Page 47 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“Everyone deserves ice cream, Cleo.”
Harry ordered strawberry for me, and nothing for himself. Once he’d paid and handed the cup and spoon to me, he indicated we should walk down the ramp to the beach.
“I once stole an ice cream cart,” he said as we sat on the sand.
“A whole cart?”
“It wasn’t just me. I was part of a gang of boys that stole it. We made ourselves sick after sharing the spoils.” At thirteen, Harry was living on the street after running away from the factory where he worked for a cruel employer. He rarely spoke of it, although I suspected it had left its mark. “At the time, I thought it was righteous punishment for my crime.”
“And now?”
“And now I believe every boy deserves ice cream.” He whisked the spoon out of my hand and scooped out a dollop of my ice cream from the cup. “Even big boys.”
I held the cup out to him. “You should finish it. I’m still full from the fish and chips.”
“No thanks.” He stood. “I’m going for a swim.”
“But you didn’t bring a costume.”
“I’ll hire one. I won’t be gone long.”
There were a number of establishments providing bathing costumes for those visitors who didn’t own one, particularly near the men’s swimming area. Although tempted to sneak closer to the section of the beach where I was forbidden to go, I decided not to. I didn’t want to cause a scene. Nor did I want Harry to think I wanted to see him in nothing but a damp, tight-fitting costume.
I finished the ice cream and removed my notebook from my bag. I turned to a blank page and jotted down what I knew about Ruth’s movements in Brighton. She’d stayed only a few nights, the same as Beecroft. Perhaps they’d even caught the same train from London, and she’d seen the person Beecroft believed followed him from the station. The next day, Beecroft received a telephone call from a man who demanded to meet him.
The day after that, Wednesday, Beecroft received another call, this time from a woman in London. Ruth also made a telephone calltoLondon, but it wasn’t clear whether that was before or after Beecroft received his call. According to the pharmacy assistant, Ruth used the silence cabinet around midday, which was a few hours before I first saw her on West Pier watching the Pridhursts. At about four PM, she followed us back to our hotel, waited until I left again to go sea bathing, then went upstairs and presumably spoke to Aunt Lilian and Flossy. She returned downstairs and left a message for me at the post desk, blackmailing me into meeting her. When I met her at six she was going to ask for my help, but was put off when she saw a man watching us from behind his newspaper.
I also wrote down some other facts—such as seeing Beecroft swimming away from a bathing machine—as well as theories I’d formed about that day. Even though neither Jane nor I had seen Geraldine Lacroix, it was very likely she was the woman giggling inside the hut. It was also extremely likely Ruth overheard the telephone call Beecroft received from the man, then followed to see who he met. I noted, too, that she must have been speaking to Mrs. Scoop over the telephone, strongly advising her to print a story she’d uncovered.
Was the story about the affair of Beecroft and Geraldine? Or something more scandalous? Something to do with the man Beecroft had spoken to over the telephone, then met?
I tapped the pencil against the notebook as I considered the possibilities, unaware that I was staring in the direction of the male swimming area. It wasn’t until Harry was only a few feet away that I realized. He strolled toward me, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his jacket slung over his shoulder. It wasn’t the first time I admired his strong forearms, or the way his biceps filled out his shirt. At least I could blame my pink cheeks on the heat.
He sat beside me with a satisfied sigh. “That was invigorating.”
I returned my notebook and pencil to my bag. “We should go.”
He asked me to hold his jacket while he rolled his sleeves down. I found myself drawn to his warm skin as it disappeared inch by inch beneath his shirtsleeves. For the first time, I noticed a small birthmark near his elbow.
He cleared his throat loudly. “Would you like me to go slower?”
“No! We don’t want to be late.” I looked out to sea, ignoring his light chuckle.
With his sleeves down, he stood and offered me his hand. I passed him his jacket and graciously accepted his assistance. It would be petty not to.
Harry madea telephone call to his parents from the public booth at Brighton Station while we waited for our train. He was due to have dinner with them, but was unlikely to make it on time. He also informed his father of our progress. Perhaps D.I. Hobart could contact his former colleagues at Scotland Yard and have them put pressure on D.S. Fanning to re-examine the case. If he could tell them to exhume Ruth Price’s body and have an autopsy performed to determine cause of death, that would be even better. I was still convinced the mark around her neck wasn’t caused by a fall. I doubted D.I. Hobart had that much sway anymore, however.
Harry and I didn’t discuss the investigation on the way home. There were too many other passengers nearby for such a gruesome conversation. Instead, he asked me about my previous visits to the seaside as a child. That led to me talking about my parents, something I didn’t do often. Their deaths had been traumatic. Although extremely fortunate to be raised by loving grandparents from that point, as opposed to Harry who had no one after his mother died, I’d nevertheless found their loss profoundly difficult. Even more so because I’d been in the cart when it overturned. I’d been thrown clear and wasn’t badly injured, but I’d witnessed the entire thing, including their arguing beforehand.
That argument had distracted my father. He’d not seen the deep ditch on the side of the road or noticed the horse move wide. It wasn’t until the wheels plunged into the ditch that he’d tried to correct our course. But it was too late.
It wasn’t until the train slowed down as we approached London that I realized I’d done most of the talking. “Sorry,” I said, turning to look out of the window. “That was rather a lot.”
Harry’s hand folded over mine, resting on my lap. His fingers curled underneath my hand, and his thumb caressed the back of my glove. “It helps.”
I looked at him, frowning. “Helps with what?”
The locomotive’s whistle blew as we approached the station. It wasn’t our stop, but people moved about to get off. Harry removed his hand and gave me a gentle smile.
