Page 40 of Murder on the Brighton Express
I quickened my steps, and Harry’s long strides effortlessly kept pace. “What will you tell your family?” he asked.
“I’m not sure yet, but it will either involve the library or museum.”
He laughed softly. “We’ll also make sure we don’t get on the train together, just in case someone on the station recognizes you.”
“Actually, I’ve changed my mind, and I don’t think you should come, Harry. There’s no need, and as you say, we don’t want anyone seeing us together.”
“I’m coming, Cleo.”
“I don’t need you there.”
“I’m not going to help you. I’m going because I haven’t been to the seaside in a long time, and I have a desire to go. Honestly, you think everything is about you.”
I was about to defend myself when a quick glance at him revealed he was grinning at me.
“Besides,” he went on, “I’m rather enjoying seeing you panic about spending an entire day with me at a seaside holiday town. I want to see how it plays out.”
“I am not panicking. Honestly, Harry, you’re the one who thinks everything is about you. Fine. I will allow you to come, but do not pack a bathing costume. There’ll be no time for anything other than investigating.”
I hoped he didn’t see my face heat as the panic he’d noticed set in further. He was right. I’d realized after suggesting it that spending time at the popular destination for newlyweds and holidaying couples was a dreadful idea.
Chapter9
The clerk at the front desk atThe Evening Bulletinrecognized me from my last visit. Somewhat reluctantly, he went to fetch Mrs. Scoop only to return without her. “She says to go through, Miss Fox.”
I hesitated. Through the window behind him, I could see Mr. Finlayson railing at a hapless journalist. The ridged veins on the editor’s forehead were visible from where we stood, his words also clearly audible. The journalist had missed a deadline.
“We’ll wait a moment,” I told Harry.
After shooting a final round of blistering words at his target, Mr. Finlayson stormed into his office and slammed the door. The young journalist looked like he wanted to crawl under his desk, but he stayed to accept the sympathetic pats on the back from colleagues.
“Now we can go in,” I said, leading the way.
As with my last visit, few of the journalists paid us any attention. The typists and stenographers, however, looked twice—at Harry, not me.
Mrs. Scoop was the only woman to give me more attention than Harry. Her gaze narrowed upon seeing him, but she otherwise paid him no mind. “The police still think Ruth died by her own hand, Miss Fox. I spoke to them myself. So why is your investigation ongoing?”
I took my cue from her and didn’t bother with pleasantries. I didn’t even introduce Harry. “Is that why your newspaper hasn’t printed anything about her death?”
“It’s hardly newsworthy. People throw themselves off trains all the time.”
Considering the person in question was her assistant, her response seemed heartless. “What hotel did she check into in Brighton?”
Mrs. Scoop reached for her cigarette tin and removed one. Was she delaying? Why would she, if she had nothing to hide? “Rutherford House.”
It wasn’t familiar to me, but Brighton had many accommodation options catering to a variety of visitors. I thanked her and was about to leave, but Mr. Finlayson emerged from his office at that moment to shout at another journalist.
I dawdled in the relative safety of Mrs. Scoop’s office. To make conversation, I asked her again what investigations Ruth was working on.
“I told you last time,” she said. “Pridhurst and the Hessing wedding. A short memory will do you no good in your profession, Miss Fox. Is that why he’s here? To take notes for you?” She jabbed her lit cigarette in Harry’s direction. “Or is it for his looks?”
I bristled. “Mr. Armitage is an excellent private investigator. We’re working on this case together.” Considering I teased Harry about his looks and the way women responded to him all the time, my defensive reaction surprised me.
Mrs. Scoop blew smoke through her nose along with her huff.
My annoyance drove me to press her harder. “Don’t you find it surprising that Ruth didn’t see Clement Beecroft or Geraldine Lacroix in Brighton?”
She rounded the desk and reached for the door handle. “Not at all. Ruth had enough on her plate.”
