Page 24 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“What scandal was she investigating in Brighton?”
Mrs. Scoop tapped the closed drawer. “Lord Pridhurst.”
“Yes, but what was he involved in?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential until it appears in my column.”
“Mrs. Scoop, you don’t understand. If Ruth was killed because she was watching Lord Pridhurst and reporting to you, then your life could also be in danger.”
She gave a brittle laugh. “Don’t be absurd. Lord Pridhurst isn’t a killer.”
“Then what is he? What has he done? I can be discreet. No other newspaper will discover the scandal from me.”
She watched me closely as she sucked on her cigarette. “All right.” She blew out smoke through her nose. “He’s in enormous debt. He’s about to lose everything, including part ownership in a shipping company. That isn’t unusual and, while devastating for him personally, it’s not a scandal. However, he has plans to marry his daughter to the son of a very wealthy man by the name of Holland. The union will solve Pridhurst’s immediate financial problems.”
“And Mr. Holland doesn’t know?”
“Precisely. Again, not so much of a problem if he finds out, as long as he cares for the girl. The thing is, I doubt he’s marrying her for love. You see, Mr. Holland’s canned goods business wants to expand into America, and he can’t do that without a shipping company to ship his cans. I have it on good authority that part of Odette’s dowry was an exceptionally good rate.”
“No shipping company, no incentive to marry,” I said.
She pointed the cigarette at me. “Precisely.”
“You don’t think that’s enough of a motive for Pridhurst to kill Ruth? Or you? Kill the journalist, kill the story.”
“He doesn’t seem like the type, but…” She lifted one shoulder. “I concede that it’s a possibility. Don’t worry, I will be careful.”
“What other stories was Ruth working on?”
“Just the Pridhurst file and the Hessing-Liddicoat wedding.” She watched me as she drew on her cigarette. “Perhaps we’re reading too much into this, Miss Fox. Neither you nor I know much about Ruth. We don’t know her state of mind when she caught that train.”
“You didn’t discuss personal matters with her?”
She scoffed. “She was my assistant, not my friend. Perhaps there were events or people in her life that drove her to end it all. That brother of hers, for example.” She sniffed. “Controlling misogynist.”
I heard the booming voice of Mr. Finlayson in the newsroom outside, shouting at the hapless journalists for their tardiness and ineptitude. I ought to go before he came in to speak to Mrs. Scoop about printing a story on Ruth’s death before their competitors got wind of it. “If you think of anything relevant, please contact me at the Mayfair Hotel.”
“Am I welcome there?”
I simply smiled. Before I exited, I peered through the glass pane in the door but couldn’t see Mr. Finlayson. I opened the door, then something occurred to me. “Ruth was the one who was supposed to check into the Mayfair Hotel under the name Blaine, wasn’t she? Not you. But she never arrived, because she died.”
Mrs. Scoop huffed, sending smoke from her cigarette billowing from her mouth and nose. “Very clever, Miss Fox. Yes, I made the reservation intending for Ruth to check in, although I hadn’t told her yet. I planned to, when she got back. She was better at that sort of thing than me. She was extraordinarily observant. Wallflowers often are. People underestimated Ruth all the time.” She placed the cigarette between her lips, but removed it again without taking a puff. “My style is more direct, which is why I approached Mrs. Hessing first. I thought she’d be the sort who would appreciate it and allow me to exclusively cover the wedding.” She huffed again. This time it was self-deprecating. “I was wrong.”
Back at the Mayfair,I found Harry seated on the same armchair with a current edition ofThe Timesopened to obscure his face as he watched the comings and goings of the hotel foyer. As I’d done the first time I saw him there, I hooked a finger over the top of the newspaper to draw it down.
“I hope you plan to stay awhile,” he said, folding it up. “I could do with the company.”
I sat in the other armchair. “Is your investigation dull?”
“Immeasurably. Yours sounds far more interesting. Tell me about your suspects, the clues you’ve found and theories you’ve formed. They don’t even have to be fully formed, just talk to me to keep me awake.”
“I can do better than that. I can tell you who your gossip columnist is, as well as which hotel staff she was hoping to blackmail or bribe into being a source of information about the wedding.”
He blinked slowly at me. “Are you muscling in on my investigation on purpose?”
I knew he was joking, but even so, I felt compelled to deny it. “I would never do that, Harry.”
“Not even to get your name on my office door?”
