Page 29 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“Excuse me, Mr. Beecroft.” I put out my hand. “My name is Cleopatra Fox. I’m a private detective. May I ask you?—”
He flung the clipboard at me.
I ducked and it clattered to the floor. By the time I’d recovered my balance, Clement Beecroft had run off. Harry had been a few feet behind me and stopped to see if I was all right. If he hadn’t, he might have caught Beecroft. Nevertheless, Harry was quick and should be able to stop Beecroft leaving the building.
But how far would the angry actor—who clearly had something to hide—go to avoid answering questions?
Chapter7
Harry dodged stagehands and props that had been left in the corridor as he chased Beecroft. Someone in one of the rooms he passed screamed, but I wasn’t sure why until I reached it and saw her hastily throwing on a dressing gown. She wore bloomers and a tightly laced corset, which was more than the dancers we’d seen earlier wore.
Harry disappeared around a corner. I picked up my skirts and raced after him as best as I could. I was surprised to catch up to him at a closed door. He tried the handle. Locked.
“I know you’re in there, Beecroft,” he called out.
The sound of a door or drawer slamming shut came from inside, but Beecroft didn’t answer.
“If I have to break this door down, it won’t go well for you when I get my hands on you.”
“Leave me alone,” Beecroft shouted back. “I don’t have the money.”
“What money?” Harry asked through the door.
There was a moment’s silence, before Beecroft answered. “You, er, said you were private debt collectors.”
“Private detectives,” Harry corrected him.
The lock tumbled and the door opened. Harry charged in and I followed. Beecroft stepped back and stared at us. The small room must be his office and dressing room. It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Aside from the desk there was a narrow storage cupboard with a full-length mirror attached to the door. A yellow armchair with gold braid detail was tucked into the corner. The walls were covered with framed posters of the shows he’d starred in and photographs of the actor in various poses that accentuated his handsome features. He had the classic good looks that made women swoon, much like Harry. But unlike Harry, there was a showiness in the gold cravat, the needle-thin moustache and heavily oiled hair.
He smoothed the palm of his hand over his hair before checking his appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, he sat at his desk and removed a cigarette from a battered old tin. “I misheard you. I thought you were here to collect a payment.” He offered a cigarette before lighting his with a match.
“You owe money?” Harry asked.
Mr. Beecroft suddenly smiled as if lighting his cigarette had flicked on an electrical switch within him. “Doesn’t everyone?” He pointed the two fingers holding the cigarette at the guest chairs. “Please, take a seat. I do apologize for the mess,” he added as he gathered up pages that appeared to be a script with notations in the margin. “The week before opening is always hectic, but I can spare a few moments.”
He might be a good entertainer, but his acting skills were clumsy. I didn’t believe for a moment that he’d misheard me when I said I was a private detective. So, what was he hiding?
Whatever it was, he wouldn’t tell the truth if I simply asked. I decided to play along and make him believe he was assisting me, even though his odd behavior made him a suspect.
“A young woman died on the ten-thirty express from Brighton on Thursday. I happened to be on the same train, hence my interest. You were also on that train.”
“Good lord, I had no idea. Was she ill?”
“I believe she was pushed out of her compartment window after being rendered unconscious first.”
He gasped. “Murder! Surely, I would have read about it in the newspapers.”
“The police are treating it as suicide, but I have grave doubts.”
He sat back heavily, blowing out a breath that puffed out his cheeks. “The poor woman. And to think there was a killer on the train.” He shook his head only to suddenly stop and focus on me. “Am I a suspect? Is that why you’re here?”
“I haven’t found anything linking you to her.” It was true. I hadn’t. It was simply a guess that Ruth had unearthed his liaison with his mistress while in Brighton.
His chest rose and fell with his deep breath before he switched on a smile again. “I can assure you, I haven’t killed anyone.” He pointed the cigarette at the door. “Despite what you saw out there, I’m actually quite a good-natured fellow. That was a performance. I’ve found the only way to keep them on track is to turn into a ghastly beast and shout. I wish I didn’t have to, but with only a few days to go until opening…well, you saw the state of that set.” The more he spoke, the more of a cockney accent seeped through his cultured one.
“I will be speaking to everyone who occupied the compartments between mine and the victim’s.” I removed my notebook and pencil from my bag and drew the layout of the carriage again, this time only noting Ruth’s location, my position, and Mr. Beecroft’s. “She was in the first compartment, and you were in the third with another fellow. Did you see anyone pass by your compartment during the journey?”
He stroked his thumb across his lower lip until the smoke from the cigarette got in his eye. He lowered his hand to the desk. “Nobody passed, but the fellow in my compartment left for a few minutes.” He straightened and leaned forward, frowning in thought. “I was reading my script for a while, which made me drowsy. I closed my eyes but didn’t fall asleep. I heard the man get up. When I heard the door to our compartment close, I opened my eyes, and he was gone. He returned a few minutes later. Good lord,” he muttered. “Couldhehave killed her? Was I sharing a compartment with a murderer?”
