Page 23 of Murder on the Brighton Express
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?”
Chapter6
“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.
