Murder at Brighton Beach Page 7

  And Ambrosia had commissioned Daniel to marry for money to save Bray Manor, their family estate, which was how Ginger and Daniel had met. To look at the Dowager Lady Gold, with pursed lips, and soft chin jutting upwards, one would be forgiven if one were to surmise that the lady had lived a life of ease and luxury, but they’d be wrong.

  Ginger couldn’t forget that her grandmother-in-law was no longer a youth. She was a little remorseful about taxing the elderly Gold lady with the role of the leader in this entourage, which included young Scout and the two maids—Lizzie and Langley—and Boss, who was following Scout’s heels.

  “No one is arguing about your capability, Grandmother,” Ginger said gently. “And we’re coming to see Scout off, not you, if that makes you feel any better.”

  Basil had said his goodbyes, needing to hurry off to a meeting at the police station.

  Ambrosia harrumphed; the soft jowls around her pursed lips moved gently. “I still don’t understand why Felicia isn’t returning as well. Langley and Lizzie will be in third class. Am I to chaperone a boy and a dog on my own?”

  Ginger felt her chest tighten. Even though she and Basil had legally adopted Scout, Ambrosia failed to embrace him as one of theirs. She couldn’t shake the knowledge that Scout had come to them as a charity case, a street orphan who initially worked with the staff at Hartigan House and had slept in the attic.

  “It’s a short trip,” Ginger said. “And Boss is staying with me.”

  “Ah, Mum,” Scout interjected.

  Ginger knelt and spoke softly. “Grandmother is right. She needn’t look after a boy and a dog.”

  “But I’ll take care of Boss.”

  Boss, hearing his name, knew he was the topic of conversation. He tilted his head, his short tail wagging like a furry thumb keeping one-quarter time. Ginger patted his head.

  “I know, and you’d do a terrific job. However, Boss is needed here, to help Dad and me solve the case. You know how good he is at sniffing out clues.”

  This made the young lad smile. “You won’t stay behind for long, I hope?” he asked.

  “With Boss’ help, I’m sure we’ll have finished here in no time.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to go. I like the seaside.”

  Ginger kissed her son’s wheat-coloured head. “We’ll come again. I promise. Besides,” Ginger pointed to the sky. A bruised bank of clouds was rolling in on the horizon. “The weather’s changing. You’d have to stay inside the hotel room the whole time, and that wouldn’t be fun. Plus, I need you to check on Goldmine for me.”

  Goldmine was Ginger’s Akhal-Teke, a rare and extraordinarily beautiful horse breed. Goldmine was the colour of sunshine with a thick golden mane, and Scout had grown very fond of the stallion. Summoning the horse’s name was the right thing to do as Scout’s disposition immediately changed.

  “Can I ride him, Mum?”

  “Only with Clement watching.”

  Clement was the gardener and occasional chauffeur. Scout happily agreed to the terms.

  It took two taxicabs to get the travellers and their luggage to the station, and by the time they were all safely on board the train, Ginger felt fatigued.

  “Shall we stop for tea?” Felicia offered.

  “That sounds like an excellent idea,” Ginger said.

  “There’s a teashop by that boutique I told you about.” Felicia linked her arm with Ginger’s. “I can’t stop thinking about that frock. You can have a look before I buy it.”

  The wind off the sea was brisk, and Ginger was glad she’d donned her rose and green plaid spring coat. As it was, she held Boss tightly to her chest for extra warmth.

  “Perhaps we should head back to the hotel,” she said. “I’d hate to get caught in a downpour.”

  Felicia glanced up at the sky. “I think we have time. We’ll skip the tea. We can get that at the hotel later.”

  Against Ginger’s better judgement, she consented. “But only because I’m frightfully curious about this frock. You’ve got my expectations up.”

  Felicia grinned. “You won’t be disappointed!”

  It was a short taxicab ride to the boutique, which was walking distance from the hotel. Ginger paid the man before stepping onto the pavement. “I hope the shop owner doesn’t mind that I have Boss with me.”

  Felicia frowned. “Keep him under your coat. You’ll look rather a lot farther along than you are, but no one will question you.”

  Ginger shot her a look. “Until my belly barks.”

  “Boss? Surely not.”

  Ginger couldn’t keep her sense of pride over her pet from tickling her lips. Boss was tremendously intelligent and well trained. She placed a finger to her lips, her sign for Boss to stay silent, before tucking him under her coat lapels and out of sight.

  The dress shop catered to seaside-goers with a variety of summer frocks, sun hats, and accessories. It was quaint in size and décor and rather crowded with shoppers and supplies.

  Ginger couldn’t help but compare it to Feathers & Flair, her own two-floor Regent Street shop in London, which had marble floors, large electric chandeliers, and gold-embossed trim. This store was a single-floor facsimile of many others Ginger had visited; however, it lacked a certain finesse found in city shops, being what one could call quaint.

  However, the frock was fantastic. The satin crepe georgette dress was deep jade green with sheer sleeves and a matching low-waist belt tied in a pretty bow on the left hip. The cuffs and square low-cut neckline were adorned with contrasting beads of rose and pearl, and a tasteful amount of beading was found on the bow. The only serious problem was it was no longer displayed on a mannequin but on the live body of Miss Poppy Kerslake!

  “Miss Gold, Mrs. Reed,” the starlet said coolly.

  Felicia’s eyes narrowed in vexation. “I thought you weren’t supposed to leave the hotel, Miss Kerslake.”

  Poppy Kerslake snorted. “I was told not to leave Brighton. One must continue living and shopping as it were.” She twirled for effect. “What do you think? Isn’t it simply fabulous?”

  “I’ve seen nicer frocks,” Felicia returned. “You must visit Ginger’s shop, Feathers & Flair, when you’re back in London. Nothing here quite compares.”

  Felicia’s recommendation delighted Ginger, but she could’ve done without Poppy Kerslake’s contempt.

  “I’ve been there.” Poppy flicked a hand as if to brush the memories away. “I rather like this little shop.”

  “It’s nice,” Ginger said, not wanting to sound spiteful. “But Felicia’s right. The colour of that frock isn’t very flattering with your overall look. Do you have a stylist? I could recommend someone.”

  Poppy stared back in horror. “Of course, I have a stylist. And I’m quite certain she’d approve of this frock.” Poppy examined her image in the mirror again. “But perhaps you’re right. The overall look is rather juvenile, isn’t it?”

  Poppy disappeared into the changing room, and Felicia let out a raspberry. “I don’t know if I even want that frock anymore. It feels tainted.”

  Poppy returned, the lovely jade green frock hanging over one arm. She handed it to the shop assistant. “I’ll take it.”

  She cast a victorious glance over her shoulder at Felicia. “I saw you admiring it the other day.”

  Felicia’s lips bunched together, holding in whatever vitriol threatened to burst forth, and Ginger had to give her sister-in-law credit for refusing to make a scene. She patted Felicia on the arm and spoke quietly. “Let’s not be petty. There are plenty of frocks to go around.”

  Though, because of the war, the same couldn’t be said of men. Ginger shivered at the competitive glares Felicia and Poppy stabbed at each other.

  Boss, sensing the negative mood, wiggled under Ginger’s coat.

  “What’s that?” Poppy said.

  Boss’ head poked out.

  “It’s my dog,” Ginger replied.

  “I don’t think pets are allowed in the shop.”

  “
You’re quite right,” Ginger said. “Felicia darling, let’s leave Miss Kerslake to complete her purchase. You’ve promised me a tea.”

  Before they left, Ginger turned back to Poppy Kerslake. “You grew up in Australia. I hear sailing is all the rage there. Do you know how to sail, Miss Kerslake?”

  Miss Kerslake’s lips pursed. “Of course.”

  “How lovely,” Ginger responded. As she left Poppy Kerslake behind in the shop, she thought about how the starlet could’ve acquired a sailing boat and delivered the body of Austin Bainbridge, tucked away in her trunk, into the English Channel.

  15

  “Mr. Floyd,” Basil said, waving the manager over. “What’s the weather forecast for today? It’s looking rather bleak outside.”

  “Big storm rolling in from the south. Such a disappointment for our tourists. Puts a right damper on their plans. I’m afraid guests are checking out early. Is there anything else I can assist you with? Otherwise, the desk is rather busy.”

  Basil adjusted his trilby hat. “Would you ring for a taxicab?”

  “Of course,” Floyd said with a bow. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Basil intended to meet Attwood at the police station to share notes but found that lingering in the lobby as he waited for his taxicab was informative. Unhappy travellers were indeed ending their holidays early. In a vigorous rhythm, Cooper, the porter, moved luggage to waiting vehicles with their boots open in anticipation. Hats were donned, and unseasonable jackets were worn. Ladies pointed, children cried, and men frowned.

  For Basil, the removal of persons who proved to clutter his investigation was a fortunate situation. It was best if only his prime suspects were left to wiggle and squirm under the spotlight of open space and poorly attended gatherings.

  A fortuitous lull in the departure sequence gave Basil opportunity to call Cooper to his attention.

  The porter’s eyes flashed with annoyance. Perhaps he intended to use the lull for personal use; however, he quickly recovered and smiled as he politely responded. “Good morning, Chief Inspector Reed—or not so good if the weather’s not to your liking.”

  Basil glanced out of the glass doors spotted with rivulets of rain. “Yes, such a shame,” he said.

  Cooper’s eyebrows jumped with expectancy. “Can I help you with something, sir?”

  “How long have you worked at the Brighton Seaside Hotel, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Two years, sir, since the summer of twenty-four.”

  “Have you worked as a porter the whole time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you were on duty here when the Bainbridge party arrived?”

  “I was, sir.” He tugged on his lapels. “It was the first time I’d ever seen Miss Poppy Kerslake in person. I was a bit rattled at first since just the night before, I’d watched her latest film at the cinema.”

  “Did Miss Kerslake arrive alone?”

  “No, sir. She came with Mr. Austin Bainbridge.”

  “And the other members of the party?”

  “Mr. Quentin Bainbridge, his wife, and son had arrived before them and were already settled in their suite. Lord Davenport-Witt arrived within minutes of Miss Kerslake, and he and Mr. Austin Bainbridge exchanged pleasant greetings. Mr. Findley arrived as the earl was checking in.”

  “And were pleasant greetings exchanged between the gentlemen as well?” Basil asked.

  The porter shook his head. “They didn’t show any signs of knowing each other at the time.”

  “A man in your position likely sees plenty,” Basil said with an encouraging smile. Staff in hotels such as this were often overlooked by guests—treated as if they were invisible. He’d learned from Ginger the importance of acknowledging even the lowliest chambermaid with a smile and a friendly hello. “Did you notice anything unusual?”

  “Oh,” Cooper glanced away. “I can’t really say, can I? It’s hotel policy to keep our guests’ affairs private.”

  “I understand, but this is a murder investigation. I can assure you that what you share will stay with me unless it’s needed as evidence in the court of law. Your employment is secure, Mr. Cooper.”

  The porter nervously glanced at the desk, and Basil noted that, fleetingly, Floyd frowned in their direction before another group of guests demanded his attention. The stack of luggage meant Cooper’s time was short.

  “Well, I’m not an expert on love, sir, but it seemed to me that the way Miss Kerslake flirted with Lord Davenport-Witt would’ve bothered even the most placid man.”

  Floyd summoned Cooper before he could elaborate, and he hurried to the front desk just as a cabbie stepped into the lobby.

  “Taxicab for a Chief Inspector Reed.”

  Basil acknowledged the cabbie with a nod and followed him outside.

  By the time the taxicab pulled up in front of the police station, the rain fell in angry torrents. It’d been difficult to see out of the fogged-up windows in the back seat, and Basil felt a little unnerved that he hadn’t been able to make a mental note of the route. They’d circled the roundabout in front of the aquarium with its distinctive clock tower spire, then gone inland, making quick turns here and there. The police station itself was small and nondescript, especially when compared to so many of the town’s landmarks.

  Inside the small lobby, Basil removed his hat, shook the rain off, and put the trilby back on his head. An officer stared at him with questioning eyes. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Chief Inspector Reed to see Detective Inspector Attwood.”

  “Ah, you’re from Scotland Yard,” the officer said, a glimmer of awe passing behind his eyes. “I’ll fetch him for you.”

  Attwood appeared and extended his hand. “Good day, Chief Inspector. I apologise for the shoddy weather.”

  Basil grinned. “I’m certain the Brighton police can’t take responsibility for that.”

  “You’d be surprised what we get blamed for around here. Coppers get the short end of the stick most of the time.”

  Basil conceded that that was true, but sadly, if one went by historical example, public distrust wasn’t always without merit. Basil meant to change that, as much as possible, though one man could only do so much to turn the tide of public opinion.

  “Can I offer you a cup of tea, Chief Inspector?”

  Basil removed his hat, gloves, and overcoat. “That would be most welcome. Milk and sugar, if you don’t mind.”

  The detective inspector stuck his head out of the door, barked at one of the officers, then returned to his desk. He rubbed his chin, already showing shadowing with new beard growth, then asked, “Any breaks on the case?”

  Basil lifted a shoulder. “Just fact-finding, at the moment. No one has come out and confessed to murder, I’m afraid.”

  Attwood chuckled. “That would be too easy now, wouldn’t it?”

  The teas arrived, and Basil took a sip before continuing. “What do you know about the brother?”

  Attwood opened a desk drawer and removed a file. “Financial checks came back. Quentin Bainbridge appears clean as a whistle. No large debts, no defaulted payments. His investments are legitimate and doing well.”

  “No financial reason to need access to his inheritance then?” Basil asked. It was the only motive he had for Quentin Bainbridge.

  The detective inspector cradled his mug, blew on the brew, and then took a tentative sip. “Not from that angle, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Austin Bainbridge’s financials were a different story. He certainly had plenty of money to live a lavish and lazy lifestyle, but it turns out he wanted to invest in a diamond mine in South Africa. Sight unseen.”

  “Quentin probably wasn’t too happy about that, I gather,” Basil said.

  “According to Mrs. Merrick, the head housekeeper, they had quite a row about it.” Attwood grinned slyly. “Those alcoves in the corridors make for good hiding places.”

  “Do you think Quentin would kill his brother to keep him from maki
ng a poor investment?” Basil asked.

  Attwood shrugged. “Perhaps not intentionally.”

  “We need a cause of death,” Basil said. “Assuming Austin Bainbridge was killed before being inserted into Miss Kerslake’s trunk, or at least we must presume he was unconscious. Hard to imagine a conscious man stepping into such a tight spot without a fight.” The thought of being trapped in a confined space made Basil chill. “Have you heard from your medical examiner, Dr. Johnstone?”

  “I called him this morning. He’s working on it. Bloated corpses are a difficult job, I presume. Hopefully, we’ll find out more by tomorrow.”

  “Did you learn anything about Lionel Findley?”

  “Middle-class bloke who’s out of his league with these folks, I reckon. Series of failed business ventures. This one . . .” Attwood shuffled pages in his file. “. . . Gems International had potential, but Austin Bainbridge kept messing things up and losing investors. At least, that’s what Findley reported when I interviewed him. According to his report, Bainbridge would miss important meetings with clients, and his devil-may-care attitude made the money men lose their trust in their foreign ventures.”

  “That leaves Miss Kerslake,” Basil said.

  “Typical gold-digger. Actress from Australia hoping to make it big in films in England. Makes headway as far as fame goes, but her bank balance isn’t large enough to support the lifestyle she likes and wants her fans to see.”

  “She needs access to deep pockets,” Basil said.

  “Rather needy is what I was told. According to Findley, Austin was growing tired of her.”

  And she of him, Basil mused. “It always seems to come back to her,” he said. “I have a hard time believing she could pull this off on her own.”