Page 55 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“Ye-es,” I said as I tried to recall it from the depths of my memory. I couldn’t quite grasp it, however. “Is there anything you can tell me about him? Anything at all that might help me locate him?”
He slotted the file back into his drawer. “He had a cockney accent. Does that help?”
“Not really.” I stood. “Sergeant, that’s three people who don’t believe Ruth killed herself. Thomas Salter, Enoch Price, and me. Please, consider reopening your investigation.”
He lifted a stack of papers off his desk and released them. The resounding thud drew the attention of several of his colleagues. “I have too much to do. I don’t have time to reopen closed cases.”
I shot to my feet. “If the murderer strikes again, it will be your fault, Sergeant.”
Fanning swallowed heavily as he looked around at his colleagues, who were staring at him. I strode away without a backward glance, my head high. Sometimes, with the right people and at the right moment, a little histrionics can achieve the desired result.
I’d have to wait and see if it worked on D.S. Fanning.
It wastime to call on Harry. The name Thomas Salter was vaguely familiar, yet I still couldn’t remember where I’d heard it. Perhaps Harry’s memory would prove better than mine.
Fortunately, I found him in his office. I’d worried he might be out investigating his own case, and I’d have to wait in the Roma Café for his return. He did appear to be working when I entered without knocking. There were several pieces of paper strewn over his desk, but he had his eye to a microscope, peering at something under the lens.
“Cleo, take a look at this,” he said without looking up.
Once upon a time, I would have asked him how he knew it was me, but these days he expected me to enter without knocking. He finally sat back when I joined him on that side of the desk.
I bent to look through the microscope. My vision filled with a thick horizontal line bordered top and bottom by a dark center that lightened at the edges. “What is it?”
“A short hair. It proves that my client’s dog is innocent, as it can’t possibly belong to him.”
“Innocent of what crime?”
“Theft of some apples left unattended in a basket outside a coach house in Belgravia. My client lives with his dog above one of the neighboring coach houses in the mews.” Harry removed the slide containing the hair and placed it alongside two paper bags, each labeled in his neat handwriting. I could hardly see the hair, it was so short. “Several strands like this were found at the crime scene. I can tell the victim that his apples were stolen by his own horse.” He tapped the paper bag labeled HORSE. “Not the dog.” He indicated the other bag, labeled DOG.
I sat on one of the guest chairs on the other side of his desk. “Well done. London is safer now.”
His lips twitched. “I agree it’s hardly riveting stuff, and I wasn’t paid much, but I took it on because I knew it would be fast to solve. Also, I wanted to use my new microscope on a real case.” He placed the lens inside the small drawer of a wooden box then slotted the brass microscope into the box before closing it. He looked immensely satisfied with himself. The microscope and the possibilities of its uses appealed to Harry’s curious mind.
“Did you buy it from that scientific instrument shop in Regent Street?”
“My father bought it from a deceased estate. It’s an early birthday gift from my parents.”
“Very early. Your birthday is in October.”
He placed the microscope box in a cupboard and locked it. “You remembered.”
“I have an excellent memory. Usually. That’s why I’m here, actually. D.S. Fanning accidentally found out the name of the thug who shared Beecroft’s compartment.”
“Accidentally?”
“He showed up at Scotland Yard, demanding Fanning reopen the case because he didn’t believe Ruth killed herself.”
“Ah. So, he’s not the murderer.”
“It would seem he isn’t, but I still need to speak to him. His name is Thomas Salter. It rings a bell, but I can’t for the life of me remember where I’ve heard it.”
“You wouldn’t have heard it, you would have seen it.” Harry reached for a newspaper placed to one side of his desk and flipped through the pages. When he found the article he wanted, he showed it to me. “Look at the byline.”
The report about an automobile driver cheating in an endurance event was written by Thomas Salter. I’d noticed others taking a keen interest in the story over the last few days, but had merely skimmed the articles about it. I must have seen Salter’s name attached to one of them. I checked the masthead.
The London Tattler.
I gasped. The man seen entering Ruth’s compartment by multiple witnesses worked for the closest rival newspaper toThe Evening Bulletinwhere Ruth worked. It couldn’t be a coincidence that they were both on the same train.
