Page 4 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“Why does it matter? You don’t have a choice.”
“There is always a choice, and there are some things I refuse to do for the sake of protecting my reputation. Reputations can be salvaged. A good conscience cannot.”
Our gazes locked, neither of us looking away. The battle of wills lasted until something behind me caught her attention. She quickly put her hand to her hat brim, hiding her face.
I turned around and searched the sea of faces belonging to the men and women promenading along the foreshore. I didn’t recognize any, but one man did appear to be watching us over the top of his newspaper. With his hat pulled down and the newspaper obscuring the lower part of his face, I could only see his eyes.
My blackmailer was rattled. “I-I’ll contact you again in London and we’ll discuss this further.”
She went to move off, but I blocked her path. “Why not discuss it now?”
“I have to be somewhere now.”
“Tomorrow then, before I leave Brighton.”
“I’m also leaving tomorrow. I’ll contact you at the Mayfair Hotel.” She tried to step around me, but I moved to block her again.
“WhyThe Evening Bulletin?” I asked.
“Pardon?”
“In your message, you specifically mentioned that newspaper. There are many newspapers that stoop to spreading gossip, so I’m curious as to why you wrote that particular one.”
The woman glanced behind me again, then, when I followed her gaze, she slipped away. With a hand to her hat, she hurried off. I let her go. She wasn’t going to offer any answers while someone watched her.
The entire encounter had been strange and left me with more questions. I’d not had the opportunity to ask her how she knew I was a private detective or that I lived at the Mayfair Hotel. Also, why was she watching the Pridhursts on West Pier earlier? Or had she been watching Flossy and me? Lastly, why was someone watching us just now, if indeed he had been? The man with the newspaper had disappeared into the crowd while I wasn’t looking, so I couldn’t question him.
The only information I’d gained from the encounter was her initials—R.P. At least, those were the initials etched on the brass plaque attached to her bag.
Patience not being my strong suit, I was frustrated that I had to wait to find out more, but I comforted myself with the knowledge that I would be sharper in London, and more focused. Here, I was in a holiday frame of mind.
Back at the Grand Brighton Hotel, none of the staff could tell me about the woman. No one had seen her leave the note at the post desk. It was growing late, however, and while the manager, assistant manager and front desk clerks were the same, the porters and doorman were different from those working earlier.
The checking-out procedurethe following morning was thrown into chaos when one of the clerks failed to arrive at work. With several guests leaving that day, the foyer of the Grand Brighton Hotel quickly became crowded as a queue formed at the desk. My aunt’s irritable mood didn’t help matters. Flossy and I tried telling her we wouldn’t be late for the train, but it did no good. She complained nonstop for the entire twenty-minute wait, albeit under her breath so that no one else heard. Thankfully, she didn’t take out her frustrations on the harried staff. As if she’d flipped a switch, she was all sympathetic smiles.
The brown and gold train was already waiting at the station when we arrived. Jane and Aunt Lilian’s maid headed to the second-class carriage while Flossy and Aunt Lilian climbed on board the first-class one. I told them I’d join them soon. I wanted a few moments of peace, before sitting in a confined space with my aunt for the next hour.
The platform bustled with activity as holidaymakers headed to their carriages and perspiring porters pushed trolleys laden with trunks. I spoke to the Pridhursts before they boarded and received a hug goodbye from Odette. A woman bumped into me, mumbled an apology then climbed aboard behind the Pridhursts. It was no wonder she didn’t see me, with her head down and a large hat decorated with wine-red feathers and flowers obscuring most of her face. She refused to accept the guard’s offered hand to assist her up the steps, leaving him blinking at her disappearing back in disappointment at the snub.
He planted a cheery smile on his face when another passenger approached. The passenger looked a little familiar, but it wasn’t until the guard greeted him by name that I realized he was Clement Beecroft, the actor and impresario Jane had seen swimming away from the bathing machine yesterday. He showed the guard his ticket, chatting amiably with him, before placing a foot on the step. He paused there, as if suddenly undecided if he should continue, before he made up his mind and entered.
I checked the clock jutting out on iron supports from the ticket booth. It was time to board. I approached the guard, but someone carrying a leather bag in both arms rushed past me. It was R.P., my blackmailer. If she saw me, she gave no indication.
The guard reached for her bag. “Allow me, ma’am.”
She jerked it out of his reach, and climbed aboard unaided.
I accepted the guard’s assistance and followed her. By the time I passed her, she’d already settled in the first compartment. She clutched the bag on her lap, even though the rack above was empty. She sat alone.
I joined Flossy and Aunt Lilian in a compartment further along, just as the guard called out to a passenger to hurry up and board, before his voice was drowned out by the hiss of steam. The guard blew his whistle, and we lurched forward.
After the conductor checked our tickets, Aunt Lilian removed her gloves and closed her eyes. The constant fidgeting with the lace gloves proved she wasn’t asleep, however. I relaxed into the soft velvet-covered seat and read a book while Flossy flipped through the pages of a fashion magazine. At one point, she asked me what I thought about one of the dresses in the magazine, but her mother shushed her. We stayed silent for the remainder of the journey.
The train sped through the picturesque countryside, until finally slowing when we reached London. The two stops before we arrived at Victoria Station were a welcome distraction from the taut silence in our compartment. Both times, I lowered the window and stuck my head out to watch the comings and goings, before raising it and settling back in my seat.
Eager to alight, Aunt Lilian stood before the train completely stopped at its final destination. She led the way out of the compartment and along the narrow corridor to the exit at the front of the carriage. I looked in at each of the compartments as we passed. Lord and Lady Pridhurst smiled and wished us a good day, but Odette continued to stare out of the window beside her, a handkerchief scrunched in her hand. I’d not met the other passengers in the next two compartments, although I did recognize Mr. Beecroft. The actor drummed his fingers on his thigh and tried to peer past me.
The man seated opposite him offered him a cigarette, but Mr. Beecroft declined with a shake of his head. The man looked out of place in the first-class carriage, dressed in a workingman’s clothes and cap. He had a rather distinctive face with a flat nose, as if it had been the target of too many fists. He must have been the fellow who’d almost missed the train in Brighton.
