Page 50 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“I’m not,” she bit off. “You don’t know everything, Miss Fox. I told Ruth I wouldn’t print the story about Beecroft because Ican’tprint a story like that. I even have it written into my contract here.”
“Is that what Finlayson was referring to just now when he said your agreement is irrelevant in this situation?”
She nodded. “Itisrelevant, by the way, and I will remind him of why in the most vehement terms. You see, my contract states that while I work forThe Evening Bulletin, this paper can’t print anything about Beecroft’s relationships. If Ruthwasmurdered, and Finlayson prints an article about it, it will need to mention details about her visit to Brighton. Details that will reveal Beecroft’s relationship with Geraldine Lacroix. When Ruth called me from Brighton to tell me she’d seen them together, I refused to print it. She became a little cross because she didn’t understand why.”
“Will you tell me why you have that clause in your contract?”
She glanced through the window behind the reception desk at the bustling newsroom beyond. “It’s an agreement Beecroft and I came to years ago. You see, he knows something about me. Something I’d like to keep private. If I mention his affairs in my column, he’ll break his silence. It will ruin my career.”
“It must be something terrible if Finlayson would dismiss an anonymous gossip columnist.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, he employs very few women here, and none as journalists. I am the closest thing to a female reporter in this office, and I had to claw my way up from the typing floor. Finlayson would happily dismiss me if even a whiff of scandal was attached to my name. Writing about Beecroft’s liaisons simply isn’t worth the repercussions.”
“May I ask what he knows about you that is so dangerous to your career?”
She simply narrowed her gaze at me.
I tried a different angle. “If you’ve known Beecroft a long time, do you know how he got his start as an impresario? It requires a substantial amount of money to put on theatrical performances.”
“I believe he was financed by his family.”
“But he has a Cockney accent. I assumed he wasn’t born into wealth.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t a family member, then. Perhaps it was a lover. I have known him a number of years, Miss Fox, but not long enough to know the details of his origins.”
“Could the money have come from his wife or her family? Was she wealthy when she married him?”
“I don’t know.”
A reporter hurried in from the street and pushed open the door to the newsroom. Mrs. Scoop’s gaze followed him. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
I watched her enter the newsroom, too, then I left.
I walked back to the hotel via the Laneway Theater. A printed sign next to the box office stated that Beecroft’s production had begun. The next performance was a matinee that afternoon, with no performance that evening.
I stepped out from the covered portico into the rain. Frank was going to enjoy gloating about being right. I considered avoiding him and calling on Harry at his office, but decided against it. I didn’t want to disturb him if he was busy, and I’d not learned much from Mrs. Scoop anyway. What I had learned didn’t need discussing further with a colleague to understand it. It was very clear. Ruth had telephoned her to tell her about Beecroft’s affair with Geraldine Lacroix, but Mrs. Scoop couldn’t print the story because of her agreement with Beecroft.
The rain was light, so I continued on my way. A theory had begun forming when I spoke to Mrs. Scoop, but the walk solidified it in my mind. My next move was clear. First, I had to change out of my damp clothes.
Frank had never looked so smug. “I won’t say I told you so, Miss Fox, but…” He pointed at my hat. “Your silk flowers are drooping.”
“They’ll recover. Like me, my hats are English and quite used to a little drizzle.”
Frank’s mouth moved in what I suspected was his attempt at a smile.
I had some time before I needed to enact the next part of my plan, so I gathered as many prior editions ofThe Evening Bulletinas I could find. Terence kept several older copies at the post desk, and I found the previous night’s edition in the smoking room. I’d just settled on my sofa when there was a knock at the door.
Harmony entered before I had a chance to rise. “Good, you’re here.” She flopped onto the sofa beside me with a sigh.
“Is something the matter?”
She undid the laces of her boots and kicked them off. She wiggled her toes. “I needed to sit for a few minutes, somewhere Mr. Bainbridge or Mrs. Hessing won’t look for me.”
“Floyd will know you’re here, but you probably have a little while before he realizes.”
“Have you got any tea?”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind a cup myself. Don’t get up,” I said as she started to rise. I ordered a pot of tea and two cups through the speaking tube that connected to the kitchen, then sat again. “Has Mrs. Hessing paid the suppliers?”
