Page 52 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“Because you’ve been a fool.” She flicked her hand in the direction of the front reception room then followed me in.
The room was decorated with solid, ornately carved furniture popular in the mid-eighties, with heavy brocade curtains in rust-red to match the floral wallpaper. The lighter fabrics in pastel shades and delicate furniture favored by modern tastes were nowhere in sight. Mrs. Scoop was a practical woman, not a fashionable one.
I opened the curtains to make my ruse that I was being watched more believable.
Clement Beecroft—Blaine—stopped in the doorway and stared at me.
“Close your mouth, Clem, and come in,” his wife snapped. “Miss Fox requires a satisfactory explanation, or she’ll blame one of us for Ruth’s death.”
“I didn’t kill her!”
“Sit.”
He swore under his breath as he dutifully sat. “I didn’t kill her,” he said again. “I never left my compartment. Ask that thug who was in there with me. He’ll tell you. Unless he’s lying, which he might do to save his own skin.Heleft the compartment, you see. Have you found him?”
“Stop prattling,” Mrs. Scoop said with a roll of her eyes.
“Be quiet, you ugly crone.”
Mrs. Scoop pressed her lips together and removed the cigarette case from her bag. She didn’t open it and retrieve a cigarette, however. Perhaps they didn’t smoke in the house. The smoking room at the hotel smelled like the tobacco had seeped into the very walls, no matter how much the maids cleaned, but the Blaines’ parlor smelled only of furniture polish.
“Ruth didn’t know you were married to Clement Beecroft,” I said to Mrs. Scoop. When she didn’t answer, I continued. “You sent her to Brighton to learn more about the Pridhursts, just as you told me that first day I met you. But she happened to see a famous actor staying in the same hotel as her. That was a coincidence I’m sure you didn’t anticipate when you made the reservation.”
Mrs. Scoop’s jaw firmed as she nodded at her husband. “We holidayed in Brighton years ago and stayed near Rutherford House. We couldn’t afford a room there at the time, but we admired it so much that we planned to return when we could.”
“Happy times,” he sneered.
“I can’t believe you took your whore there.”
“It is one of the nicest. It’s also discreet.”
“Not that discreet,” I told him. “Ruth overheard you speaking on the telephone and reluctantly arranging to meet someone. She followed you and discovered something rather scandalous.” I waited, hoping one or both would react and tell me what that scandal entailed. They were smarter than that, however. “Ruth then telephoned her employer, but Mrs. Scoop refused to print it. She has a clause in her contract that states she won’t print anything about Beecroft.” I fixed my gaze on her. “You told me you had the clause written into your contract because Beecroft knows something about your past that would hurt you if made public. I presume that secret is your marriage. Why is it so awful if the public knew?”
“Would you want the world to know you’re married to a man who has a new mistress every time he puts on a new play? Not to mention he is ridiculous. I have a reputation to uphold, Miss Fox. Being married to him is embarrassing.”
He made a sound of disgust in his throat. “She has a reputation as a gossip, snoop, and thoroughly mean witch to uphold.”
Mrs. Scoop rolled her eyes again. “Pathetic.”
“Your name is really Blaine,” I said to Mr. Beecroft before their conversation became even pettier. “Is that what Ruth uncovered in Brighton? That you had humble origins?”
Mr. Beecroft shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know who she was until after she died.” He looked to his wife.
She nodded. “You’re right, Miss Fox. That’s what Ruth told me over the telephone. She said she heard Clem’s cockney accent when he spoke to that man.”
“Who was he?”
“Someone who knew Clem when he was younger, demanding money to keep quiet. They grew up together, you see, and he knew Clem worked as a laborer and lived in the slums before he became famous.”
Mr. Beecroft tugged on his cuffs. “I have an image to protect. My audience adore me, because they believe I’m a debonair and cultured gentleman. They’d stop coming to my plays if I talked like I crawled my way out of a gutter.”
“Stop throwing themselves at you, too,” Mrs. Scoop snarled. “What a tragedy.”
“I paid the man money to keep him quiet.”
“Why did he approach you now and not years ago?” I asked.
“I suppose he’s not much of a theatergoer and only just discovered who I became. I didn’t ask. It wasn’t an amiable chat over a pint between old friends. He demanded money and I paid him.”
