Page 74 of Murder on the Brighton Express
Geraldine flinched ever so slightly at the mention of her married lover’s wife.
“Mrs. Scoop couldn’t expose your past in her column,” I went on. “She told Ruth to forget what she’d seen and heard, but Ruth knew the story was too big to simply let go.”
“What story? That I came from an East End slum and once knew a convicted felon named Jack West?” Beecroft dabbed his handkerchief across his forehead. “There’s nothing in that, Miss Fox.”
“I agree. It’s not enough. Not for Ruth Price to say she had an incredible story that must be printed, nor for Jack West to murder her on your behalf. That’s why we believe there’s more.”
He laughed, loudly. Too loudly. I must have been on the right path.
“You hid Jack West in here.” I indicated the closet. “He was hiding in here that first day we spoke to you. You pretended to smoke, but it washiscigarette.Youdon’t smoke.”
Geraldine didn’t correct me, so I assumed I was right.
“Why would I hide him?” Beecroft cried. “I wouldn’t hide someone simply because we knew each other years ago.”
“Perhaps he told you that you owed him,” I went on. “He’d murdered her for you, after all, to stop her selling the story of your shadowy past to another paper.”
Beecroft merely scoffed again, but Geraldine’s attention was now riveted. “What past? Clem, what did you do?”
“He was in the same gang as Jack West.” It was a leap, but not a very large one. Beecroft confirmed it with the slight pinching of his lips, followed by a vehement albeit belated denial.
I was prepared to let him rant, but Harry wasn’t.
“Enough,” he growled. “If you weren’t in West’s gang, roll up your sleeves.”
Beecroft spluttered an excessive refusal. He had a tendency to overact when he was trying to hide something.
Geraldine clutched Harry’s jacket tightly closed at her throat. “Why do you want him to roll up his sleeves?”
“Members of a particular gang have a tattoo on their forearm,” Harry said. “Five dots, arranged in the shape of a cross.”
She gasped, only to slap a hand over her mouth to smother it.
Beecroft gave a quick shake of his head at her. He tried to be subtle, but I saw it. If she saw it, too, she chose to ignore him. Geraldine was no longer his ally. She realized his downfall was imminent and it would be spectacular. She didn’t want to be dragged down with him. “He has the same tattoo on his left arm. My god, Clem. You lied to me. You told me you had nothing to do with her death, and that the police were simply overreacting to her suicide.” She sidled closer to Harry. “He asked me to lie for him and tell you I saw that thug pass my compartment window. I didn’t! I didn’t see anyone.”
“Because you fell asleep,” I said. She’d not even noticed Alistair McAllister leave.
She nodded. “Clem told me people would try to blame either him or me, because we’re famous, and the press would love knocking us off our perch. We couldn’t vouch for each other, because we weren’t in the same compartment, but we could throw suspicion onto someone else.”
“An innocent man,” Harry growled.
She edged away from him, blinking in surprise at his harsh tone. “He looked the most likely,” she muttered.
Beecroft folded his arms, as if he expected Harry to force his sleeves up to expose the tattoo. “You’re making all this up. If the conductor is guilty, it’s nothing to do with me. You can’t prove anything.”
“Perhaps not yet,” I said. “But when West is found, he’ll talk. He won’t want to take the entire blame for you.”
“For me! Ha!” He snapped his jaw shut and turned away.
Had he been about to tell us that West had murdered Ruth for more selfish reasons, perhaps to protect himself, not Beecroft?
That niggling feeling that we were missing something grew stronger.
Someone pounded on the door. “Scotland Yard! Open up!”
Harry opened the door. “It was unlocked,” he told D.S. Fanning.
Fanning threw back his shoulders and marched inside. “Armitage, isn’t it? Hobart’s son? He telephoned me and told me to come here and arrest a suspect.” He glanced between Geraldine and Beecroft. “You’d better tell me what’s going on.”
