Page 30 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“It’s possible.”
“Oh, God. What if he knows I’m a witness? He could easily find me. I’m very well-known. My face is everywhere.” He indicated the photographs and posters.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “The police aren’t treating her death as suspicious. They’re not even looking for the fellow. He has no reason to panic unless they do.”
“But it might be a good idea to keep your doors locked,” Harry added. “Just to be safe.”
Mr. Beecroft placed the cigarette to his lips with a shaking hand. “He looked like a killer. Mean eyes. Ugly face, as though he’s taken a few beatings in his life.”
“Had you ever seen him before? Perhaps in Brighton?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you speak to one another?”
“I said good morning when he entered, and he responded in kind. He only just made it before the train departed. I knew there was something wrong about him. He wasn’t dressed like your typical first-class passenger. The conductor checked his ticket and clipped it without question, so I assume he paid the correct fare like the rest of us.”
“What about the two women in the compartment next to yours?” I asked. “Did you recognize them?”
He thought about it a moment then shook his head. “They both wore very large hats. I couldn’t see their faces. I doubt they could see me, either. What was the victim’s name?”
“Ruth Price.”
He showed no indication the name meant anything. “Poor girl. Her family must be distraught.”
“Her brother is, as are her colleagues atThe Evening Bulletin.”
His gaze held mine several moments too long. “She was a typist?”
“Assistant to the gossip columnist who goes by the name Mrs. Scoop.”
He picked up the script and shuffled the pages. “I’ve read her column.”
“I’m sure you’ve even appeared in it a number of times.”
He gave me a flat smile.
I thanked him and rose. As he walked Harry and me to the door, I engaged him in what I hoped he mistook for idle conversation. “I enjoyed my holiday in Brighton. Did you find it relaxing?”
“Not entirely.” He indicated the script on the desk. “I went there to learn my lines in peace and quiet. I find a few days of uninterrupted rehearsal is the only way to remember them all.”
Harry laughed good-naturedly. “You have an understanding wife to let you go to Brighton alone.”
“Mrs. Beecroft gives me the space my creative process needs. Anyway, I was ensconced in my hotel room for much of the time. It was hardly the glamorous holiday that yours would have been, Miss Fox.”
“I stayed at the Grand Brighton Hotel,” I said. “Were you there, too?”
He pointed the cigarette at me, sending a clump of ash onto the carpet. He smiled at me. “I can’t tell you that. I hope to stay there again, in peace, and the gossip columnists would have a field day if they found out.”
“I wouldn’t pass it on.”
“Even so.” He reached past me to open the door. “I hope you’ll attend a performance one evening. It will be spectacular. The script is terribly funny, and the music will have you tapping your feet all night. You can purchase tickets from the box office when you leave.”
Neither Harry nor I spoke as we strode along the corridor. We passed a door labeled Geraldine Lacroix but didn’t stop. Clement Beecroft stood in the doorway to his office, watching us.
Once we were safely out of earshot, I pointed out that Beecroft had made sure we left the premises without speaking to the woman who was most likely his mistress.
“We can’t say for certain that she is,” Harry said. “We are merely assuming, considering his well-known fondness for his leading ladies.”
