Page 36 of Murder on the Brighton Express
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 wellisit 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.Hewas a stranger.” She waited for us to take in what she’d said with a look of triumph. “That’s right, I saidhe. ‘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?”
