Page 54 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“How did you know? Lady Pridhurst telephoned.”
“Oh.”
“You were hoping someone else called?”
“No, not at all. What did she have to say?”
“She asked to have afternoon tea with you tomorrow, here. Just you and her daughter. If you can’t make it, you’re to let her know. She’s staying at the Coburg Hotel.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hobart.” I saw him glance at the clock on the wall behind the front desk. “Are you about to head home?”
“I am. Mrs. Hobart will have my dinner ready at seven, as usual. I don’t like to be late when she’s gone to all that effort.”
“You’re a good husband.”
“If I am, then it’s because she makes it easy for me.”
It was such a simple statement, said in rather an offhanded manner, yet it resonated with me. Being married to the right person ought to make life easy, even when times were difficult.Especiallywhen times were difficult. Mr. Hobart was fortunate in that he’d found someone who did that for him.
Perhaps some couples didn’t work because they were mismatched in too many ways. Perhaps those couples were doomed from the start. Marrying someone because she fell pregnant after a drunken night together wasn’t the sturdiest foundation for a long, loving relationship.
I recountedmy findings to D.S. Fanning the following morning at his desk. He didn’t have his own office, but sat with the other policemen in a crowded, noisy room. In many ways, it was much like the office ofThe Evening Bulletin, with its hum of activity and people coming and going, squeezing past desks and talking over the top of each other. Unlike the newspaper, however, Scotland Yard didn’t employ typists. I was the only woman in the room.
Detective Fanning didn’t make any notes. He listened with his arms crossed, if he was indeed listening at all. He probably wouldn’t have agreed to meet me if it hadn’t been for Monty taking me through from the front desk when I arrived. Monty wasn’t his superior—they were both sergeants—but Fanning seemed to respect him enough to humor me.
Unfortunately, Monty was called away and Fanning was growing more disinterested by the minute.
I wrapped up my account by summarizing what I wanted from him. “You have to find the man who shared Beecroft’s compartment. Have the press put out a description of him. He’s very distinctive. Perhaps an illustrator could speak to the other travelers on that train, including Beecroft, and make a sketch to pass around.”
“So, Beecroft’s real name is Blaine?”
“Yes. Clement Blaine. His wife called him Clem, so I assume he only changed his surname, not his first.”
“And he’s no better than me, you say?” He huffed a humorless laugh. “The lads will like that.”
“Secondly, an autopsy needs to be conducted to find Ruth’s cause of death.” I put up my hands to ward off the argument I knew was coming. “I know you think it was suicide, but in light of new evidence, the possibility of murder must be considered.”
“What evidence? You’ve presented me with nothing substantial, just theories. The family have buried the body, Miss Fox. It would be ungodly to dig it up now. You and that other fellow need to leave this alone. There’s no definitive evidence to suggest she was murdered.”
“Other fellow? Do you mean Harry Armitage?”
He shook his head. “The one who came here telling me the girl would never have killed herself, and that she was probably murdered. Real insistent, he was. He had to be removed by three constables.”
“Was it her brother, Enoch Price?”
“Big brute of a fellow. Looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Ruby Robert. The boxer, Bob Fitzsimmons,” he added when I stared back, open-mouthed.
“That’s him! That’s the fellow who shared the compartment with Beecroft, the one the conductor said entered Ruth’s compartment. Geraldine Lacroix also saw him pass her compartment. He’s the one whose likeness you should have distributed to the press.”
Detective Fanning scratched his sideburns. “You think he murdered her?”
“It’s a strong possibility. I place him at the top of my suspect list.”
Fanning shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. If he murdered the girl, why would he come here and tell me to reopen the investigation? Wouldn’t he be relieved I concluded it was suicide?”
His point took the wind out of my sails. He was right. The man probably wasn’t the murderer. But he was an important witness. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Sorry, Miss Fox. I only have a name.” He removed a file from his drawer and flipped through the pages until he came to the one he wanted. “Here it is. Thomas Salter. Ring any bells?”
