Page 20 of Murder on the Brighton Express
I had so many thoughts about his comments, but I held them all back. Allowances had to be made for his grief. “Is there a more specific reason why she wouldn’t take her own life? She was happy?”
He indicated the cross. “She was deeply devout. Taking one’s own life is a sin. She simply wouldn’t do it, and I’ll explain as much to that detective.”
“I’m afraid it won’t do any good. D.S. Fanning believes Ruth threw herself off the train and he is disinclined to look for another cause of death.”
He shot to his feet again. One arm crossed his middle, and he lifted a hand to nibble on the thumbnail before turning away so I couldn’t see his face. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so blunt, but I needed him to realize that an incorrect cause of death would likely be recorded, and it would be there forever.
“I’m not asking for money, Mr. Price. I want to take on this case for Ruth’s sake, as well as for my own satisfaction. All I want from you is to answer a few questions. And to let me see her room.”
He turned back to face me, calmer and more composed. He nodded.
“You reported her missing when she didn’t come home after her visit to Brighton, is that right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know why she was there?”
“No. I didn’t even know she’d gone until I read the note she’d left for me in her room.”
“Why wouldn’t she confide in you?”
He hesitated before answering. “Because I wouldn’t have approved of her going to a place full of licentiousness.”
“It’s not like that at all. Most of the holidaymakers in Brighton are families.”
His jaw firmed. “The note said she’d return on the ten-thirty express three days later. I telephoned the police when I got home from the office that day, and she wasn’t here. They said she’d probably missed her train and to call back the next day if she still hadn’t returned, which I did.”
“Can you think of a reason why she would go to Brighton?”
“No.”
“Was it to do with her work for the journalist?”
“I don’t know. We never discussed the particulars of her employment.”
It was hardly surprising Ruth kept the details to herself. Mentioning it would probably start an argument with her brother, given his views.
“How was her demeanor when she left London?”
He shrugged. “Fine.”
“What was on her mind in the days leading up to her departure?”
He looked at me askance. “I am not a mind reader, Miss Fox.”
“What did you talk about?”
He shrugged again. “Nothing out of the ordinary. She asked me what I’d like for dinner. We discussed the Sunday sermon.” He swallowed heavily. “I scolded her for not listening. She has—had—a habit of not paying attention, but I’d catch her out by asking certain questions about the service.”
“Did she have any friends she might confide in?”
“Ruth confided in God. She needed no other confidante.”
I closed my notebook and returned it to my bag. “May I look through her belongings?”
He led the way upstairs to her bedroom and stayed while I searched. The bed was made with a precision I was used to at the hotel, but never bothered to achieve when I made my own bed. A Bible sat on her nightstand; a set of rosary beads draped over it. The pages of the Bible were well thumbed. A plain wooden cross hung above the bed. Enoch was right. Ruth was devout. Her faith wasn’t just for appearances to satisfy her brother.
I searched through drawers and cupboards, checked inside coat pockets and under the mattress. I found no papers or journals, nothing out of the ordinary for a young woman.
