Page 7 of Murder on the Brighton Express
Harmony had been born and raised in a London slum. Despite enduring prejudice for her darker skin, she’d gained employment as a maid at the hotel, and was now the occasional assistant to the owner’s son. Those of us who knew her weren’t surprised. She was intelligent, efficient, and had a strong work ethic. She deserved the promotion. Yet prejudice from some quarters persisted.
“Mrs. Hessing thought I was being rude and complained to Mr. Bainbridge. He defended me, but things haven’t been the same since.”
“Do you think she’ll cause more trouble?”
Harmony paused, the glass halfway to her lips. “She can’t change her mind and have another hotel host the reception now. It’s too late for that. Nor will she want to jeopardize the success of the event. It’s important to her. She wants it to be remembered for all the right reasons, not the wrong ones, hence the spectacular nature of her requests. What she might do is not pay the bills.”
“If she doesn’t, then the suppliers won’t supply things. It’ll be a disaster.”
Harmony didn’t think so. “The reception is important to them, too. Having their name associated with it will be a boon for their business. Also, with her rumored wealth, they will happily deliver on the day, expecting payment afterward.”
“But?”
“But I think she’ll pay what she wants and leave Sir Ronald to pay the rest. He’d agree to it, to maintain a good relationship with suppliers and to keep one of his best guests happy.”
Indeed he might. Mrs. Hessing could certainly afford a lavish affair, so that wasn’t the reason for her reluctance to pay the quoted prices. I suspected she was testing us. Or, rather, testing my uncle’s loyalty to her. Would he prefer to displease our suppliers or Mrs. Hessing?
Harmony checked the time on the watch Floyd had loaned her, but didn’t get up. She tucked it back into her pocket. “Tell me all about the holiday. Did anything nibble your toes while you were sea bathing? Is the Royal Pavilion as peculiar as they say? What was the hotel like?”
I gave brief answers to all her questions. By the end, she sensed there was something else on my mind. After she glanced at her watch again, I knew I had to get to the point or my opportunity to discuss it with her would vanish. “A woman disappeared on the journey home. She tried to blackmail me in Brighton, threatening to tellThe Evening Bulletinthat I was a private detective if I didn’t help her. She didn’t say how she knew I was a private detective or how she’d learned where I lived, or even how I could help her. She told me she would contact me here at the Mayfair to discuss it further. But I’m concerned she may not have made it back to London. I saw her get on the carriage, but not get off. Oh, and either she, or I, was being watched. I think.”
Harmony’s eyebrows rose higher and higher with every sentence. It did sound rather extraordinary when I laid it out like that. Most people would dismiss my concern for R.P., just as the conductor had, but not Harmony. She suggested I contact the police immediately.
“Your instincts are usually good, Cleo.” She checked the time again. “I have to get back to work. Let me know what the police say.”
I followed her out of my suite and headed downstairs. There were only two telephones on the ground floor, one on the front desk and one in Mr. Hobart’s office. My call required privacy, so I asked the manager if I could use his.
Instead of telephoning the local police station, I put in a call to Detective Sergeant Forrester at Scotland Yard. I’d dealt with him before, and as a trusted former colleague of the now retired D.I. Hobart, I knew he’d take me seriously.
Even so, there was nothing he could do. “Unless she’s reported missing, or a body is discovered, there’s no case.”
“I understand, but perhaps you could find out if any luggage from that train wasn’t collected.”
“I could do that for you, Cleo. But are you sure she didn’t pass your compartment on her way to the next carriage?”
“Quite sure, Monty.” I felt awkward calling him by his first name, as we’d agreed to do on our last encounter, but he’d already used mine, so I had to follow suit.
The telephone line crackled, and I couldn’t hear what he said, so asked him to repeat it. “Are you suspecting foul play?” he said in a louder voice.
“I suppose I am, yes. There’s nowhere to hide in the car, so we can dismiss that idea. If she fell out of the window, or was pushed out, we would have heard her scream.”
“It wouldn’t be easy to push someone out of a train window, particularly if they were struggling.”
“Precisely. So, I think she was murdered in her compartment, or silenced in some way, then bundled out.”
Someone on the line gasped. I doubted it was Monty. The operator must be listening in.
We quickly ended the call.
The hotel foyer was busy with ladies arriving to experience the Mayfair’s famous afternoon tea. I had no plans myself, but I remained in the foyer to welcome those I recognized. Many were guests currently staying with us, but quite a number were London residents who regularly enjoyed the experience with friends.
Mr. Hobart and Peter had also taken up positions to welcome the ladies and direct newcomers to the sitting room. It was a sunny day, so there were no coats to deposit at the luggage room, which doubled as a cloakroom, but several checked in their parasols.
When the gaggle of ladies began to thin, Peter joined me. “Is it just me or are the hats bigger this summer?”
I laughed. “Definitely bigger, and more elaborately decorated. A woman bumped into me at Brighton Station because she couldn’t see where she was going from underneath her enormous brim. She did look exceedingly elegant, though. Her outfit wouldn’t have been out of place in a fashion magazine.”
“I’d wager it cost a small fortune.”
