Page 43 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“My dear Mrs. Hessing, why would I want to protect him? I think my cousin is a ridiculous fellow, not to mention a coward, and I’d find it amusing to see him squirm.” I folded my arms over my chest and smiled.
She narrowed her gaze at me. She wasn’t sure if I was joking or not. “When you see him, tell him I do not like to be taken advantage of by anyone.”
“Is Floyd taking advantage of you?”
“Not him. The florist and the suppliers of the decorations. Tell Mr. Bainbridge that hemustnegotiate prices down. I will not be the laughingstock of London’s tradesmen. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Mrs. Hessing, no one would dare laugh. I think they’re all very aware that there is nothing amusing about you.”
Her eyes narrowed further. “Good day, Miss Fox.”
“Good day, Mrs. Hessing.” I closed the door and marched into the sitting room.
Floyd sat on the edge of my writing desk, his arms and ankles crossed. “Ridiculous? A coward? Good lord, Cleo, it’s lucky I know you adore me or my feelings might be hurt.”
“Very amusing. We both know you don’t have feelings, Floyd.”
He pushed off from the desk and pecked the top of my head. “Thank you, Cousin.” Genuine warmth softened his voice. “You saved me.”
“I ought to charge you a fee for every time I rescue you.”
He grinned. “But that would take all the fun out of it for you.”
Early the followingmorning I passed Mr. Hobart entering the hotel, a newspaper tucked under his arm. I told him that if anyone should ask for me to tell them I was spending the day at the museum. I could see from his smile that he didn’t believe me, but he asked me which one.
“All of them,” I said before strolling past Frank as he held the door open for me.
I met Harry on board one of the second-class cars of the express train to Brighton. Neither of us wanted to pay the first-class fee. The carriage was full. Harry and I sat opposite a couple who were clearly newlyweds going by the way they stared into one another’s eyes. Harry and I didn’t speak.
A chill ran down my spine as we passed over the Ouse Valley Viaduct. I glanced at Harry, only to see him watching me. We exchanged grim looks.
A taxicab took us from Brighton Station to Rutherford House. Situated a few streets back from the beach, it was quieter than the Grand Brighton Hotel, and a great deal smaller. The hotel occupied two elegant cream-colored Georgian terraces with black wrought iron balconies outside every window on the lower floors. The terraces would have been originally owned by wealthy gentlemen, but now guests paid by the night. I suspected the cost was high enough to ensure the tradition of wealthy occupants continued.
Understated elegance continued inside. The cool marble columns and counter were welcome on such a warm day, while the soft greens, blues and sandy colors of the furnishings oozed seaside luxury rather than city opulence. Like the Mayfair, floral arrangements and potted palm trees were popular. Thanks to its small size, however, the greenery made the Rutherford House foyer feel a little too much like a jungle. The detective in me couldn’t help thinking that it offered numerous places to hide, for both clandestine meetings and to eavesdrop.
Not only was the foyer small, but the entire hotel couldn’t have had more than twenty rooms. With so few guests at one time, it would be easier for the staff to remember Ruth Price. Her name didn’t ring any bells at the check-in desk, however. When I told the clerk that I was investigating her death, he even searched through his register. Her name didn’t appear.
Harry and I left without any clue where to try next. We stood on the pavement near the portico entrance, both of us lost in thought. There were so many hotels in Brighton. It would be impossible to find where Ruth had stayed.
“Why did Mrs. Scoop lie?” I looked up at the black lettering of the hotel’s name above the entrance. “She must know we’ll return to London and accuse her of being deceitful. It only makes her look suspicious.”
Harry shrugged. “Perhaps she simply forgot, and this is a hotel she once stayed in herself.”
I wasn’t convinced. Mrs. Scoop was too sharp to forget the name of the hotel that she must have booked and paid for. I gasped as a thought occurred to me. “Mrs. Scoop organized Ruth’s accommodation, just like she planned for Ruth to stay at the Mayfair Hotel to spy for her. She made that reservation under a false name: Mrs. Blaine.”
Harry indicated I should walk back inside ahead of him. The doorman, who’d been standing there watching us with a curious expression, opened the door again.
“Do you recall a guest named Mrs. Blaine staying here about a week ago?” I asked him.
“The name is familiar. What did she look like?”
“Young woman, spectacles, brown hair, freckles. Oh, and she carried a brown leather bag with her.”
“I remember her! She wouldn’t let the porter carry her bag.”
“What else do you remember about her?”
“She was very interested in some other guests staying here. I saw her watching them from behind a palm tree. Sometimes she’d write notes in her notebook, too.”
