Page 53 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“Was he on the same train that day Ruth died?”
“If he was, he didn’t travel first class. Nor have I had any contact with him before or since.”
Mrs. Scoop glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Is that all? I have work to do.”
Mr. Beecroft rose and did up his jacket button. “And I have someone waiting for me.”
His wife’s lips twisted with disgust. “You must wonder how we got together, Miss Fox.”
I was actually wondering why they didn’t get a divorce, but nodded. “Did he charm you?”
“Why would I charmher?” Mr. Beecroft snorted. “You’ve seen the sort of woman I like, Miss Fox. Beautiful, elegant, vivacious.” He wrinkled his nose at his wife.
I expected one or both of them to tell me he charmed her because of her money, but they did not.
Mrs. Scoop simply said, “Don’t,” in a waspish whisper. She led the way out of the parlor.
Her husband ignored her. Indeed, he looked rather triumphant as he told me the story. “We’ve known each other since we were children. Anyway, one night I was drunk and got her with child. We were eighteen. Her father forced me to marry her.” He rubbed his jaw. “A month after the wedding, she lost the baby.”
I’d assumed she’d come from a wealthy family, but it seemed her origins were as humble as his. She was better at hiding the cockney accent.
“It’s quite a feat to rise from nothing to become one of London’s leading impresarios,” I said. “How did you get started?”
“The usual way. I was a popular actor in successful shows. I quickly built a reputation and was able to borrow money to put on my first production. It was extremely well received, and the rest is history.” He stretched out his arms, as if inviting accolades. “My wife’s assistant discovered the truth about my upbringing, but I didn’t kill her. I never left my compartment, and if anyone says I did, they’re lying. Find that man with the flat nose. He’ll confirm it.”
Mrs. Scoop stood by the open front door, her fingernail tapping on the frame. Her flinty gaze followed me as I stepped outside. “Yes, Miss Ferret will suit nicely when I write about you in my column.”
“Are you threatening to expose me, Mrs. Blaine?”
“Are you threatening to expose us, Miss Fox?”
“If one or both of you are guilty of Ruth’s murder, I’m afraid I have no choice but to go to the police.” I descended the steps to the pavement. “Print what you want about me. My family are aware of my occupation.”
Her thin lips stretched with her smile. “But are their friends and the hotel guests?”
I walked away, my heart hammering in my chest. They were a thoroughly nasty couple, not only to me, but to each other. I’d seen some unhappy marriages, but that one went beyond unhappy. Their dislike had turned to hatred over the years, and that had made them cruel. Surely the scandal of a divorce was better than their current miserable existence.
Detective Sergeant Fanning’sshift had already ended. I was told to return to Scotland Yard the following morning. I considered contacting Harry’s father, but decided against it. Although he and Harry would be worthy sounding boards for my theories, I still didn’t know who murdered Ruth. I simply wanted to pass on what I’d learned to the detective who’d been assigned to the case.
I returned to the hotel to find a rather contrite Frank. It was an unusual emotion for him to display, so I stopped to ask what was wrong.
“I let in a reporter,” he muttered. “Sir Ronald just finished scolding me. But it’s not my fault, Miss Fox. They’re tricky. They dress like guests.”
“But you usually know the faces of all the guests currently staying with us, which I must say, is quite a feat.”
“I do, but it’s the ones who come just for afternoon tea that trip me up. A lady can come with her friends just once and never be seen again. If she dresses appropriately and speaks like a toff, how am I supposed to know she’s not one?”
“It’s a dilemma for you. I’ll speak to my uncle on your behalf.”
“Will you?”
“Of course, if you want me to. Now, put on that lovely smile you’re famous for and end your shift in good humor.”
If he realized I was teasing, he didn’t show it. He didn’t smile, either, but I hadn’t expected him to. At least he didn’t look quite so downcast.
Inside, Mr. Hobart saw me from across the foyer where he was chatting to a guest. He excused himself and approached.
My spirits lifted. “Do you have a message for me?”
