Page 21 of Murder on the Brighton Express
In the corridor, the housekeeper watched me, her pinched lips even thinner than when I’d first introduced myself. “May I ask you some questions about Ruth, Mrs…?”
Her nostrils flared. “I have nothing to say. Mr. Price, Father Dominic is here to give his condolences.”
“Take him through to the parlor. Close the door so he doesn’t see Miss Fox leave.” Mr. Price watched the housekeeper head down the stairs. When she was out of earshot, he turned to me. “When you make your inquiries, please respect my sister’s stature in the community and do not mention her work at the newspaper. It wasn’t an important part of her life, so not worth making a song and dance over. Also don’t tell anyone that she was in Brighton alone. We’ll put it about that she visited a friend there.”
I made no promise, since I couldn’t keep it. It was likely I’d need to mention both those points as I made my inquiries. I merely thanked him for his time.
His final request was that I leave silently. That was a request I could accommodate. I tiptoed down the stairs and exited without another word.
The Evening Bulletinhad a reputation for a sensational style of journalism. Facts were only printed if they were scandalous, speculation was rife, and provocative headlines were the norm. It was a formula that sold a lot of copies.
While I waited my turn to speak to the harried clerk at the front desk, I peered through a large window behind him to the inner sanctum. Like Fleet Street outside, the newsroom was a scene of hectic activity, despite it being Sunday. Newspapermen with pencils tucked behind their ears wrote furiously at their desks or dictated to a stenographer. Sometimes they clicked their fingers above their heads and a youth standing off to the side would come running to accept the handwritten papers. The papers were then either added to a pile on a typist’s desk or taken into an adjoining office. I was surprised by the number of women. All of the stenographers and typists were young females.
A member of the public in front of me had a lot of complaints about the latest edition’s inaccuracies. The poor clerk dutifully wrote them down, although I doubted the editor would see them. I picked up a copy of the latest edition from a pile and skimmed the articles while I waited. There was no report of Ruth’s death. I didn’t even know if the journalist she worked for knew she’d died. I’d forgotten to ask Enoch Price if he’d informed her employer.
The man in front of me finally finished his diatribe and left the building. The clerk set his notes aside and looked at me as if he expected me to spout a long list of grievances against the newspaper, too.
“How may I help you?” he asked blandly.
“My name is Cleopatra Fox. I’m a private detective investigating the death of Ruth Price.”
He straightened, his gaze sharpening. “I…uh… Who?”
“I already know she worked here, and I can see that you recognize her name. What I don’t understand is why you’re denying knowing her.”
“Let me find someone for you to talk to.”
He pushed open the door to the newsroom and strode past the journalists and typists to the far side where he opened another door. Moments later he returned with a white-bearded, pink-faced, red-nosed man in tow.
I put out my hand. “Cleopatra Fox. Private detective.”
“Finlayson. Editor.” He shook my hand.
“I’m looking into the death of Ruth Price. She worked here, I believe.”
The editor’s pursed lips emerged like two slugs from his snowy beard before disappearing again. “She did.”
“You know about her passing?”
“We were informed early this morning.”
“May I speak with the journalist she worked for?”
“Journalist?” His burst of laughter sent spittle flying out of his mouth and onto his beard. The laugh evolved into a chesty cough that turned his face even pinker and his nose redder.
The clerk rose, as if to fetch help, but sat again once Mr. Finlayson’s cough subsided.
“She isn’t a journalist,” the editor went on. “She writes our gossip column.”
Puzzle pieces I didn’t know I needed slotted into place, but I wouldn’t jump to conclusions yet.
“Who told you she was a journalist?” Mr. Finlayson went on.
“It’s not important. May I speak to her?”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
“Why?”
