Page 3 of Murder on the Brighton Express
When Jane saw me also watching, she leaned closer and whispered. “He swam up to it while you were paddling. It’s quite shocking, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure it happens all the time. Those carriages provide the perfect cover for a tryst. Besides, we don’t know if those two are a married couple.”
“He is married. I recognized him, and he’s a well-known philanderer, so I doubt she’s his wife.”
“Who is he?”
“Clement Beecroft.”
I’d heard of him. Indeed, most people would have known his name. He produced some of the most notable plays in London, and usually took the lead role himself. He was also famous for bedding his leading ladies, if the gossip columns could be believed.
“He’s always in the society pages,” Jane went on. “I’d know his face anywhere. He’s extraordinarily handsome, and cuts a very fine figure, too. It’s a pity you didn’t see him climbing up the carriage steps in his bathing costume, with water sliding off his bare arms and legs.” She suddenly blushed and mumbled an apology.
“I’m sorry I missed it,” I said with a smile to ease her embarrassment.
She giggled behind her hand.
We parted ways near the hotel. I used the main door while Jane took the servants’ entrance. The doorman greeted me, followed by the hotel manager who asked if I’d enjoyed my swim. The assistant manager joined us and informed me there was a letter for me at the post desk. Assuming it was from London, I was surprised to find it had no stamp or postmark, and no return address. It must have been hand delivered.
I tore open the envelope and read the note then and there. It was brief and to the point, brutally so.
I know what you are, the message said.Meet me at 6PM at the entrance to West Pier or I will tell the columnist from The Evening Bulletin that the niece of hotelier Sir Ronald Bainbridge is a private detective.
There was no signature or any indication who I was supposed to meet. I glanced at the clock on the wall behind the post clerk’s head. “Who delivered this?” I asked him.
“I didn’t see, Miss Fox, sorry.”
I tucked the letter back into the envelope and exited the hotel. I had five minutes to reach the meeting point. There was no question whether I should go. I could not afford for my occupation to be splashed over the pages ofThe Evening Bulletin, the most notorious of all the gutter dailies. Uncle Ronald would have a fit, right before he disowned me. He’d made it very clear that if I were to continue my investigative enterprise while living under his roof, no one must find out.
It wasn’t simply that concern that propelled me toward the West Pier, however. I was also terribly curious. The author of the note had not asked for money. So, what did he or she want from me?
Chapter2
The young woman clutched the handle of her brown leather satchel with both hands and watched me approach with a steady, almost defiant, gaze. She was prepared for battle.
She wasn’t the only one.
When I’d seen her on the pier earlier that afternoon, I’d fallen for the cliché that a plainly dressed woman with spectacles meant she was shy and bookish. Now that I was closer, I dismissed that assessment. This woman didn’t seem at all wary, even though my first words to her were unfriendly.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
Her fingers adjusted their grip on the bag’s handle. “I am someone who can ruin your reputation with a telephone call, something I won’t hesitate to do unless you help me.”
“Usually when someone asks for my help, they don’t threaten me first.”
“I can’t pay you.”
“So, you’re blackmailing me instead?” When she didn’t respond, I added, “I assume you want me to investigate something or someone, since you think I’m a private detective.”
“I don’t think, I know, and I’m quite capable of conducting my own investigations. I just need a little assistance with a certain matter.” She coupled her snippy response with a lift of her chin.
“Areyoua private detective, Miss…?”
The woman lowered her gaze. It was the first sign of uncertainty she’d shown. I assumed it was because she couldn’t decide whether to reveal her name, but it turned out that she didn’t want to answer my question. “In a manner of speaking,” she finally said. “Well? Will you assist me?”
It was my turn to hesitate. Should I admit she was right, that I was a private detective? Or should I pretend she’d made a mistake?
Considering I’d answered her summons by meeting her, there was no point denying it now. “That depends on what you want me to do.”
