Page 77 of Murder on the Brighton Express
It was best if I didn’t press him for his opinion further. I knew that he knew I was afraid of getting too close to him. If he told me as much, I could no longer pretend my feelings for him had nothing to do with my fear.
“No more keeping our distanceifwe work on an investigation together that satisfies my uncle’s requirements,” I clarified. “We got away with it this time because he believes we’re still looking for Mrs. Hessing’s gossip columnist.”
“I’m not afraid of Sir Ronald.”
“Nor am I. But I am aware that I live under his roof. I have to respect his wishes until such time as I can afford to move out of the hotel.”
His hand had been resting on his thigh, which was almost touching mine. It now curled into a fist. “Cleo?—”
“Don’t, Harry. Let’s just enjoy the glow that comes with successfully solving a case.”
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the journey.
The Mayfair Hotel’sfoyer was almost too calm, considering the wedding reception was mere hours away. I’d expected frantic staff running hither and thither, arguments with suppliers, and the mother-of-the-bride making demands in a shrill voice. But everyone was smiling as they went about their business. Mr. Hobart and Peter were absent, however. Goliath informed me that all the senior staff were in a meeting.
Not only was the foyer calm, but so was the fourth floor where the bride was getting ready. I changed my outfit with Jane’s help. The pastel blue trimmed with white lace and beads arranged in a wavy pattern at the hem and across my décolletage flattered my figure. It wasn’t too frilly, and the beading gave it a summery seaside effect. Jane used tongs to turn the loose strands of my hair into curls. She was pleased with how they looked and declared me ready with a clap of her hands. I asked her to inform Flossy that I’d wait for the family in the foyer, then I took the lift down.
The foyer was no longer calm.
There was some confusion over who was using the hotel carriages—the Bainbridge family or the bridal party. Peter tried to sort that out, while Mrs. Short and Mr. Chapman directed delivery men wheeling carts filled with flowers into the ballroom. Mr. Chapman looked rattled, probably because the delivery was late, and Mrs. Short looked annoyed. That could have been because the men should have taken the service entrance, not the front door, although annoyance was an expression never far from her face, so she may have been perfectly fine. Frank, holding the door open, merely shook his head.
Harmony and Mr. Hobart were in rather terse discussions with some men. A few guests not involved in the wedding stood idly by, looking somewhat confused. The poor clerk was attempting to check new arrivals in, but there was quite a queue at the desk, many of whom had no luggage. They were most likely already checked in and simply had the sort of questions that Mr. Hobart or Peter usually dealt with.
I introduced myself to the line of guests and asked if I could assist anyone. I fielded some questions about the routine of the hotel and gave directions to attractions. I handed out maps of the city and railway timetables, freeing up the check-in clerk to perform his main duty more efficiently.
I’d just finished noting down a name for dinner reservations that evening to pass on to Mr. Chapman when I spotted Mrs. Scoop enter the hotel. She paused beneath the central chandelier and looked around. Our gazes met.
I hurried toward her before she took too much notice of the chaos. “The press isn’t welcome,” I told her. “You’ll receive official reports after the wedding to print as you see fit.”
“I’m not interested in the wedding.” Her gaze betrayed her, however. It darted about, taking in the harried staff and last-minute deliveries. It settled on the lift door. In a few moments, Miss Hessing would emerge through it wearing her wedding dress and clutching a bouquet of white roses.
“Then why are you here?” I asked.
“I visited my fool of a husband in the holding cell at the Yard. He told me all about his involvement with Jack Wilson, and the part he played in Ruth’s death. I’d like to point out that he in no way encouraged Wilson to murder her.”
“You knew your husband met Wilson in Brighton. Ruth telephoned you and urged you to print a story about them being in a gang together. Yet you said nothing to me about it.”
“I didn’t know he was the conductor on that train, and I certainly didn’t know he murdered Ruth. Like you, I believed Clem when he told me that the man Ruth saw him speaking to was simply someone he knew years ago.”
I scoffed. “Do you expect me to believe you didn’t know your husband was in a criminal gang? Or that he was arrested and questioned over a train robbery?”
“I only became aware after the arrest. I’d just lost my baby and I wasn’t particularly interested in his life. But I didn’t connect that incident to the man Ruth saw him speaking to in Brighton.”
If she was lying, she was a very good actress. “Have you come here to convince me of your innocence?”
She studied me coolly. “Why do I need to convinceyou, Miss Fox? I’m here because I think I know where Wilson is hiding.”
“Where?”
“My husband keeps a flat in Pimlico. He takes his mistresses there. He thinks I don’t know about it, but of course I do. I can’t be absolutely sure, but I think you’ll find Wilson hiding there.”
“You do realize if he is, that means your husband helped him by giving him the key. It won’t look good for him in court.”
Her brittle laugh held no humor. “I no longer care. I’ll be filing for divorce soon. I’ve had enough of Clem’s behavior. This is merely the icing on the cake. I’ve known for a long time that we ought to part, but like most unpleasant things, I put it off. Now…well, I simply have no interest in protecting him anymore. I won’t fall with him, Miss Fox. I’ve worked too hard to watch him burn it all down.”
“You won’t be able to escape this scandal entirely. Everyone will find out about your marriage.”
“They will find out that Mrs. Blaine is divorcing her no-good husband. Mrs. Scoop will be safe. It’s why I’ve never given anyone at the paper my real name, other than the solicitor who drew up my contract. Not even Finlayson knows.” She withdrew a piece of paper from her bag and held it out to me. “This is the address of the flat.”
