Murder at Brighton Beach Page 4

  Basil had also arranged for champagne to be brought aboard, and the captain made a show of dispatching the bottle cap with a loud pop and pouring the bubbly liquid into flat coupé glasses.

  “Ladies first,” he said with a toothy grin.

  Ginger, choosing a simple tonic water, along with Felicia, accepted their drinks with grace and gratitude.

  “Thank you, Captain!”

  When an appropriate amount of time had passed, Davenport-Witt excused himself. “I mustn’t be rude by ignoring the beautiful ladies on board. You don’t mind, Reed, do you?”

  “I’m sure they’d be delighted with your company,” Basil said. When the earl was out of earshot, he muttered to Bainbridge. “Is he a rogue?”

  Bainbridge tapped ashes over the side of the vessel. “I honestly don’t know the chap all that well. Carries himself with a bit of mystery. So very vague when asked a direct question, especially about how he spent his time during the Great War.”

  “Adeline, my wife, is quite enamoured of him, as are all the ladies, but I can’t begrudge her any diversion now. The poor dear is terribly uncomfortable.” He added rather uncharitably, “Like a human pear with legs.”

  Basil watched his wife and Felicia as they engaged in conversation with the earl. Felicia was flushed with giddiness, certainly not hiding her flirtatious efforts. Ginger listened in with the aloofness of a chaperone trying desperately not to be a gooseberry in the group of three, and considered the gentleman politely. Her green eyes studied the man with interest, but there was a look in them that someone who didn’t know his wife as he did mightn’t recognise—distrust.

  But why? Ginger was normally so inclusive and the first to give a stranger the benefit of the doubt. What was it about the earl that troubled his astute wife?

  8

  Ginger wished there was a dial on Felicia’s back so that she could turn her sister-in-law’s flirtatious enthusiasm down a notch. By Ginger’s judgement, it was apparent that the intrigue ran both ways; the earl could hardly keep his eyes off Felicia and her lovely smile as she giggled.

  However, Miss Kerslake was still an unknown in this equation, and Ginger would hate for Felicia’s heart to be wounded. In all seriousness, with her poor history choosing men, one would think she would have learned her lesson by now and proceed with caution.

  Felicia, one bare arm folded over her chest and the other propping her glass in the air, said lightly, “Lord Davenport-Witt, you were going to tell me about my brother?”

  “Ah yes.” The earl shifted his weight, his blue eyes moving upward as he seemed to draw on his memories. “Gold was a good old chap, wasn’t he? Always had a kind word to say about his fellow man. And dreadfully good at cards. Lost a dozen or so cigarettes in the trenches to him myself.”

  Ginger felt a strange wave of nostalgia course through her veins. It’d been so long since she’d spoken to someone, other than Felicia and Ambrosia, who’d known Daniel personally. She loved Basil dearly and the life they now had together, but Daniel had been her first love and losing him to the war had been so difficult.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” she asked.

  “Oh blast, summer of eighteen, I believe. Somewhere in France.”

  Ginger smiled weakly. “Were you in his regiment?”

  “No, we weren’t in the same regiment, but our regiments did cross paths on occasion. We were both stationed near Brussels for a few weeks. Gold and I got on well—as if we’d known each other our whole lives. I was very sorry to hear when his regiment was lost.”

  Felicia murmured. “It was a sad day for all of us.”

  Ginger stayed quiet. She wanted to believe Lord Davenport-Witt, and she had no logical reason not to, except something about the earl’s demeanour didn’t sit quite right with her. She couldn’t put her finger on it—for one thing, Daniel had never been one to play cards, much less win at them. She supposed he could’ve picked it up during the war years, and she would never have known, though she just couldn’t picture it. The Daniel she knew never gambled. His family had lost its fortune because of a gambling addiction by both Daniel’s father and grandfather. And Daniel had vowed never to tempt fate.

  However, the war had had a way of changing the hearts and minds of many faithful and determined folk.

  Ginger felt a tug on her summer frock and glanced down at Scout, his face scrunched in an adorable, childlike manner, his skinny arm outstretched, and finger pointed.

  “Something just bobbed up in the water, Mum. Reggie thought it was a whale, but it’s got no spout.”

  Ginger shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare on the water and stared in the direction her son pointed. His announcement had the attention of all the passengers and the captain included, everyone eyeing the large object floating nearby.

  Basil shouted, “Take us closer, Captain!”

  As they drew near, Ginger could make out its rectangular shape. A trunk? The bubbles appearing around it made the inanimate object look like it was breathing.

  The sight of it made Ginger’s heart slow.

  Quickly she went to Basil’s side and whispered in his ear. “It appears as if gas is being released.”

  Her husband nodded sombrely and whispered back. “A body?”

  Ginger’s dear pathologist friend, Haley Higgins, who’d spent a couple of years living with Ginger while attending the London Medical School for Women, had explained the process one evening over a glass of brandy. Tiny microbes eat away at the corpse, releasing gas while reducing the body’s density. Over time, the result will be that a body submerged in water will find its way to the surface.

  “Only one way to find out,” she said.

  Basil instructed the captain again. “Can we bring it aboard?”

  Aligning the vessel with the trunk, Basil and the earl reached for one end, whilst Mr. Bainbridge and the captain reached for the other. Ginger, Felicia, and the boys stood on the opposite side of the boat to help distribute the weight, but the men plus the heavy trunk caused the sailing boat to lurch towards the port side.

  “Hang on!” Ginger yelled, gripping the railing with both hands. Felicia, Scout, and Reggie did the same. Boss yelped as he slid to a spot behind her legs.

  “It’s okay, Bossy,” Ginger said, hoping everyone aboard could swim. At least Scout and Reggie wore life jackets.

  “Heave ho!” the captain shouted, and with loud grunts accompanying great exertion, the trunk was lifted onto the boat. The men spread out, which brought the vessel back to balance.

  “Treasure,” the captain said with a grin.

  Basil didn’t return the smile. “I’m afraid treasure wouldn’t float to the surface.”

  “What is it then?” Mr. Bainbridge said.

  Ginger held Basil’s gaze and then let her eyes float to Scout and Reggie. It wouldn’t do to open the trunk with them as witnesses.

  “We can’t know until we open it,” Basil said, “but let’s get it to shore first, shall we?”

  Ginger noticed that the earl had grown quiet, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the man demonstrated slight hints of agitation.

  “Are you all right, Lord Davenport-Witt?” she asked.

  He blinked as he stared back at her. “I recognise the trunk.”

  It was a classic Vuittonite trunk by Louis Vuitton made of orange-stained, water-resistant canvas. Ginger had a similar one herself.

  “It belongs to Miss Kerslake,” he explained. “It went missing a week ago.”

  9

  Once the ladies and children were safely on shore, Ginger asked Felicia to take the boys back to the hotel. Felicia shot her a questioning look—a look of not wanting to miss the action, or, more specifically, the earl in action. Still, when Ginger whispered her suspicions, Felicia was glad to comply.

  Ginger stood aside as the men carried the heavy trunk off the plank, unable to avoid getting the bottoms of their trousers and their footwear soaked.

  Mr. Bainbridge wiped the sweat from his brow, his
eyebrows nearly meeting above his nose as he questioned the others. “What’s this then?”

  Basil shared a look with Ginger before unbuckling the straps. A rusted locking apparatus didn’t budge.

  “Captain, a tool, perhaps?”

  “Aye, I’ve got a kit on board. A screwdriver should do it.”

  Moments later, the captain returned with the instrument in hand and gave it to Basil, who worked the lock until it broke off. Basil glanced up at Mr. Bainbridge and Lord Davenport-Witt. “Gentlemen, prepare yourselves.”

  The lid flew open, and a gasp escaped the mouths of all the onlookers. As Ginger had predicted, a body in a forced foetal position lay inside. The corpse was bloated with skin shedding like a snake, and the facial features were deformed, possibly nibbled on by various sea creatures. It was clear, however, that the deceased was male with dirty-blond hair.

  Ginger felt bile rise in her throat. Normally, she was as solid as a rock when viewing gruesome remains—she’d seen plenty during the war. She blamed her queasiness on her “delicate” condition. It didn’t help when Mr. Bainbridge turned his back to the chest and vomited on the pebbled beach.

  Oh mercy.

  Lord Davenport-Witt spoke grimly. “It’s his brother, Austin.”

  Basil commanded the captain to fetch the police. To Bainbridge, who’d recovered and had washed his face with seawater, and to Lord Davenport-Witt, he said, “In full disclosure, I’m Chief Inspector Basil Reed of Scotland Yard. I’m afraid your brother’s no longer a missing person case, Mr. Bainbridge. This is murder.”

  Mr. Bainbridge’s knees bent weakly, and Lord Davenport-Witt stepped over to brace him in time to prevent an ungraceful fall. “There, there, old chap. Hang on to me.”

  “You believe this trunk belongs to Poppy Kerslake, Lord Davenport-Witt?” Ginger said. “Why is that?”

  “The Australian flag is emblazoned on one side.”

  Ginger pursed her lips. “How is it that you are so well acquainted with Miss Kerslake’s luggage?”

  Lord Davenport-Witt blinked, and as Ginger suspected, was too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell. “Miss Kerslake was hot and bothered when the porter couldn’t produce her trunk at her request. She presented a very clear description of it to us all and had all the staff of the hotel searching high and low, including the manager and chief housekeeper—the same ones in employment at the hotel now. They, of course, were full of apologies, claiming to have no idea what could have happened to Miss Kerslake’s trunk. They tag every piece of luggage then stow it in the luggage room with the owner’s name, in and out dates, and room numbers.”

  Ginger thought the earl’s answer to her question was overly thorough but kept her feelings on that to herself.

  The captain jogged back to them, his face red from the effort, and tried without success to conceal his shortness of breath. Ginger gathered running along the seafront wasn’t a pastime he normally he engaged in and did not need to if he spent most of his time sailing the Channel.

  “The police are on their way,” he finally stated.

  After what felt like eons, a police motor car puttered to the kerb on Kingsway, and two officers dressed in dark navy-blue uniforms with single-breasted jackets and police helmets jumped out.

  Such heavy clothes in the summer heat, Ginger thought, feeling sorry for them.

  Basil was quick to introduce himself.

  “Pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector,” the older of the two officers said. “This is Constable James Clarke, and I’m Detective Inspector William Attwood. I’ve been leading the case of Mr. Austin Bainbridge’s disappearance. When the call came in, I wondered . . .”

  “We have identification for Austin Bainbridge,” Basil said. He lifted his chin towards Quentin Bainbridge. “This is his brother, Mr. Quentin Bainbridge, and family friend, Lord Davenport-Witt.”

  Detective Inspector Attwood removed his helmet. “Of course. I’m sorry to see you both again in such sad circumstances. My condolences on this unhappy discovery.” His eyes landed on Ginger, and as she was highly accustomed to, he frowned at the presence of a lady at the site of such gruesomeness. Ginger had had plenty of experience with death—first during the Great War, then as a consultant for Scotland Yard, and lately, her work as a private investigator. She normally had a strong stomach for wretched sights and smells.

  Ginger held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Reed.”

  “Pleased to meet you, madam. I do believe we have things handled here. Do you need an escort to your room?”

  Basil interrupted. “What you don’t know about my wife, Detective Inspector Attwood, is that she’s a private investigator and often works as a consultant for Scotland Yard.”

  Detective Inspector Attwood didn’t seem too keen to hear the news, but Lord Davenport-Witt let out a whistle. “A lady investigator! Impressive!”

  Detective Inspector Attwood turned to his assisting officer. “Constable Clarke, call the medical examiner and an ambulance.”

  The police presence on the beach had triggered the interest of other holidaymakers, but with the trunk lid closed, any nosy parkers were left with unsatisfied curiosities.

  Detective Inspector Attwood pulled at his collar, clearly feeling the effects of the heat, and then produced a notebook from his pocket. “Chief Inspector Reed, would you mind going through the events of the day? How was it that you ended up here with this trunk on this beach?”

  As Basil relayed the day’s timetable, Ginger worked out the complications in her head. It could only be pure luck and serendipity that they’d happened to be near the trunk just as the body released enough decomposition gases to raise the trunk to the surface. The adults on the vessel hadn’t even been paying attention and might’ve missed it if it hadn’t been for the young lads with them.

  And having two suspects on board—because that was what Quentin Bainbridge and Lord Davenport-Witt now were, suspects, along with the rest of the Bainbridge party. Poor Miss Poppy Kerslake. If she thought her day had gone poorly with the earl not inviting her to sail, it was only about to get a lot worse.

  The medical examiner and the ambulance arrived, and the circle of onlookers increased.

  “Stand back, everyone,” Detective Inspector Attwood instructed. “Police business!”

  The medical examiner, a middle-aged man with a thick grey moustache, introduced himself as Dr. Johnstone then took a cursory look into the trunk. “I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know without doing a post-mortem. After that, I should be able to confirm whether the poor bloke was dead or not at the time he was thrown overboard.”

  Quentin Bainbridge checked his watch. “I’ve got to let Adeline know. She’ll take it hard, poor thing, and her nerves are a nuisance these days.”

  Soon after Ginger and Basil had returned to their room at the Brighton Seaside Hotel, a telegram came for Basil from Scotland Yard.

  “Is it what I think it is?” Ginger asked.

  “If you think it’s Morris instructing me to lead the investigation into the death of Mr. Austin Bainbridge, then you’re correct. The chief constable of East Sussex has made a formal request for the Yard to get involved.”

  Ginger had a rocky relationship with Superintendent Morris, who found her to be more of a busybody than a help, despite plenty of evidence proving otherwise. For the most part, the two agreed to stay as far apart from each other as possible. Basil, sadly, didn’t have that option.

  “I hope Detective Inspector Attwood will be all right with that,” Ginger said. It wasn’t uncommon for Scotland Yard to get involved in difficult murder cases outside London, but that didn’t mean the local police didn’t get their knickers in a twist over it.

  “I suspect he won’t be overjoyed,” Basil said, “but hopefully, we can work together.”

  A knock on the door was followed by the flamboyant entrance of Felicia and Ambrosia.

  “Was it him?” Felicia pressed her palms together and touched her fingertips to her lips. “Was it Mr. Aus
tin Bainbridge?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Ginger said, looking beyond the ladies. “Where are Scout and Boss?”

  “They’re in our room along with Reggie,” Felicia said. “I asked room service to bring them up a piece of cake each.”

  Ginger was appeased. She didn’t want talk of this gruesome case to land on young ears.

  “I suppose this means our holiday must come to an end,” Ambrosia said. “I, for one, find this heat oppressive.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to stay for a few days, Lady Gold,” Basil said. “I’ve been assigned the case.”

  Ambrosia huffed. “Surely this to-do doesn’t involve me?”

  “She’s right,” Ginger said. “Could she and Felicia go back to London? They could accompany Scout.”

  Felicia said, “No,” as Ambrosia said, “Yes.” The elder Gold lady scowled at the younger. “Why on earth would you want to stay?”

  “We’ve just got here, Grandmama. I’ve been looking forward to the sun and fresh air.”

  As if pleading for help, Felicia’s gaze darted to Ginger. The trouble was that Ginger knew exactly why Felicia wanted to stay, and it wasn’t for the sun and fresh air, but for a certain gentleman, who might be a murderer.

  “Well, I’m not chaperoning the boy on my own,” Ambrosia said, referring to Scout. She’d never truly got on board with Ginger’s decision to adopt a street child. Even though all evidence of Scout’s former, humble existence had nearly gone with time, good nutrition, and an excellent education, Ambrosia couldn’t forget the small, dirty boy who’d come to them with a strong cockney accent.

  “Lizzie can chaperone Scout, and you’ll have Langley to assist you,” Ginger said.

  Ambrosia scowled at Felicia. “Very well,” she said, turning on her heel. “If you think you can manage without your maid.”

  “Thank you,” Felicia said, with a spirited grin.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Ginger said. “You may find you won’t like how the investigation turns out.”