Page 19 of Murder on the Brighton Express
I’d been trying to make him laugh, but instead, his gaze softened. “He is an excellent judge of character. He wanted me to tell you to trust your instincts over Fanning’s. If you think the woman was murdered, you should investigate.”
“I already planned to. But tell him thank you when you see him. Speaking of the case, I should begin.” I made to leave but stopped when he spoke.
“I can help you, if you need it. You only have to ask.”
“You already have a case of your own.”
He glanced toward the desk where guests were checking out. Even though London was quiet at this time of year, the Mayfair Hotel was always busy mid-morning. “Your investigation is more interesting than mine.”
“Mine has no client and therefore no fee. Yours does. But thank you, I’ll keep it in mind if I need another mind to mull over clues.”
“I hope you do.”
The sound of his warm, rich voice stayed with me all the way to Enoch Price’s house in Chelsea. The area wasn’t as exclusive as Mayfair, but it was still appealing with handsome houses, clean porches, and respectable shops. A pinch-lipped housekeeper answered my knock and wouldn’t let me inside until I told her I was there about Ruth.
She clutched the cross hanging around her neck and left me waiting in the sunny front parlor. Either the room was rarely used, or the housekeeper was very good at her job. There wasn’t a speck of dust on any surface and the grate gleamed. Photographs on one of the occasional tables were positioned for best viewing from the doorway and the wooden cross on the wall was perfectly straight. Even the fringing on the carpet was aligned.
A few minutes later, a man entered. The resemblance to Ruth was obvious, from the spectacles and freckled nose to the serious set of his mouth. Although I suspected his balding head made him appear older than he was, I still guessed him to be at least ten years older than his sister.
I introduced myself. “May I begin by saying I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Price. Losing a loved one is difficult, but when she was so young…”
He invited me to sit then hitched up his trouser legs and sat too. “Thank you, Miss Fox. I’m still in shock. My little sister…gone. It’s quite awful.”
“The police informed you yesterday?”
“Early evening, yes.” He blinked dry eyes back at me through his spectacles. “Forgive me, how did you say you knew Ruth?”
“I met her in Brighton. She asked for my help, but never told me why. She said she’d contact me when we returned to London.”
He stiffened at the mention of Brighton. “I don’t understand. What sort of help could she have needed from you?”
“I was hoping you might shed some light on that. I’m a private detective, so I think she wanted to employ me.”
The curl of his top lip was ever so slight, but I noticed it. I suspected I was meant to. “I can’t think of a reason.”
“Ruth worked for a journalist atThe Evening Bulletin, didn’t she? Is that why she was in Brighton?”
The top lip rose higher. It would seem he wasn’t just appalled by my profession, but by his sister’s, too. “I don’t know. We didn’t discuss it.”
“What was the name of the journalist she worked for?”
His gaze lifted to the wall behind my head where the cross hung. “I don’t recall. Miss Fox, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have no need of a lady detective. The police are looking into Ruth’s death. I’m sure they’ll be thorough.” He stood, a prompt to get me to leave.
I stayed seated. “Are you aware that Detective Sergeant Fanning thinks Ruth killed herself?”
“She didn’t! She wouldn’t!” The explosive denial held more emotion than anything he’d said since my arrival.
“I agree. Someone making plans, such as a meeting, has no intention of committing suicide. But why doyousay Ruth wouldn’t? Was she happy? Did she have something to look forward to?”
“Marriage, children, a settled life.” Enoch sat down and glanced at the cross on the wall again.
“She was engaged to be married? Can you tell me her fiancé’s name?” I reached into my bag for my notebook.
He shook his head. “You misunderstand. I meant she would one day have those things to fulfill her. A girl such as her looks forward to having her own home and family.”
“A girl such as her?” I echoed.
“She was a good girl. Naturally, she wanted those things. Her interest in journalism was merely a passing phase that she would grow out of when the novelty wore off. It’s not uncommon these days for females to perform a little task here and there to earn some pin money before settling down. As long as it’s respectable, no harm is done, and there’s nothing wrong with being an assistant to a journalist.” It sounded like a speech he’d practiced. Or one he’d heard.
