Page 67 of Murder on the Brighton Express
She shrugged a shoulder. “He certainly looked like a ne’er-do-well.”
“Do you not see the irony, Miss Lacroix? Or whatever your name is?” Perhaps my tone was harsh, but I was astounded someone from the slums would judge someone else by the way they looked. Not to mention I was a little tired of her flirting with Harry while being curt with me.
She sniffed and turned back to Harry. “Clem and I have reputations to uphold. He thought the best way to deflect your attention from us was to point the finger at someone else. I think he chose wisely. I’m sorry we lied, and I’m sorry that woman is dead, even though she was assistant to a gossip columnist and probably deserved it. You ought to look at other people she was spying on for her employer. I’m famous enough, and loved enough by my audience, that I could weather my past being exposed, as well as my dalliance with Clem.” With another sniff, she studied her reflection in the mirror. “Perhaps someone else couldn’t.”
“Do you know she worked for Beecroft’s wife?” Harry’s words had her whipping around in her chair to stare at him. “Her professional name is Mrs. Scoop, and she’s the gossip columnist atThe Evening Bulletin. Have you noticed she never writes about her husband in her column?”
“He kept that secret well hidden.” She frowned. “There you are then. If what you say is true,Clemdidn’t have a reason to kill that woman, because the paper she worked for would never print anything about him, and therefore I have no reason to kill her either.”
“Unless Beecroft discovered she knew something else about him,” Harry pointed out. “Or you did.”
“Now you’re just grasping at straws, Mr. Armitage.” Her flirtatious tone was back, and a smile, too. “I’m sure you can do better.”
Something that had niggled at me since our first outing to Brighton together snapped into sharp focus. “A witness told us that Beecroft arrived at the hotel looking worried. He thought someone had followed him, presumably from the station. As you say, he wouldn’t be worried about Ruth. Do you know who made him anxious? Did he talk to you about it?”
Part of me expected her to snap at me and tell me to mind my own business. But she turned thoughtful. “He was fine when he left London. We caught the same train to Brighton, although we didn’t sit together, and he looked cheerful. But when I saw him again at the hotel, he did seem anxious.”
“Was anyone on that train who was also on it coming home?”
“I don’t think so. No one seemed familiar, but I don’t know if I saw every passenger, on either journey.”
There was someone who might remember. Someone who was on every express train that ran between Brighton and London.
Harry must have had the same idea. He checked his watch and gave me a brief nod. We had thirty minutes to make the arrival of the last express from Brighton.
The conductorwho farewelled passengers alighting from the first-class carriage of the express from Brighton wasn’t Jack West. We asked the fellow if Mr. West had the day off, but he shook his head.
“West doesn’t usually work the express. His shifts cover the regular service.”
Harry and I exchanged glances. “But he was on the express a few times recently,” Harry pointed out. “Most notably when Ruth Price died over the Ouse Valley Viaduct.”
The conductor touched the brim of his cap as a passenger arrived. “I was ill, and he filled in for me. Then he asked another time or two because he said he liked the express. I reckon one of those times was when the woman threw herself off. Now he’s back to the regular stopping all stations service.”
Again, Harry and I exchanged glances.
“What can you tell us about him?” I asked the conductor. At his shrug, I added, “How long has he worked for the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway company?”
“Not long. About a month.”
“And before that?”
“He worked for another company. I don’t know which one. I reckon it was years ago, though, not recent.”
“Why do you say that?”
The conductor checked his watch then tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket. “He was experienced, but was surprised at how fast the journey is. There’ve been improvements in the tracks and locomotives these last couple of decades, you see. It means we can get to Brighton in just over an hour on the express. Real surprised by that at first, was West.” The conductor touched the brim of his cap again and greeted a couple who climbed on board. “Strange thing is, West denied being out of the railways for years when I pointed out that the improvements weren’t new or limited to the Brighton line. Denied it strongly, I might add. He seemed offended that I doubted him. I suppose he needed the work and didn’t want our superiors to find out he lied about having recent experience. Poor cove must have been desperate if he had to lie.”
Desperate for work? Or desperate to work on the Brighton line? Something wasn’t right about Jack West.
Harry knew it, too. “Do you know where we can find him? Does he live in London or Brighton?”
“London. I don’t know where he lives, but he drinks at The George in Lambeth.”
Lambeth wasn’t far, but we caught an omnibus anyway. The afternoon heat made any kind of exertion uncomfortable work, and it had already been a long day that was likely to feel even longer by the time we finished questioning Jack West. Harry agreed with me that there was something very suspicious about him, but we couldn’t agree whether he was guilty, an accessory to another’s guilt, or merely unlucky.
While I leaned toward guilty, Harry was at the other end of the spectrum. “He doesn’t have a motive for killing Ruth,” he pointed out.
“That we know of, yet.”
