Murder at Brighton Beach Page 9

  “And your wife caught you in the act?”

  “It sounds so lewd when you say it that way. We were in the corridor. I thought she wanted. . . me. I pulled her in for a kiss, but Poppy pushed me away and slapped me. Adeline saw it all.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Adeline jumped in the lift and headed downstairs, Poppy took the stairs, and I went back to our suite.”

  That would explain the emotional reaction Adeline Bainbridge had at seeing Poppy as she came down the stairs on the day that Ginger and Basil himself had arrived.

  Quentin continued, “I couldn’t chase Adeline without taking the stairs too; besides, Reggie was alone. It was all just a stupid mix up.”

  “Mr. Bainbridge, did you kill your brother so you could have his girl?”

  “No, Chief Inspector, I did not. I might be a worm of a man, and unworthy of my wife’s respect and affections, but I’m not a murderer.”

  Basil caught sight of Ginger, who’d returned to their table and looked over at him in expectation.

  “Please do not leave this hotel, Mr. Bainbridge. If you do, I’ll have you arrested for non-compliance. I’m afraid I will have to speak to Mrs. Bainbridge in the morning, but I’ll ask my wife to accompany me. I promise we’ll be kind.”

  Quentin Bainbridge lifted his glass to his lips then swore when he found it empty. He waved his arm at the passing waiter. “Get me another!”

  Felicia cast a dark look Miss Kerslake’s way then excused herself. “I’m going to powder my nose.”

  “Don’t dally,” Ginger said lightly. “We may order dessert.”

  Felicia muttered, “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  “Poor dear,” Ginger said, once she and Basil were alone. “She’s not used to being second fiddle.”

  “I’m staying out of it.”

  Ginger grinned. “I know, I know, unless there’s fire or blood, you’ll not touch Felicia’s love life with a ten-foot pole.”

  “Exactly.”

  Felicia’s absence gave Ginger and Basil opportunity to share notes, and Ginger couldn’t hold in her dismay when Basil told her about Quentin Bainbridge’s indiscretion with Miss Kerslake.

  “She’s a siren!” Ginger said. “I’m afraid Felicia doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Felicia returned at that moment, but Miss Kerslake had caught her attention, and Ginger was relieved Felicia hadn’t overheard her last statement. The waiter provided a new diversion by bringing the apple and rice pudding Basil had ordered for them.

  Mr. Findley leaving the Bainbridge party resulted in Felicia spending more time angrily sipping her glass of sherry as she tried in vain not to watch Lord Davenport-Witt and Miss Kerslake, who now dined alone together as if they were a perfectly attractive and charismatic couple.

  Ginger patted Felicia’s arm. “Perhaps he’s not the one for you, Felicia.”

  “But I thought he liked me.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Ginger said. Felicia was an appealing example of a bright young thing, which men like Lord Davenport-Witt found delightful. “But he seems rather, uh, undecided.”

  Felicia scowled.

  Ginger glanced at Basil, who lifted a shoulder as he placed his spoon into his pudding.

  The storm outside had turned into an ugly monster, which apparently matched the mood of Mr. Quentin Bainbridge. He threw back his drink as soon as the poor waiter had delivered it then hurried out of the restaurant. Lord Davenport-Witt and Miss Kerslake stood to leave shortly afterwards. The earl adeptly avoided the starlet’s arm, which she’d held out before letting it drop when he didn’t take it.

  Ginger clucked her tongue. So uncouth of the earl. He nodded at their table, catching Felicia’s eye for a moment longer than Ginger thought appropriate, before sauntering out. Allowing a moment of charity, she wondered if perhaps Miss Kerslake had a hold over Lord Davenport-Witt that went beyond physical attraction. Poppy Kerslake proved unscrupulous when it came to going after what she wanted, even if it meant interfering in a man’s marriage. Could she have Lord Davenport-Witt entangled in another way? Blackmail, perhaps?

  The wind howled through the street-facing windows, and thunder rolled. The electric lights flickered before going out, leaving only the few table candles to cast light.

  A scream followed, causing the hairs on the back of Ginger’s neck to bristle. Basil picked up the candle as the trio rushed into the darkness of the hotel lobby.

  A body lay at the foot of the stairs. In the eerie glow of candlelight, Ginger could see the lifeless form of Miss Kerslake lying at the foot of the staircase.

  18

  The electric lights snapped back on, and Ginger took in the stunned observers. At the top of the stairs stood Mrs. Merrick and Adeline Bainbridge, both with aghast expressions and fingers over open mouths.

  In the lobby, Mr. Floyd ran out from his place behind the front desk, Mr. Bainbridge stepped out of the gents, and Lord Davenport-Witt made an entrance from the lift, the doors of which had remained opened. The earl’s eyes darted from person to person, hitting Ginger just before falling to Poppy Kerslake lying on the floor.

  “What the deuce!” Lord Davenport-Witt ran to the foot of the staircase, stopping short of the body. “Is she . . .?”

  “Mr. Floyd,” Ginger said. “Please call the doctor.”

  Quentin knelt beside Poppy Kerslake and lifted her wrist. “Poppy, dear, are you all right? Come on. Snap out of it, dear.”

  He glanced up at the startled faces of the onlookers. “Surely, she’s simply unconscious.” He leaned in to listen to Poppy’s breath. “Poppy?”

  Ginger glanced at Basil and shook her head subtly.

  Basil took hold of the man’s elbow. “The doctor will be here shortly.”

  Mr. Findley made a late appearance and joined the ladies who remained at the top of the stairs. Adeline Bainbridge stared at her husband with a look of fury, and Ginger guessed she wasn’t happy about his public display of affection for Poppy Kerslake.

  “What’s all the racket about?” Mr. Findley asked.

  “It’s Miss Kerslake,” Adeline said. “She’s fallen down the stairs.”

  “She must have stumbled in the dark,” Mrs. Merrick added. “Poor dear.”

  The wait for the doctor’s arrival seemed interminable with a tangible sense of nervous tension and a growing dread as Poppy Kerslake’s complexion grew ashen.

  When the doctor finally arrived, a collective gasp was released. “I’m afraid this lady is dead,” he immediately determined.

  Basil addressed everyone with authority. “Until the police and the medical examiner have had a chance to examine the situation, I must ask everyone to return to their rooms.”

  “Just retrieving my lighter, old chap,” Lord Davenport-Witt said sombrely. “I left it at my table in the restaurant. Will only be a moment.”

  Quentin Bainbridge made quick strides to the lift and disappeared behind the bronze, grated doors. Ginger glanced at the landing; both ladies were gone. Mr. Findley’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the twisted body of Poppy Kerslake before sharpening his grimace. When his gaze caught Ginger’s, he made a quick pivot and marched down the corridor back towards his room.

  Lord Davenport-Witt returned from the restaurant and made a show of producing his silver lighter. He paused at Felicia’s side and frowned appropriately. “Such a shame. She was a real talent.”

  “Forgive my impertinence,” Basil said. “You don’t seem too upset.”

  “I’m terribly distraught, my good fellow. I’m not one to wear my emotions on my sleeve.”

  Mr. Floyd wrung his hands. “This is terrible. Simply terrible. The second disaster at this hotel in a fortnight. It will be dreadful for business!”

  “Or good,” Felicia said. “People are drawn to the morbid.”

  “Felicia darling,” Ginger said. “You should probably go back to your suite too. The police will be here soon, and the fewer of us to get in the way, the better.”

  L
ord Davenport-Witt held out an arm. “Might I escort you, Miss Gold.”

  Despite the gruesome circumstances, Felicia ducked her chin and allowed for a slight smile. “I’d be delighted.”

  Ginger caught Basil rolling his eyes.

  The sound of clamouring bells grew increasingly louder, announcing the arrival of the Brighton Police. Soon afterwards, Detective Inspector Attwood and Constable Clarke marched in. After stamping his feet and shaking rain off his helmet, Detective Inspector Attwood stared at Basil. “Another body, sir?”

  “I’m afraid so. Miss Poppy Kerslake had a bad fall down the stairs.”

  “Oh dear,” Detective Inspector Attwood said. “I do love her films.”

  With a catch to his voice, Constable Clarke added, “Me too.”

  Detective Inspector Attwood circled the body, his lips tight as he took in the unnatural angle of Miss Kerslake’s neck. “The medical examiner will be here soon. Clarke, snap a few photographs in the meantime.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Constable Clarke rushed outside, presumably to collect the camera equipment.

  “Do you know what happened?” Detective Inspector Attwood asked.

  “We were dining in the restaurant when the lights went out.”

  “From the storm?”

  “I’m presuming. Soon after, we heard a scream. Using the lit candle from our table, we came to the lobby and found Miss Kerslake lying here.”

  The detective inspector mused aloud, “Stumbled in the dark. An unfortunate accident.”

  Perhaps, in normal circumstances, Ginger would have been inclined to jump to that conclusion, but when the fallen was a prime suspect in a murder enquiry, she found the coincidence a mite coincidental. She turned to Basil. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be too hasty?”

  “Quite right,” Basil said. “Miss Kerslake was a person of interest in the Austin Bainbridge case. I’d like to rule out foul play.”

  “Very well, sir,” Detective Inspector Attwood said. “I’ll get the forensic team to come in.”

  Dr. Johnstone arrived, his spectacles fogged up from the rain. He took a moment to wipe them with his handkerchief before carrying his black bag to the scene.

  “Nasty fall, I see,” he said.

  “Is it possible to tell from what height she stumbled?” Ginger asked. “Had she made it to the top, or only partway?”

  The medical examiner scanned the length of the staircase. “My guess would be from the top. A stumble from partway would certainly account for injuries, but the subject would have a better chance of stopping or slowing momentum. The further up the fall started, the more difficult it would have been for one to break one’s fall.”

  He knelt, lifted Poppy’s head, and found a bloody gash had sliced her scalp. He frowned deeply. “I’d say she fell backwards in a manner that would cause her to strike her head.”

  Basil climbed the stairs, slowing as he came to a spot on the wooden edge of the staircase. “Looks like blood. I’d surmise she hit her head here.”

  The doctor frowned. “Normally, if one loses one’s footing, one falls forward and begins to slip. A tumble like this, resulting in the striking of one’s head in that location, is unlikely unless one were inebriated or—”

  Ginger filled in for him. “Pushed?”

  Dr. Johnstone blew out his cheeks. “Lesions on her face would support the hypothesis. Her fall was dramatic.”

  While Basil kept a keen eye on Dr. Johnstone and the potential crime scene, Ginger meandered to the front desk, where Mr. Floyd stood with slumped shoulders. Dark circles ringed the manager’s eyes, and the smile of servitude he gave Ginger looked forced.

  With a tone of weariness, he asked, “Can I assist you with anything, madam?”

  “No, I just thought I should step out of the way. Not a pleasant evening, now, is it?”

  “No, madam.”

  “Might I ask, Mr. Floyd, how well do you know Mrs. Merrick?”

  Mr. Floyd’s pencil-thin moustache quivered. “Quite well. We’re cousins, in fact. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just curious. And the owners of this hotel, where are they?”

  “The Winthrops set up permanent residency in New York City. They only pop in once a year or so.” He collapsed a little into himself. “I dread having to share this new bit of bad news.”

  “Does the Winthrop family leave the running of the hotel to you and Mrs. Merrick, then?”

  “Yes, madam.” He sighed. “We never had any problems before this lot came.”

  Ginger ducked her chin. “Rather bad luck for both you and them.”

  The forensic team had arrived. Ginger left the manager and rejoined Basil, who had remained on watch.

  Basil nodded towards the front desk. “Anything of interest?”

  “Did you know that Mr. Floyd and Mrs. Merrick were related?”

  “I did not.”

  “Cousins.”

  “How interesting.”

  Detective Inspector Attwood called for Basil’s attention. “Palm print on the wall on the landing about six feet from the stairs. Looks to belong to the victim. You can see that she has a scar on the palm of her hand—a unique identifier. The same print is on the wall.”

  “One might hold the railing when going up the stairs,” Ginger said, “but a lady wouldn’t palm the wall like that unless she’d lost her balance.”

  “Miss Kerslake was poise itself,” Constable Clarke said, a hitch evident in his voice.

  “Indeed,” Basil said. “It indicates that Miss Kerslake had a physical encounter on the landing.”

  Ginger nodded. “And that she was pushed down the stairs.”

  Basil stared at Detective Inspector Attwood. “I’m calling this murder, Detective Inspector. Please ensure that none of the witnesses leave the hotel.”

  “Yes, sir,” Detective Inspector Attwood said, then to Constable Clarke. “Confirm the room numbers from the manager and knock on doors to make sure everyone is where they should be.”

  Ginger sidled up beside Basil. “Ten to one Poppy Kerslake’s death is related to Austin Bainbridge’s.”

  Basil agreed. “We find the killer for one, and we’ll find the killer for two.”

  Constable Clarke returned a few minutes later. “Everyone is in their rooms and promises to remain there for the night, sir.”

  “Very good,” Basil said.

  Dr. Johnstone reported the completion of his initial examination. “I presume that the deceased died from a broken neck. An autopsy will confirm that definitively. If you’re ready, the body can be removed.”

  “You may proceed,” Basil said.

  “Where shall we start?” Ginger asked. “With the ladies on the landing?” Ginger thought one or both had arrived at the scene rather quickly.

  “Let’s have a go at the Bainbridges,” Basil said. “Get two out of the way in one sitting.”

  Ginger popped into her suite to freshen up and collect Boss. The little dog stared at her with round brown eyes, and an enthusiastic stubby wag of his tail.

  “Oh, Bossy. You can come along to the interviews.” She cast a glance at Basil. “It’s all right, love, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure it can’t hurt.”

  “He’ll be so well behaved, I promise,” Ginger said as she scooped him into her arms. “Won’t you, Boss?”

  Quentin Bainbridge’s scowl was deep and dark when he opened the door to Basil’s knock. Ginger didn’t know if it was the effect of too much whisky or a guilty conscience.

  “We won’t be long,” Basil said. “May we come in?”

  It wasn’t a request, and Quentin knew it. “Let’s just get the bloody thing over with.”

  Ginger took a seat in a chair next to Adeline Bainbridge, who sat forlornly, working a handkerchief with her fingers. She scowled at the presence of Boss on Ginger’s lap but said nothing, apparently choosing her battles.

  Hoping to put the lady at ease, Ginger smiled. “I hope you don’t mind. I have my little dog with
me. He is well behaved.”

  Quentin topped off a crystal glass with another shot of whisky and lifted his glass in the air. “Can I interest you in a nightcap, Chief Inspector?”

  “Thank you, but I’m on duty at the moment.”

  “Suit yourself.” Quentin slumped into a chair. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Sadly, Poppy lost her footing when the lights went out. Doesn’t seem like a big mystery to me.”

  Basil took the remaining chair. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that. The evidence suggests someone pushed Miss Kerslake.”

  Adeline Bainbridge gasped, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth. “No. Not another one.”

  “We’re looking to establish the whereabouts of all the guests at the time of Miss Kerslake’s fall, Mrs. Bainbridge,” Ginger said.

  “I was here, putting Reggie to bed. I ran into the corridor when I heard Miss Kerslake scream.”

  “You ran out in the dark?” Ginger said.

  “Well, when the lights went out as I happened to be walking by the door, I fumbled to find the handle then opened it. The corridor was black, and I couldn’t see anything until my eyes adjusted.”

  Basil jotted notes in his notebook, then glanced over at Quentin. “What about you, Mr. Bainbridge?”

  “I hadn’t even made it upstairs. Nature called, and I made use of the ground-floor facilities. Believe me, it was a right nuisance when the lights went out in the middle of things.”

  “Just to confirm,” Basil started, “you never went upstairs before the lights went out.”

  Quentin responded with a note of belligerence, “You saw me leave the restaurant.”

  “Yes, and you’d have had plenty of time to run up the stairs, push Miss Kerslake, and return down the staff staircase.”

  After blowing a loud raspberry, Quentin said, “That’s preposterous. Why would I bother?”

  Ginger answered. “Perhaps you didn’t like the attention Miss Kerslake gives Lord Davenport-Witt?”

  Quentin stared back with fire in his eyes. “Why would I care about that?”

  “Is it not true that you and Miss Kerslake had a dalliance?”

  Quentin glared at his wife, who studiously studied her hands.