Murder at Brighton Beach

by Lee Strauss

  “That was a one-time mistake. Which I’ve apologised for a thousand times, and a mishap for which I will apparently never be forgiven.”

  Ginger wondered if Adeline had seen a serendipitous opportunity to rid herself of a threat and taken it? She didn’t think they’d get the truth out of her with her drunk and angry husband in the room. She looked over at Basil with a nod of her head.

  “Perhaps we’ll resume our interview in the morning,” Basil said. “We’ll all be better off after a good night’s sleep.”

  Neither of the Bainbridges bothered to see them out.

  Ginger set Boss on the carpet of the corridor, and he sat obediently, waiting for his next command. Ginger posed her question to Basil instead. “Where to now?”

  “Lord Davenport-Witt was the last to see her alive,” Basil said, “at least from what we know.”

  Ginger tilted her head towards the earl’s door, and Basil stepped beside her. He knocked, and Lord Davenport-Witt quickly opened it. “Ah, I expected to see you tonight, Chief Inspector. Mrs. Reed, a pleasant surprise.”

  “Not really a surprise, I’m sure,” Ginger said as she strolled into the gentleman’s room, which smelled sharply of cigar smoke. She was surprised to see Mr. Findley there. He nodded and tapped ashes into an ashtray.

  “I see you’ve decided to console each other on your loss together,” Basil said.

  “We’ve all suffered a second, dreadful shock,” Lord Davenport-Witt said. “You can’t blame us fellows for wanting to share a drink or two.”

  “I welcome the convenience,” Basil said, though Ginger could tell he wasn’t happy that two suspects were potentially colluding with each other.

  “You don’t mind if I bring my dog in,” Ginger said. “He’s very well behaved. You won’t even notice he’s here.”

  “Not at all,” Lord Davenport-Witt said. He took a moment to pat Boss on the head. “I’m a dog person myself.”

  Mr. Findley let out an exaggerated breath. “Can we get on with it.”

  “We just have a few questions,” Basil said.

  After a drag on his cigar, Mr. Findley said, “I have to admit that this is getting rather tiresome.”

  “Murder is such a blot on one’s plans,” Ginger said.

  Mr. Findley’s brows jumped. “Murder? I thought you wanted to talk about Miss Kerslake, not Austin.”

  “We do,” Ginger said. “Evidence indicates that Miss Kerslake was pushed.”

  “Oh, bloody hell.” After another exaggerated sigh, Mr. Findley muttered, “I knew that woman was trouble from the moment I met her.”

  “Which was when?” Basil asked.

  “Last summer, at a house party, she was Austin’s latest female acquisition. I honestly didn’t think she’d be around as long as she was, but she was the first famous actress Austin had met, so the novelty lasted longer than most.”

  “You didn’t like Miss Kerslake much, Mr. Findley,” Basil said.

  Mr. Findley snorted. “She was a troublemaker, but I didn’t push her down the stairs.”

  “Where were you when she fell?” Ginger asked.

  “In my room.” He removed a thin volume from his jacket pocket—The Great Impersonation. “Reading this.”

  Ginger was familiar with the popular World War One spy thriller.

  “I find fictional characters more to my liking than real ones, who are a pain in the derriѐre. The fact that I’m being held hostage in this hotel is evidence of that.”

  Lord Davenport-Witt stubbed out his cigar, causing a plume of blue to rise to the ceiling. “You’re rather hard on the rest of us, old chap.”

  Mr. Findley scowled in return then looked off into the distance.

  “Where were you, Lord Davenport-Witt, when Miss Kerslake took her tumble?” Basil asked.

  “I had just stepped into the lift. But the electricity went off before I could push the button.”

  “I didn’t see the attendant, Mr. Weaver, tonight,” Ginger said.

  “No. The lift was empty, but that’s not uncommon for late evenings, and especially with so few guests. It’s not as if we can’t push a button on our own.”

  Or, Ginger thought, Lord Davenport-Witt could’ve pushed Miss Kerslake. When the lights went back on, the earl could have quickly taken the staff stairs down one floor and stepped inside the main lift as a dramatic presentation to establish an alibi. But why would he want Poppy dead? Ginger couldn’t think of a motive.

  19

  When Ginger took Boss out for his walk the next morning, she was pleased to see that the storm had passed. Even though the sky was grey, a glow of light on the horizon over the sea promised better weather to come. Seabirds circled overhead as the waves lapped the shore and stained the pebbly beach in dark curvy lines. People, once again, were out and about, breathing in the damp, saline air.

  As she headed back along the promenade, she could see the familiar figure of Adeline Bainbridge standing on the pebbly beach, her arms crossed against the cold. The way Adeline watched the waves crash to shore with a sense of longing on her face made Ginger’s heart tighten. Her stance highlighted the fact that new life was bursting inside her.

  “Come, Boss,” Ginger said, picking up her pace. “Let’s catch Mrs. Bainbridge before she goes back inside.” Or, before she did something dreadful that Ginger certainly didn’t want to witness.

  She called out, “Mrs. Bainbridge!”

  As if she’d been pulled out of a dream, Adeline slowly turned her gaze towards Ginger. “Good morning, Mrs. Reed.”

  “Good morning. A bit of a blustery day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “It hasn’t been a good time these last few days,” Ginger said. “First, finding Mr. Bainbridge’s body and then Poppy dying.”

  “You’re stating the obvious,” Adeline said stiffly. “Please don’t beat around the bush. What do you want to say to me?”

  “Very well. Did you push Miss Kerslake down the stairs?”

  “I did not. But that’s not to say I’m sorry for her. She caused my family a lot of grief.”

  “How so?”

  Adeline faced Ginger and held her gaze. “Your husband seems very devoted to you.”

  “Yes. We’re devoted to each other.”

  “You’re fortunate. Not all women can say the same.” She inhaled the saline air, letting it escape slowly through her lips. “When Austin came to our London home with Poppy Kerslake on his arm, Quentin was immediately smitten. He tried to hide it from me, to spare my feelings, I suppose, but he’s not an actor, and everyone could tell he was in love with her.” A sad smile crossed her lips. “It was terribly humiliating. Quentin hurt me, so I wanted to hurt him.”

  By pushing Poppy down the stairs?

  “How so?” Ginger asked.

  Adeline ran her hand, red from the cold, over her bulging stomach. “This is Austin’s. Austin always wanted what he couldn’t have, which included me. Except, one night, I let him have it.”

  Oh mercy.

  “Does your husband know?”

  “No. When it came time to use my ammunition against Quentin my fury had faded and I’d lost my courage. Nothing good would come from either brother learning the truth.”

  Ginger couldn’t help but feel sorry for Mrs. Bainbridge. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

  “I’m trapped, aren’t I? I have Reggie to think about, and this baby needs a father. As far as everyone is concerned, Quentin is the father. It’s a difficult situation for everyone when you’ve fallen out of love.”

  20

  Ginger followed Adeline—who walked briskly, staying an unfriendly distance ahead of Ginger—back to the hotel. Clearly, she didn’t long for Ginger’s company, so Ginger held back in the lobby, allowing Adeline to take a solo trip in the lift.

  Boss sniffed the carpet, and Ginger wondered how many strange and intriguing scents lingered there—enough to capture the attention of her pet, at any rate. Changing her mind about waitin
g for the lift, she headed for the staircase, where a familiar giggle echoed down.

  Felicia descended the long staircase with Lord Davenport-Witt beside her. They were an attractive set, and under other circumstances, Ginger might feel a twinge of hope and happiness for Felicia. As it was, their seemingly carefree descent over the scene of Poppy Kerslake’s recent demise seemed heartless.

  “Oh, good morning, Ginger!” Felicia said when she spotted her.

  “Good morning, Felicia. Lord Davenport-Witt.”

  The earl had the decency to erase the joy from his face as they reached the lobby. “Good morning, Mrs. Reed. I hope you slept well after such a horrible event.”

  “Well enough,” Ginger said. “And you?”

  “Not very well. Poppy was a friend, a bubbly personality, and it was such a shock to see her life end so dramatically.”

  Ginger hummed. From what she’d been gleaning about Miss Kerslake’s life, no man was merely a friend.

  “Lord Davenport-Witt and I met in the corridor, quite serendipitously,”

  Felicia certainly said that a little too eagerly, Ginger thought.

  “We’re heading to the restaurant for breakfast,” Felicia continued. “Would you like to join us?”

  Ginger knew Felicia. She could hear in Felicia’s tone and see in the blankness of her well-made-up eyes that the invitation was a pleasantry only—Felicia’s true desire was to breakfast alone with the earl.

  How can I allow that when Lord Davenport-Witt could be a killer? Even though she’d already eaten breakfast in their suite, she smiled and said, “I’d be delighted. Allow me to take Boss back to my suite and fetch Basil. We’ll see you soon.”

  The bell for the lift rang, and Ginger stepped in. Mr. Weaver hadn’t returned to work, so Ginger closed the grate and pushed the button for her floor.

  “I don’t know what it is about that man, Bossy,” Ginger said as she held him under one arm, “but I don’t trust him.”

  An empty breakfast tray and yesterday’s newspaper lay on the floor in front of Mr. Findley’s room, and Ginger could only assume that Lionel Findley chose to remain inside.

  “There you are,” Basil said, as Ginger and Boss returned to their suite.

  “Our walk took a little longer than planned,” Ginger said. “I ran into Felicia. She’s with Lord Davenport-Witt and is quite blinded by his charm.”

  “You really don’t like the fellow, do you?”

  “It’s not that. I just have a feeling he’s hiding something. Perhaps bigger than the case here.”

  Basil’s hazel eyes glimmered with affection. “I trust your intuition, love. What do you want to do?”

  “What I want is to keep Felicia away from him, but I can’t exactly forbid her from seeing him without reason. She believes in his innocence, wholeheartedly.”

  “He’s innocent until proved guilty.”

  “Oh, I know but . . .” Ginger drew her fingers through the air. “They’re waiting for us. We’re joining them for breakfast.”

  Basil glanced at the empty food trolley next to their table. “After the breakfast we’ve just had, I’m quite full. And a maid brought me a message from Dr. Johnstone. He’s asking us to come to the mortuary.”

  “Oh mercy. Well, that does sound important then.” Ginger felt torn between her curiosity and her desire to protect her sister-in-law. “I suppose Felicia can’t get into too much trouble while we’re gone. So long as she doesn’t leave the hotel.” She smiled wryly, “And refrains from using the stairs.”

  Felicia was a little too pleased when Ginger expressed her regrets, and Ginger made a mental note to have a talk with her on her return.

  After a short taxicab ride, Ginger and Basil arrived at the hospital and were directed to the mortuary. Dr. Johnstone was waiting.

  “Good day, Chief Inspector, Mrs. Reed.”

  “Good day, Dr. Johnstone,” Basil said. “What do you have for us?”

  Through the window into the theatre, Ginger could see the body of Miss Kerslake covered with a sheet. A second table held the remains of Austin Bainbridge.

  Catching Dr. Johnstone’s eyes, she enquired, “What have you learned about Mr. Bainbridge and Miss Kerslake?”

  “I can tell you that the cause of death for them both was a severed spinal cord in the neck area.”

  Ginger stared at Basil and said, “Another tumble down the stairs?”

  “It’s a probable cause.”

  “And Austin Bainbridge didn’t have the convenience of a power cut to explain his fall,” Ginger added, “so the killer had to do away with his body.”

  “Taking the largest trunk available, which happened to belong to Poppy Kerslake,” Basil said, “but then what? It would take at least two people to lift Austin Bainbridge into the trunk.”

  Dr. Johnstone interjected, “And dead weight is considerably heavier. From the remains, I can deduce by height and mass that the deceased weighed around thirteen stone when alive.”

  “Is there anything else?” Basil said.

  The medical examiner scanned his notes. “Nothing obvious. Miss Kerslake was in perfect health otherwise. Unfortunately, Mr. Bainbridge’s body was too decomposed to determine much else.”

  Ginger and Basil thanked the doctor before leaving. The sun had broken through the clouds, though dark banks of threatening clouds continued to rest on the horizon. The couple welcomed the momentary warm breeze.

  “Let’s take a stroll along the promenade while the sun is out,” Ginger suggested.

  Basil agreed, and after a short taxicab ride, they exited at the Brighton Marine Palace and Pier. A new development to come out of the last century, this typical British pier, which extended over seventeen hundred feet into the English Channel, was an amusement park with merry-go-rounds, a Ferris wheel, and entertainment for the whole family. The theatre at its entrance was a popular venue for acts such as Stan Laurel and Charlie Chaplin.

  Linking arms, they strolled amongst the holidaymakers eating biscuits and sipping fizzy drinks. Happy music sounded as they weaved between the merry-go-round and Ferris wheel.

  “We really do have to come back with Scout sometime,” Ginger said.

  “Indeed,” Basil agreed. “Perhaps by the end of the summer.”

  Ginger let out a breath of contentment and returned her mind to the case at hand. She loved a good puzzle. “Assuming one person was responsible for the initial push that resulted in Austin Bainbridge’s death,” she said, “the killer must have had an accomplice after the fact.”

  “Someone close enough to the killer who would want to protect him or her,” Basil said. “Adeline and Quentin?”

  “Or Poppy and another? Perhaps she was threatening to expose the killer.”

  “She’d expose herself then.”

  “Not if she denied it. Or perhaps she thought she’d get away with it because of her charm. A good scandal can do wonders for a lagging career.”

  Basil stopped a food vendor selling fish and chips. “Are you hungry?”

  She was, but the strong smell of grease unsettled her stomach.

  “There’s a teashop near the hotel,” Ginger said. “Do you mind if we eat there? I fancy a bun.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Basil said.

  The teashop had rustic wooden-beamed ceilings and white plaster walls. Shelving units sat along the perimeter, crowded with teapots and tea settings available for purchase. Wooden tables and ladder-back chairs dotted the floors. The ambience was inviting, with warm lighting and the cheerful chatter of happy patrons.

  They placed their orders of tea and salmon and cucumber sandwiches. A pleasant-faced waitress, who appeared to enjoy her job, took their order.

  Ginger forced herself to slow down, but the food was simply delicious. Basil unsuccessfully tried to hold in a smile.

  “What?” Ginger said.

  “What? Can’t I smile at my wife?”

  Ginger tilted her head playfully. “It depends on why?”

  Basil�
�s grin broke into a full smile. “You’re lovely, that’s all.”

  “Oh, you’re just a big flirt.”

  Ginger raised a triangle of a sandwich to her mouth to take another bite, but before the savoury goodness touched her lips, the door opened, and Lionel Findley strolled in.

  Basil followed her gaze. “Shall we invite Mr. Findley to join us?”

  “Of course.”

  Ginger’s mind created new possible pairings of who might be involved in the death of Austin Bainbridge: Lionel Findley and Poppy Kerslake. Lionel Findley and either of the remaining Bainbridges. Mr. Findley and Quentin Bainbridge both found Austin Bainbridge a financial hurdle. While either Poppy or Adeline might have pushed Austin in a fit of passion, Lionel might’ve cavalierly helped either lady to cover the crime.

  She waved an arm and smiled, “Mr. Findley, hello!”

  Lionel Findley’s expression soured when he spotted her and Basil in the shop, and Ginger didn’t doubt he would’ve turned and walked out if propriety hadn’t dictated otherwise. Basil motioned to the empty chair. “Do join us.”

  With reluctance, Mr. Findley removed his hat and took a seat. When the waitress came, he ordered tea, black.

  “I knew Brighton was a small town,” he said, “next to London, at any rate, but it seems that here one can’t avoid anyone else who’s tied up in this situation.”

  Ginger patted him on the arm. “It’s fate, Mr. Findley. You’ll be pleased to know that we’ve been informed of Austin’s cause of death.” She glanced at Basil, who nodded his consent to reveal.

  “And what is that?”

  “His neck was broken.”

  With a slight shaking of the hand, Lionel Findley took a sip of tea. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “We’re theorising that, much like Miss Kerslake, Austin had a fall down the stairs.”

  Mr. Findley’s eyes darkened as he stared back at her. “You mean pushed.”

  “Quite likely,” Basil said. “And then his body was unceremoniously placed into Miss Kerslake’s trunk and later deposited in the sea.”

  “A dreadful affair.”