Page 1 of Murder on the Brighton Express
Chapter1
Brighton, August 1900
The annual summer exodus from London was a boon for seaside towns like Brighton, but it made for a rather crowded experience for those of us holidaying there. I didn’t mind. I’d never been to Brighton, and the excitement of visiting a new place outweighed the negatives. It was also my first seaside holiday since I was a child, and the salty tang of the fresh air and the carnival-like atmosphere brought back fond memories of happy times with my parents.
Despite the crowds and the busy attractions, most of the holidaymakers were relaxed. The lazy pace of the passing days meant our two weeks were over too soon. Although I missed my London-based friends and I looked forward to seeing them again, I didn’t want to return to the bustle of city life yet.
My cousin, Flossy, felt the same way, but Aunt Lilian did not. She was keen to go home, and expressed it by finding fault with everything. The weather was too warm, it was too windy, the bedsheets were either too crisp or not crisp enough, the other guests too loud, and the hotel itself lacked in every department. She’d become so ill-tempered, and her headaches so frequent, that Flossy and I had gone out alone the last few days and stayed out all day to avoid her.
It was no hardship. There was plenty to do in the seaside leisure capital of England. With the Bainbridge family holidaying in Brighton every year for as long as Flossy could remember, my cousin had seen all the sights many times, but she took great delight in visiting them again with me. We toured the Royal Pavilion, had picnics in Preston Park, shopped for hats and bathing costumes, attended concerts and dance halls, and walked until our feet hurt. She particularly liked promenading along the Palace Pier, since it only opened the year before, making it all rather new for her, too.
The pier provided visitors with all manner of opportunities to part with their money, from games in the amusement arcade to live concerts, dances and carousel rides, and enough refreshment stands and shops to satisfy even my spendthrift cousin. By the second week of our holiday, I had to forbid her from slotting more coins into the fortune-telling machine. She’d already spent far too much in an unsuccessful attempt to discover where she’d meet the man she would marry.
On the final day of our holiday, Flossy wanted to return to the Palace Pier again, but I insisted on visiting the West Pier. It lacked the flashy amusements of its newer rival—and its popularity had dwindled since the Palace Pier opened, according to Flossy—but I liked its old-world charm. Flossy agreed to spend our last afternoon on the West Pier, but only after I promised to buy her ice cream.
We paid our entrance fee at the kiosk then began the long amble to the pavilion at the other end. Flags on the kiosk roofs flapped in the sea breeze, but it wasn’t so strong that we needed to hang onto our hats or lower our parasols. Seagulls coasted high above, or perched on the railing, waiting to swoop on morsels of fish and chips that fell out of paper wrappings.
We listened to the band performing a lively tune on the bandstand as we marveled at the view back to the promenade and Kings Road. The creamy stone facade of the Grand Brighton Hotel where we were staying gleamed in the sunshine. Perhaps Aunt Lilian sat on the balcony outside her room, gazing out to the sea and the pier, but I doubted it. We’d left her lying on the sofa with a damp cloth over her forehead, the electric fan whirring soothingly in the corner.
We purchased our ice creams and enjoyed them while seated on a bench in the shade with several other holidaymakers. Just as we were about to walk back, a trio of guests staying at the same hotel as us arrived. We greeted Lord and Lady Pridhurst and their daughter, Odette. Lord Pridhurst introduced the handsome young gentleman with them as an associate, Mr. Holland. Judging by the way Odette batted her eyelashes at him, she hoped he would become more than an associate.
“Mr. Holland works at his father’s canned goods business,” she said enthusiastically. “He’s very dedicated to it. He came down to Brighton just to discuss some particulars with my father.”
That explained Mr. Holland’s attire. He was rather overdressed for a warm day at the seaside. Where Lord Pridhurst wore a white straw boater and light gray lounge suit, Mr. Holland looked as though he was going to the office in London with his black suit and high, stiff collar that must make it impossible for him to inspect his own footwear of polished black shoes.
“I came to see you, too, Odette,” Mr. Holland said with a smile for her and a flick of his gaze to her father.
She blushed and nibbled on her lower lip. Lord Pridhurst seemed pleased with their flirtation, although his face was partly obscured by the handkerchief he dabbed across his sweaty forehead. Even though he was the more appropriately attired of the two men, he looked more uncomfortable in the heat.
Odette took Flossy’s hand. “It’s such a pity to be leaving tomorrow. I was just saying how much I will miss the friends I made in Brighton this summer, and that I hoped to see you again in London when next I visit with Mama.”
Flossy didn’t miss the opportunity to promote her family’s business. “You must stay at the Mayfair Hotel when you do. My parents would be pleased to have you as our guests.”
Odette flushed with embarrassment. “Oh. We always stay at the Coburg Hotel when we come to the city. Papa will be there all next week, as it happens, but Mama and I must return home.” At Flossy’s downcast face, Odette appealed to her parents. “Perhaps we could consider staying at the Mayfair next time.”
Lady Pridhurst smiled benignly. “We shall indeed consider it. It would be a delight to see your mother again, Miss Bainbridge.”
I knew a noncommittal answer when I heard one. They had no intention of switching their allegiance to the Mayfair. My suspicion was confirmed by Lord Pridhurst’s flat refusal.
“Unfortunately, the Mayfair is not conveniently located,” he said in a tone that invited no argument.
I failed to see how the Coburg’s position was better. Situated near Grosvenor Square, it nevertheless did not overlook it. Nor did it overlook any kind of park, unlike the Mayfair Hotel. Neither Flossy nor I mentioned that both were well situated in the best part of London. Wisely, she changed the topic of conversation altogether.
“Which flavor of ice cream is your favorite, Odette? I’m rather partial to chocolate, but Cleo prefers lemon sorbet on a hot day.”
Odette proceeded to list her favorites in order from most to least with an enthusiasm that rivaled my cousin’s.
In many ways, Odette reminded me of Flossy. They were both aged about nineteen, with an innocence that could be either endearing or immature, depending on the situation. At their core, they were sweet-natured, with a romantic sensibility that left them open to either heartbreak or a grand love.
I wasn’t sure yet which category Mr. Holland fell into. It wasn’t fair to judge a man on a first encounter. After all, I’d found Harry Armitage—the former assistant manager at the Mayfair and now a private investigator—to be somewhat arrogant and far too charming on our first meeting. While I still found him charming, he was so much more. It was why I’d decided to keep my distance from him.
A glint of metal in the sun caught my eye as a woman lounging against a lamppost lifted a pair of opera glasses and peered through them at us. I quickly looked away so as not to let her know I’d noticed, but I continued to watch out of the corner of my eye as Flossy and Odette chatted.
Mr. Holland cleared his throat to gain our attention. “All this talk of ice cream means you must want one, Miss Pridhurst. May I have the honor of purchasing the flavor of your choosing for you? And for Miss Bainbridge and Miss Fox, too, of course.”
Odette dipped her head coyly. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Flossy and I declined, given we’d just finished ours, and Lord and Lady Pridhurst also declined, although Lord Pridhurst insisted thathebe the one to buy his daughter an ice cream. He marched off toward the ice cream shop before Mr. Holland could say another word.
