closer to us. “The first call was on the Tuesday, the day after Beecroft arrived. The second was on the Wednesday, the day before he checked out. Both conversations got heated.”

“Did you overhear anything specific?”

“Not from here, but the clerk at the front desk told me the first call was from a man, and it sounded like Beecroft was agreeing to meet him, but reluctantly. He refused at first, but the man on the end must have been insistent, because Beecroft eventually gave in.”

“Do you know where the meeting took place?” Harry asked.

“The clerk didn’t catch that part.”

“And the second call, on the Wednesday?”

“That was from a woman, and the call came from London. Beecroft argued with her, telling her to stop pestering him. He called her a name which I can’t repeat in front of a lady, Miss Fox, but if you want to hear it, sir, I can whisper in your ear.”

Harry declined the offer. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything that struck you as odd?”

“There was one thing. Beecroft’s accent changed to a cockney one when he spoke on the telephone.” The doorman looked pleased with himself for discovering that piece of information. “I bet the London gossips would like to speculate about his past if they knew that.”

He was right, but reporters would want more details first. Perhaps Ruth had uncovered those details, even learning the identity of the man and woman on the other end of the telephone line. Perhaps she planned to give her notes to Mrs. Scoop upon her return to London, but Beecroft stole the notebook then killed her.

I asked the doorman if there’d been any guests at the hotel matching the description of the man with the burn mark or the man with the flat nose.

He shook his head. “Do you reckon one of them made the first telephone call to Beecroft?”

Neither Harry nor I commented.

“You should speak to my friend,” the doorman went on. “He works at his father’s pharmacy.” He pointed down the street in the direction of the beach. “Their silence cabinet is the closest one to this hotel, and my friend reckons he’s always listening in to people’s telephone calls.”

“Isn’t the point of a silence cabinet that calls can’t be overheard?” Harry asked.

“My friend is nosy. He found a way. He might remember one of your suspects making a telephone call to the hotel, on account of their faces being distinctive.”

It was a good theory. If I was watching Beecroft and wanted to arrange a meeting with him but do so without showing my face at the hotel, I’d do it over the telephone, and I’d choose the closest one.

Harry and I headed in the direction of the pharmacy. “Do you think the woman who telephoned Beecroft was his wife?” I asked.

“It would be my first guess, particularly as the call came from London.”

I glanced back toward the Rutherford Hotel’s doorman. “Hotel staff make good witnesses. They can go almost anywhere, and no one pays them any attention.”

“Their low wages also make them susceptible to bribery,” Harry added with a wry grin.

“I think we should go to the Grand Brighton Hotel next and speak to the staff who were on duty when Ruth left me a message to meet her. Their shift had ended by the time I received it, and the change of staff meant no one remembered her, but hopefully we’ll find one of them today.”

“Good idea. We’ll go after we speak to the pharmacist’s assistant.”

The pharmacy’s silence cabinet was located beside a display of Dr. Gunston’s Hair Oil stacked on a table off to the side. A sign on the shop window advertised the booth’s availability for members of the public to use to make telephone calls in private, for a modest cost. We found the hotel doorman’s friend reading a detective novel in the staff room.

Harry described the two suspects to him, but the youth shook his head. He seemed disappointed that he couldn’t help. On a whim, I asked him about Beecroft, but again, he shook his head.

“He’s the actor who stayed at Rutherford House, isn’t he?” the youth asked.

“He is.”

“Someone did make a call from our booth, and they mentioned him—Clement Beecroft—to the person on the other end.”

“Was it a woman with spectacles, freckles, and carrying a brown bag?”

The youth nodded eagerly, and offered up as much information as he could recall. We didn’t even have to bribe him. I suspected the well-thumbed Sherlock Holmes mystery had something to do with his enthusiasm. “I heard the woman say she’d stumbled on a big story, and that the person on the other end had to print it. She said that more than once: ‘You have to print it.’ The woman became frustrated, and I reckon the person on the other end didn’t like her tone. The call was ended mid-sentence.”

“When was this?” I asked.

The assistant thought back. “It was around midday last Wednesday. I remember because my mother makes eel pies on Tuesdays and always packs leftovers for Dad and me to have on Wednesdays for lunch. They’re delicious cold.”

Wednesday was the same day Beecroft received his second call, and the day I first saw Ruth watching the Pridhursts, then met her later.

It was the day before she died.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about the woman who made that call here?” Harry asked.

The youth shrugged. “She tucked a notebook back into her bag after she came out of the silence cabinet. Is that important?”

Neither of us answered him.

Outside, I led the way to the Grand Brighton Hotel on Kings Road. A cool breeze drifted off the sea, ruffling my skirts, and making the midday sun more bearable. My thoughts were fixed on what we’d learned about our victim and main suspect, but Harry’s were not.

“Perfect day for it,” he declared.

“For sleuthing?”

“For swimming.”

I followed his gaze to the sea. Sunlight glinted off the water as it gently lapped against the sand. Several women’s bathing machines were out, and children paddled in the shallows or made sandcastles. Men swam out from the beach but were too far from the women and children to be seen clearly. The segregation of the sexes protected the modesty of everyone. It was a peaceful summer scene compared to the busy piers with their colorful and noisy entertainments.

“A shame you didn’t bring your bathing costume,” I said. “The hotel is this way.”

“Let’s have something to eat first.”

We purchased fish and chips from a small wooden hut on the beachfront promenade and sat on the beach to eat it. I removed my lace gloves to keep them clean, while Harry opened up the paper wrapping to make it easier to share. It wasn’t long before we had to fend off hungry seagulls. One even dared come between us and snatch a chip off the paper.

“I’m naming that one Cleopatra,” Harry said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s clever and brave. It waited until the end when we’re both full and feeling lazy, then made its move.”

“I was ready to be insulted. You rather took the wind out of my sails by paying me a compliment.”

“If I’d known comparing you to a seagull was the way to give you compliments without causing you to run away, I would have done it earlier.”

We were venturing into dangerous territory again, so I made no comment. To ensure I stayed silent, I decided to fill my mouth with more food, even though I was quite full. Harry must have had the same idea. We both reached for a chip at the same time. Our hands touched. I should have quickly withdrawn but did not. Something compelled me to linger and lift my gaze to see his face.

Harry’s little finger stroked mine. While I watched him, he studied our hands, as if fascinated by my bare skin, usually hidden within my glove.

I didn’t want to move away. I was frozen there, my skin tingling where he’d touched me. My heart clanged like a bell in my chest. Was it warning me? Or announcing something?

Either way, I knew in my bones that this moment would be one I remembered forever.