Murder at Brighton Beach Page 5

  “Nonsense.” Felicia waved her hand as if she were flicking away a pest. “You can’t believe the delectable Lord Davenport-Witt had anything to do with it.”

  Basil’s hazel eyes darkened. “I’m afraid this is a murder investigation, Felicia, and everyone associated with the victim is under suspicion. Perhaps it would be best if you accompanied your grandmother back to London.”

  Felicia froze, her rosebud lips parting as her heavily made-up eyes stared in disbelief. “I promise to be on my best behaviour, Chief Inspector.” Her nose tilted into the air as she addressed Ginger. “I’ll be in my room, reading, if you’re looking for me. How long do you want me to hold on to your son?”

  Oh mercy. Ginger disliked being caught between her by-the-book husband and fly-as-I-fancy sister-in-law.

  “We are very grateful to you for helping with Scout on occasion,” Ginger said kindly. “I’ll fetch him in a few minutes.”

  When Felicia had left, Ginger turned to Basil. “I’m afraid she has quite a large chip on her shoulder.”

  “I regret offending her,” Basil said. “That wasn’t my intent; however, what is to proceed isn’t a game, and Felicia must know that.”

  “She does, love,” Ginger said. “She’s been so good about avoiding the jazz clubs and night-life lately; you can’t blame her for seeking a little diversion.”

  “I suppose Ambrosia would approve of the earl as Felicia’s next suitor,” Basil muttered.

  “There’s little to hold against him,” Ginger said. “He’s a gentleman, with money—I presume—and a title . . .” Unfairly, something about Lord Davenport-Witt troubled Ginger, though she couldn’t say what for sure. She added reluctantly, “. . . If he’s not a murderer, that is.”

  10

  At Basil’s request, Attwood notified the friends and family of Austin Bainbridge of their civic duty to stay in Brighton until notified otherwise by officials, and to gather in the meeting room for initial questioning.

  A sombre-looking crew sat in a semicircle. Miss Poppy Kerslake sat between Findley and Davenport-Witt, her chair skewed slightly towards the latter, with Bainbridge and his wife to the earl’s right. Little Reggie Bainbridge was with Scout and under the watchful eyes of Ambrosia and Felicia. Basil, along with Ginger, claimed two empty chairs while Attwood and his constable stood nearby.

  “Thank you for your prompt compliance,” Basil said. “For those who don’t know, I’m Chief Inspector Reed of Scotland Yard. The local police chief, along with my superintendent, felt it prudent that the Yard gets involved in this investigation and, in that regard, I will be working closely with Detective Inspector Attwood, who has been investigating the disappearance of Mr. Austin Bainbridge. My wife, Mrs. Reed, you probably don’t know, is a regular consultant for Scotland Yard. Before we go any further, I must express, on behalf of us all, our deepest condolences on the death of a dear family member and friend.”

  Mrs. Bainbridge produced the lace handkerchief she’d been gripping and wiped her watery eyes. “I thought there was a chance he might still be alive, perhaps having injured his head somehow and developing amnesia.”

  Bainbridge tapped her lightly on the knee. “There, there. This will all be over soon.” Then to Basil, he said, “Can we please get on with it. You can see how upsetting this is to my wife.”

  “Of course,” Basil said. “This gathering is just to let you all know, officially, that you must remain in Brighton until I say you may leave.” He paused long enough that each person felt compelled to nod or shrug, indicating that they understood the instruction. “I will be interviewing each of you alone, so from here, you may go to your rooms and await my arrival. Detective Inspector Attwood and Constable Clarke shall stand by, should you have any further questions.”

  And to thwart the suspects’ compulsion to leave.

  “Is this really necessary?” Davenport-Witt asked. “Surely, we can answer whatever questions you may have in this room and be done with it?”

  Miss Kerslake nodded her approval at the earl’s suggestion with wide, hopeful eyes.

  “I’m afraid so,” Basil said. “It’s a murder investigation now, and it behoves me to ensure that no stone goes unturned.”

  Findley simply grunted his disapproval. “Might I suggest you start with me? I’d really like to be on my way.” He stood, rubbed the creases out of his trousers, and glanced at Basil for consent. “I’ll wait in my room.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Basil said. He’d got a list of the room numbers from Floyd, the manager.

  The rest of the room rose to their feet. Davenport-Witt said, “I’ll wait for my turn in the hotel lounge, if that’s all right with you, Chief Inspector?”

  Basil nodded. He figured that by that time, he’d need a drink, himself.

  Since the lift wasn’t large enough to house them all, Basil and Ginger let the Bainbridges, along with Findley and Miss Kerslake, take it first, then many minutes later, followed.

  Findley hadn’t even bothered to close his door. Out of courtesy, Basil knocked then stepped in behind Ginger as they entered a large room with a single, neatly made bed, matching wooden furniture and a small seating area, which included a table and four chairs by the window.

  “Forgive me,” Findley said. “Should I offer drinks? I have a bottle of Scotch to hand.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Basil said. He didn’t drink whilst on duty, and, at the moment, Ginger had a delicate digestion. “Let us get right to the heart of the matter.”

  Basil removed a notepad and pencil from his suit pocket and started, “How did you know the deceased?”

  Findley slapped at his suit pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  Basil cast a glance at Ginger, who he knew wasn’t a fan of cigarette or cigar smoke, but she subtly nodded her head.

  “Go ahead,” Basil said, wondering why the man was so jittery. Nervousness in a suspect didn’t always equate to guilt—some people were just skittish by nature and particularly around authority figures—but sometimes it did.

  Findley fussed with his cigarette case, withdrew a handmade cigarette, then fiddled with a lighter, his hand trembling. He inhaled deeply and let out a stream of grey smoke from the side of his mouth. After a moment, where the nicotine seemed to miraculously do its work to bring a sense of calm, Findley answered. “We were business partners.”

  Basil made a quick notation in his notepad. “What kind of business?”

  “Precious gems.”

  “Selling or investing,” Basil asked.

  “Both.”

  “Did you operate from London?” Ginger asked.

  “Yes, and here in Brighton. It was why I was included in this farce of a holiday.”

  “How is business?” Basil asked.

  A shrug was followed by another pull on his cigarette. “It’s up and down.”

  “And at the time of Mr. Bainbridge’s disappearance,” Basil started, “was it up or down?”

  Findley snorted, “Down. Now don’t take this the wrong way, but Austin didn’t exactly have a head for business. The deal? He provided the capital, and I managed things.”

  “But he didn’t keep to his end of the deal?” Ginger said.

  “The blighter, er . . .” Mr. Findley cast an uncomfortable glance Ginger’s way. Basil was used to people judging him for bringing his wife along to interviews, but he’d learned long ago that a woman’s presence often made the interviewee more forthcoming. “Forgive me, madam,” Findley said, correcting himself. “Mr. Bainbridge couldn’t stop meddling. He was the reason the company lost profits.”

  “Did he understand this?” Basil asked.

  “Yes. However, he had bags of cash and simply didn’t care. I, on the other hand . . .”

  Ginger offered, “Didn’t have bags of cash?”

  “No. I didn’t. And I don’t apologise for it. Some of us have to work for what we have and work hard.”

  “What happens to the business now, Mr. Findley?” Basil
asked.

  Mr. Findley groaned. “With the death confirmed, Austin’s half of the business will go to his heir, which means I’ll have to deal with another meddler.”

  “Who’s his heir?”

  “I wouldn’t know. His brother, most likely.” Findley stabbed an ashtray with the short stub of what remained of his cigarette. “Look here. I know it looks bad . . . like I wanted to get rid of a problem business partner…”

  “It’s motive,” Basil stated.

  “Well, yes, but I didn’t kill him. I’d rather go bankrupt. I simply don’t have the stomach for it.”

  “Be that as it may,” Basil said. “Please don’t leave town.”

  11

  Leaving a disgruntled Mr. Findley behind with only his cigarettes and bottle of Scotch to keep him company, Ginger and Basil moved on to the Bainbridges’ door. Quentin Bainbridge answered Basil’s knock.

  With a low voice, he whispered, “My wife is sleeping.”

  Peering around Mr. Bainbridge, Ginger could see a suite like the one she shared with Basil and Scout—their floor plan, though the same, had an opposite layout. A seating area was separated from two sleeping rooms by interior doors.

  “We could talk to you,” she said, “until your wife wakes up. We’ll speak quietly.”

  Quentin Bainbridge pursed his lips. His apparent dismay at having to accommodate the interview when perhaps he’d hoped for a delay flashed behind his squinty eyes. “Very well.” He motioned for Ginger and Basil to enter.

  “I had tea brought up,” he said. “Would you like a cup?”

  “That would be delightful,” Ginger said. Mr. Bainbridge stood in for his wife and poured.

  After adding milk and sugar, Ginger savoured a sip then said, “Once again, I’d like to offer my sympathies. Finding out about your brother’s demise in this fashion must be simply dreadful.”

  Mr. Bainbridge paled at the memory, and Ginger recalled how he’d been sick at the discovery.

  “It’s all very ghastly,” Quentin Bainbridge said. “But at least now we know.”

  “How he died?” Basil prompted.

  “Well, not that, precisely, only that he did, in fact, die.”

  “Was there any other logical conclusion?” Basil asked. “Was it like your brother to simply walk away without a word to anyone?”

  “My brother was unpredictable at the best of times. I hate to speak ill of him now, but I might as well tell you what you’re soon to discover about Austin’s character. He was a selfish, inconsiderate blighter without a single ounce of empathy for anyone’s suffering, particularly suffering he brought about.”

  Ginger shifted and crossed her legs at the ankles. “Would you say your brother had any enemies?”

  Mr. Bainbridge hedged. “It’s not impossible, though I couldn’t name any one person specifically. Austin was rather pretentious.” His frown deepened. “Not unlike his best pal, Lord Davenport-Witt. Austin often rubbed people the wrong way. But everyone does on occasion, don’t they? You don’t get killed for it.”

  “When was the last time you saw your brother alive?” Ginger asked.

  There was a pause, then a sip of tea before the man answered. “The morning he disappeared. Austin regularly went for a morning swim, he loved the sea, and that was his big complaint about London. I was picking up our breakfast and morning paper from the corridor when I saw him step into the lift. He didn’t see me.”

  “Was he dressed for swimming?” Ginger asked.

  Mr. Bainbridge blinked. “Well, I imagine. I can’t really remember.”

  “So, you just assumed your brother was headed for a morning swim,” Basil said. “But you can’t verify it.”

  The poor man looked as if he were about to be sick into his teacup. “I’m afraid not.”

  Before Ginger or Basil could pursue their line of questioning further, the door flew open, and Reggie ran in. “Daddy. I’m tired of playing with that boy, and I want to go home.”

  Mr. Bainbridge whipped a finger to his lips. “Shh! Your mother’s sleeping.”

  “She’s always sleeping,” the boy whined.

  Felicia stumbled into the suite with a look of apology. “I’m sorry I couldn’t restrain him.”

  “He tends to get irritable in the afternoon,” Mr. Bainbridge said. “He’s overstimulated.”

  Ginger glanced at Basil, witnessing her husband’s frustrated facial expression. “Perhaps we’ll come back later,” she suggested. “When Mrs. Bainbridge is awake, and Reggie is settled.”

  “That would be best,” Mr. Bainbridge said, practically shepherding them towards the door.

  Ginger couldn’t imagine Adeline Bainbridge sleeping through this commotion, but something told her that Adeline didn’t want to talk to the police, and her husband didn’t want her to either.

  In the corridor, Felicia stared at Ginger and said, “One moment Scout and Reggie are playing cards together like they’re lifelong pals, and the next thing I know, Reggie’s throwing the cards about, stamping his feet, and insisting on being returned to his parents. I knew you were interviewing, but he ran out before I could stop him.”

  “It’s fine,” Ginger said. “We can speak to the Bainbridges again later.”

  Basil checked his watch and faced Ginger. “We should see to Miss Kerslake, love.”

  Ginger felt rather fatigued, but she knew that Basil preferred that she accompanied him when he had to speak to ladies like Poppy Kerslake. Not because he didn’t trust himself, but because he didn’t trust the female in question. Ginger’s husband was very attractive, and unscrupulous women were known to throw themselves at him, even when aware that he was a married man.

  Sending Basil alone was like sending a lamb to the lions, and Ginger wasn’t about to allow that to happen.

  Ginger tapped on Miss Kerslake’s door while Felicia headed slowly towards her suite. As predicted, the light went out of the starlet’s eyes when she saw that Ginger was with Basil. Ginger glanced behind her as she stepped into Miss Kerslake’s room, just in time to see Felicia step into the lift.

  Oh mercy! Felicia is going to the lounge to meet up with Lord Davenport-Witt!

  Ginger could hardly do anything about it now but keep it to herself. Basil wouldn’t be very happy with Felicia’s interference.

  Miss Kerslake wore a delicate sleeveless chiffon frock in a violet hue that accentuated the creamy skin of her slender arms, which were decorated with silver bracelets. A long string of pearls wrapped seductively around her neck and hung long over her flattened bosom.

  “Please come in, Chief Inspector.” Her full, bright-red lips turned upwards when she added, “Mrs. Reed.”

  “Thank you, Miss Kerslake,” Basil said, his hat in his hands. “We’ll be as quick as possible.”

  Poppy Kerslake strolled elegantly to a chair by the window—her room, similar to Mr. Findley’s, was decorated in soft greens and warm yellows.

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” she said after sitting. Then letting her gaze bore into Basil, added, “And you simply must call me Poppy!”

  The starlet’s insistence on familiarity bordered on vulgar, but Basil, as Ginger expected, answered politely, “Very well, Poppy.”

  Ginger felt a certain smug satisfaction that Poppy’s peacocking didn’t have the effect on Basil that Poppy would have hoped for. That didn’t stop the starlet from crossing a bare leg—no stockings! And dangling a loose, black silk shoe trimmed with rhinestones from her toe. She held Basil’s gaze. “I’d offer you something to drink, but alas, my cupboards are bare.”

  It was an attempt at flirtatious banter as the room lacked a kitchen and thus cupboards, and Poppy was the type to be served not to be of service.

  “We’ve just had tea with Mr. Bainbridge,” Ginger said. “Please tell us about the trunk that went missing.”

  The expression of self-importance dropped from Poppy’s face at Ginger’s question. There was no point beating about the bush with this one.

  Poppy resp
onded coldly. “What do you want to know? The porter took my trunk for storage, and it vanished.” She snapped her fingers for dramatic effect, and Ginger couldn’t help but notice, once again, how the opal ring sparkled like fire.

  “Did any of your other pieces of luggage go missing?” Basil asked.

  “No. Just the largest one, which was a pity, since I used it for my shoes and hats that came without boxes.”

  “Were there any identifying features on the trunk?” Ginger asked.

  “What is this about anyway?” Poppy directed her question to Basil. “Why is she going on about my trunk?”

  It hadn’t yet been disclosed how Austin Bainbridge’s body was discovered, so it was a valid question, if rather rudely posed.

  “Just answer the question, please,” Basil said.

  “Fine. It was a Louis Vuitton, branded with the flag of my home country.”

  Poppy’s description confirmed Lord Davenport-Witt’s assertion that the trunk involved in the crime indeed belonged to her.

  “How well did you know Austin Bainbridge?”

  Poppy smirked. “You could say we had an understanding.”

  “An understanding?” Ginger asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure you know what I mean. We were to be engaged. I do believe that was why he invited me here. Such a romantic place to propose.”

  “Did Austin Bainbridge give you that ring?” Ginger asked.

  Poppy Kerslake held out her hand, stretched out her fingers, and openly admired the jewel. “No. I brought this back from Australia. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Ginger admitted

  “To confirm,” Basil started as he glanced down at his notepad, “you were holidaying here in Brighton with the Bainbridge family at Austin Bainbridge’s request?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your relationship with Lord Davenport-Witt?” Ginger asked.

  Poppy recrossed her legs with an air of defiance. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “The earl is part of the Bainbridge party, and was also so when Austin went missing,” Ginger said. “It’s relevant.”