Page 49 of Murder on the Brighton Express
I shot him a smile. “Do be careful not to let any reporters in today.”
He grunted then settled his feet apart, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He looked ready to turn away anyone who looked slightly gossipy. I hoped he didn’t get too zealous and refuse entry to an important guest.
Gossip reporters were firmly on my mind, and my agenda, on the omnibus ride to Fleet Street. Harry and I were both sure that Ruth Price had telephoned Mrs. Scoop on the day before her death from the Brighton pharmacy, and I was determined to find out what Ruth had said, and why Mrs. Scoop failed to mention it to me when I questioned her.
The clerk at the front desk went to fetch Mrs. Scoop when I announced myself, but he returned with Mr. Finlayson. The editor charged into the reception area, his heavy brow plunged into a deep furrow. I wasn’t sure whether the editor always looked annoyed or whether I’d just happened to see him at his worst every time I’d been here. I suspected he looked pink with rage even while he forked his favorite meal into his mouth.
I greeted him cordially.
He greeted me with a barked question. “Has her notebook been found?”
“Pardon?”
“Scoop’s assistant, the dead girl. You found the body, and I’m asking if you also found her notebook. It belongs to the newspaper. You are legally required to hand it over.”
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to pull the wool over my eyes, but the point was moot. “I don’t have it, nor have I seen it.”
“If you do come across it, you must return it.”
Mrs. Scoop spotted us through the window from the newsroom and made directly for us.
The editor had his back to the newsroom door, so didn’t see Mrs. Scoop emerge. “What evidence do you have that she was murdered?” he asked me.
“I, er, am not at liberty to say.”
“If you do uncover evidence of foul play, I ought to be the first to know.”
“Actually, I believe the police should be told first, then her family?—”
“I’ll pay you.”
Mrs. Scoop strode to us, her arms crossed over her chest. “We have an agreement, Finlayson.” Her voice was quiet, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear.
He didn’t seem to care, or perhaps he wasn’t capable of speaking in a tone lower than a bellow. “Your agreement is irrelevant in this situation.” He turned to her fully, his brow even more furrowed. “Or is it?”
“We’ll discuss it later.”
He grunted, then pushed open the newsroom door. Once it closed behind him, Mrs. Scoop indicated I should move to the side where no one could overhear us talk.
“What is it this time, Miss Fox?” she asked on a sigh. She was clearly fed up with seeing me. I wasn’t too enthusiastic about being at the office ofThe Evening Bulletinmyself, but it was a necessary evil.
“Ruth made a telephone call from Brighton last Wednesday, the day before she died.”
“And?”
“She telephoned you, didn’t she?”
“No, Miss Fox. Whoever told you that is lying.”
“A witness overheard her urging you to go to print with a particular story. What was it?”
Mrs. Scoop flicked her fingers in a wave, dismissing my question. “I don’t recall.”
“Then allow me to refresh your memory. Ruth overheard Clement Beecroft on the telephone organizing to meet someone. She followed him and saw or heard something newsworthy. She thought it important enough to telephone you immediately.”
Mrs. Scoop’s fingers made a flicking motion again. I suspected she wished she was holding a cigarette. “Very well. You have forced my hand, Miss Fox. I’ll tell you the truth. You’re right. Ruth telephoned me from Brighton. She told me she’d seen Clement Beecroft with Geraldine Lacroix, the lead actress from his latest production. They were…intimate.”
“No. Ruth called you about something else, something more. Everyone knows Beecroft has liaisons with his leading ladies. That’s not newsworthy enough for her to telephone you, or to urge you to go to print. Why are you lying, Mrs. Scoop?”
