Page 31 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“You’re right, I won’t jump to conclusions. I am reasonably sure Ruth Price’s name meant nothing to him, though. Do you agree?”
“I do, but he was lying about other things, including the fact he misheard you when you said you were a private detective.”
“For someone who makes his living on the stage, he’s not a great actor.”
Harry huffed a humorless laugh. “One thing I can’t decide is whether he was lying about the other man in his compartment leaving it for a few minutes.”
That part had seemed convincing, but like Harry, I wouldn’t believe it unless others verified it. The compartment between Beecroft’s and Ruth’s had been occupied by the two women, but unless I identified them, I couldn’t question them.
We crossed over St. Martin’s Lane, heading in the direction of Harry’s office, even though we’d not discussed a destination. “I think Beecroft needed to hide something in his office from us, that’s why he rushed there,” Harry said. “The question is, what?”
“The other question is, when do we break in to find out?”
Harry’s steps slowed and his gaze slid to me. He didn’t try to talk me out of it, however. That was most unlike him.
“No dire warning about what could go wrong?” I asked. “No attempt to forbid me?”
“That tactic has never worked with you. Besides, we’ll be breaking into a theater, not someone’s home. It’ll be empty. I’ll allow you to join me this time.”
“How magnanimous,” I muttered.
We made plans to meet later, then parted ways when we reached Piccadilly. As I entered the hotel, Frank stopped me with an ominous warning.
“Miss Bainbridge is looking for you. She asked me to tell you to join her and her friends for afternoon tea if you’re back in time.” He removed his watch from his pocket and checked the time. “You only have fifteen minutes to get ready.”
Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind partaking in afternoon tea if I had nothing else to do, but I wanted to nap for a while knowing my sleep would be interrupted later to conduct the search of the theater. If I were to join Flossy and her friends, I needed to change into something more appropriate first, then sit through an hour or two of gossip.
Gossip. Perhaps I would make the effort, after all.
Jane was in my room when I arrived, having anticipated that I might need her assistance if I was going to afternoon tea. She’d already chosen an outfit for me to wear and set out matching jewelry. “If you don’t mind, Miss Fox, I’ve also chosen your outfit for dinner.”
“Dinner?” I asked her reflection in my dressing table mirror. “I wasn’t aware of any plans.”
“Sir Ronald has requested the family dine together in the restaurant, since it has been some time since you were all home.”
I sighed. “Thank you, Jane. Prepare whatever outfit you think will look nice.”
“You look nice in everything, Miss Fox, but the blue gown does go well with your eyes.”
Fifteen minutes later, I joined Flossy and two of her friends for afternoon tea. Although much of society’s elite had left London, the sitting room was still full. The Mayfair’s legendary afternoon teas were so popular that reservations were a must. If left too late, patrons missed out. It was a little easier to get a table in August, however.
A full room meant a hot room. Almost every lady flapped a fan at her face, some more vigorously than others. From the entrance, they looked like butterflies amongst the potted palm trees that were placed strategically between tables to allow for privacy. Mr. Chapman was very particular about the positions of the tables, ensuring gossip could be safely exchanged without being overheard, if one kept one’s voice low.
Once the waiter delivered the finger sandwiches and pastries, I steered the conversation to someone I assumed the other girls knew. “Did Flossy tell you we met Odette Pridhurst in Brighton?”
The two sisters, Cora and Mary Druitt-Poore, gave me blank looks.
“They don’t know her,” Flossy told me.
“Mr. Holland was with them. His family is in canned goods.”
More blank looks.
Flossy changed the subject. “Speaking of Brighton, we saw Clement Beecroft, the actor, on our train home. He’s so dashing in real life. I wanted to talk to him, but was too shy.”
“What was he doing in Brighton?” Mary asked.
“Having a holiday,” Flossy said as if Mary was silly. Which, to be fair, Mary often was.
