Mystery by the Sea: An utterly addictive English cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 5)

by Verity Bright

  ‘Perhaps. Although I’m confident that you are the only Grace here at the hotel. So when Hilary shouted, “Oh why can’t you drop it, Grace. It doesn’t concern you!” it seems likely that it was you he was talking to. Strange behaviour for two people who had supposedly never met.’

  She paused as Miss Summers’ hand flew to her mouth. ‘I think you’d best sit down again, don’t you, Grace? Especially as at this moment that information would draw Inspector Grimsdale to the same conclusion I have drawn.’

  ‘Which is?’ Miss Summers asked tentatively.

  ‘That you may have been one of the last people to see my husband alive.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Hilary,’ the woman said quietly as she sunk back into her chair. ‘I would never…’ A large tear tipped over the edge of each eyelid and trickled down her cheeks.

  So it’s Hilary now, is it? Eleanor pursed her lips. ‘How did you know him? And in the spirit of decency, please spare me any more lies. I’m not actually as rhinoceros-skinned as I seem to appear. Hilary was my husband, and you were in his room.’

  ‘But it’s not what you are imagining, which I’m guessing—’

  ‘Is the worst? Yes, it’s precisely that. It was around ten o’clock at night and you were there alone with him.’

  Miss Summers shook her head, causing a fresh set of tears to tumble down her cheeks. ‘It isn’t what you think.’

  Eleanor folded her arms. ‘Then what is?’

  Miss Summers hesitated, then rubbed her hands over her eyes and looked up at Eleanor. ‘Alright. You deserve the truth. Hilary and I were partners. Business partners. Nothing more.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since 1913.’

  ‘Eight years ago. Then you were involved with Hilary when I married him?’

  ‘Involved in his business, nothing else.’

  ‘Why do you suppose he never mentioned you to me then?’

  Miss Summers glared at her defiantly. ‘Probably because he feared you would draw the wrong conclusion. Just as you have now!’

  Eleanor eyed the other woman coldly. ‘Stand in my shoes for a moment, Grace. In his hotel room, my husband is apparently deep in a business discussion with a partner I didn’t know existed. And who just happens to have the most divine curves and the deepest blue eyes any man could ask for.’

  ‘Any man except Hilary. He never asked for those. Ever.’ The anger in Miss Summers’ tone drew Eleanor up short. ‘Hilary liked redheads, didn’t you know?’ Miss Summers said waspishly, gesturing to Eleanor’s fiery curls.

  Eleanor shrugged. ‘Did you see Hilary at all after that?’

  ‘No, I left because he was in no mood to continue our conversation. I went to my room. He said he was going for a walk for half an hour to clear his head.’

  And to post you the photograph, Ellie! ‘Was your conversation about the object that Hilary allegedly stole and got him killed?’

  The other woman scoffed. ‘What object? I don’t know anything about an object. And I have no idea why he was murdered.’ Her voice trembled. ‘I… I went back to Hilary’s room around midnight to try one last time to…’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘Anyway, when I got there, he was sitting at his writing desk… dead. I ran back to my room and stayed there all night. I didn’t sleep at all.’

  Eleanor wished again she was better at knowing when someone was telling the truth. Miss Summers seemed so genuine. But…

  ‘Did you travel over from South Africa with Hilary?’

  ‘Lady Swift—’

  ‘Maybe you’d feel easier about being more honest if you called me Eleanor?’

  ‘I have been telling the truth, Lady Swift. And I think I have answered enough of your questions.’ She stood up and smoothed down her smart navy skirt.

  Eleanor waited until she had finished. ‘I suppose then our only common ground is that we both know that Bert Blunt’s death wasn’t an accident.’ It was a shot in the dark, but the other woman’s reaction showed it had hit its target. Miss Summers’ face drained of colour so quickly Eleanor instinctively reached out, thinking the woman would faint. Regaining her composure, Miss Summers stared at Eleanor, the look in her eyes pulling Eleanor up short.

  ‘Thank you again for the scarf, Lady Swift. However, please do not attempt to further our association so much as an inch.’

  She snatched her magazine from the chair and stormed out, the door slamming loudly behind her.

  Eleanor put her head in her hands and breathed deeply through her nose, trying to gather her thoughts. She was so preoccupied she failed to notice the door reopen.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘Clifford!’ She grasped the arm of the chair. ‘Gracious, you frightened the wits out of me.’

  ‘It is heartening to hear they have returned. How did your interview go?’ He let the door close behind him.

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I got anything of use out of her.’

  ‘And I fear no amount of gift-wrapped scarves would smooth the ruffles this time.’

  ‘No? More angry grumblings all the way to the lift then?’

  ‘To my brief observation, I drew the less fortunate conclusion that it was fear and upset which propelled Miss Summers to the lift at such a turn of speed.’ He coughed. ‘Very impressive given the height of her heels.’

  Eleanor stared moodily out into the garden. ‘Oh, Clifford, I’m more confused than ever about Grace Summers and Hilary and any hand she might have had in his murder. She did admit to being in his room. So it seems Franklin and Longley may have been telling the truth about that, if nothing else.’

  ‘Even liars sometimes tell the truth, my lady.’

  She nodded, something pricking at her brain, but she felt too gloomy to pursue it. ‘She seems like a certain suspect for Hilary’s murder, but after speaking to her, if I’m honest, I… oh, I’m not sure, but I don’t believe she did kill him.’

  Clifford arched a brow. ‘Why, my lady?’

  She sighed deeply. ‘Because… because I believe she loved him.’ Clifford opened his mouth, but Eleanor raised her hand. ‘And before you tell me more people have died at the hands of one they loved than anyone else, I still don’t think she killed him. I also don’t believe she killed Blunt given the evidence we’ve found against that theory. And there was genuine fear in her eyes just now when I said she and I both knew Blunt was murdered. She may not have killed him, but I’m pretty sure she knows, or thinks she knows, who did.’

  ‘I wholeheartedly concur that she had the air of a woman overcome by fear when she passed me. Fear for her own safety.’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘Exactly. I think she believes whoever killed Blunt may try to kill her. And she may be right. After all, if she was Hilary’s partner as she claims, why wouldn’t he have passed her the item he stole? Why does everyone think he passed it to me?’

  He nodded. ‘A good point. Well, it seems, along with Mr Franklin, we can remove Miss Summers off our suspect list. However, I really feel it would be prudent to continue this discussion in a more discreet place. I have delivered Master Gladstone to the ladies’ boarding house and we have an hour and a half before we need to meet up with them for our planned lunch. I know the perfect spot.’

  Eleanor rose. ‘Thank goodness. Let’s go!’

  But as they rounded the corner into the lobby, Eleanor was knocked roughly to one side. ‘What on earth!’ Her jaw fell slack as the hotel manager held up his hands in hurried apology, then spread his arms to block her path. Before she could object, Inspector Grimsdale emerged from the manager’s office, tightening his grip on the man he had handcuffed to his wrist. Four uniformed policemen flanked the inspector, who obviously hadn’t spotted Eleanor as he warned the prisoner.

  ‘Come quietly, Franklin, or it will be worse for you. You’re already under arrest for the murder of Mr Painshill, or Eden, depending what his real name was.’

  At that moment, Grimsdale noticed Eleanor. Without a word, he marched his prisoner past her. As he did so, Re
x Franklin caught Eleanor’s eye. The murderous look he gave her made it clear he held her entirely responsible for his arrest.

  Clifford stepped to her side as they watched Franklin being led away. ‘Rather a serious setback, my lady, as we had only just discounted Mr Franklin from our suspect list.’

  Eleanor shivered. ‘I know, but we only have evidence, and loose evidence at that, that he didn’t kill Blunt. We don’t have any evidence that he didn’t kill Hilary, except our belief that the same person killed both men. That’s not going to cut it with Grimsdale, who doesn’t believe a word I’ve said up to now, anyway.’

  Clifford nodded. ‘Agreed. If we are right, however, it also means the murderer is still at large in the hotel and no longer under suspicion.’

  It was Eleanor’s turn to nod.

  ‘Which means he’s free to kill again.’

  Thirty-Five

  ‘What is this place?’ Eleanor asked Clifford ten minutes later as she unwound her scarf from her neck and stared at the rich-burgundy painted door in front of her.

  ‘Principally, it is somewhere safe to talk, my lady. But if you will forgive my presumption, I also thought you deserved a few tranquil moments of birthday, and holiday, decadence before we meet the ladies.’

  The door swung open, held by a man in a uniform so heavily decorated with gold braid he could have been mistaken for an army hero. He tipped his top hat. ‘Welcome to Postlethwaites. A waiter will be with you presently, sir, madam.’

  She stepped inside. ‘This is a surprise. I thought we were going to the Metropole Hotel bar as usual.’

  ‘As the doorman said, this is Postlethwaites, my lady. The oyster and champagne bar famed throughout London.’

  She frowned. ‘But we are in Brighton.’

  ‘Precisely the reason Mr Postlethwaite wrote to the editor of The Times in 1919 to instigate the infamous feud, now known as “The Great Oyster Schism”.’

  She chuckled. ‘Oh, this sounds like a good tale. Go on.’

  But at that moment, a waiter in a pristine burgundy uniform appeared, and at Clifford’s behest, led them to an upstairs table.

  Once seated, Eleanor leaned back in her chair. ‘Come on, finish the story. I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Well, my lady, Mr Postlethwaite spent a year in France where, among other things, he indulged in his delectation for oysters in Paris’ famous restaurants. Having returned to England, he was forced to suffer the two-hour train journey to London every time he wished to partake of similarly excellent seafood. The reason was the lack of fine oyster establishments in his native Brighton, something he at first resigned himself to. But in 1919 the gentleman took particular exception when the railway company reduced the price of the third-class tickets.’

  She laughed. ‘Because the station was teeming with the lower classes?’

  ‘More that their raucous singing penetrated to first class on his return trips when his head was rather delicate on account of over-indulgence at the capital’s champagne and oyster bars. Thus he set up his own bar here in Brighton. He then wrote to The Times challenging the crème of London Society to travel down and find it lacking in any single regard in comparison to the capital’s most renowned equivalent.’

  ‘What a clever business move!’

  ‘Indeed. The gentleman was so successful that the newspapers ran the story throughout 1919 and well into the following year. They dubbed it “The Great Oyster Schism” and listed the number of patrons at each establishment on a weekly basis. It became something of a trophy to visit one’s favourite of the two restaurants and be able to boast that one was included in the total of the winning side.’

  ‘Ingenious. I can’t wait to see if it lives up to its reputation, although, I confess, I’m not exactly an expert on oysters. If they are half as amazing as the decor though, I’ll be happy. Just look at the way the chandeliers sparkle in those simply enormous gilded mirrors running along three sides of this palatial room! And these carved velvet upholstered chairs. I feel like Louis the Fourteenth is about to stride over and ask what the devil I think I’m doing intruding in his dining room.’

  ‘We also have a bird’s-eye view over the promenade where the ladies will no doubt be.’

  ‘You mean, where they will no doubt be engaged in something reprehensible.’ She stood up. ‘Please can we swap seats?’

  ‘As you wish, my lady.’

  ‘There.’ She smiled as he waited for her to get comfortable before he settled into the opposite seat. ‘Now I can enjoy whatever naughty shenanigans they are up to, and you can’t see, so will be none the wiser.’

  He sniffed. ‘Playing spoilsport is not something I had planned on my list of holiday activities.’

  She laughed and shook her head ruefully. ‘Have you actually done anything you intended to? Or I, come to that? I don’t think either of us has.’

  ‘Regrettably, we have not had the opportunity, my lady, given the unforeseen events that have unfolded. Perhaps your evening spent dancing might be something of a salve for the week, however?’

  Her cheeks coloured. ‘Delicately put, Clifford. That, and the utterly delightful voyage you arranged were in fact the highlights of the year so far. Although I’m sure I should be sending you back to butler school for a reminder of what is and isn’t appropriate. On this occasion, I am, however, grateful for your furtive colluding with a certain policeman behind my back.’

  He raised one eyebrow. ‘Furtive, my lady? Is that perhaps not a description more fitting to a ferret?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not at all. It’s way more apt for mischievous butlers. And your mischievousness was artfully engineered, as always. Bravo.’

  ‘Speaking of policemen, my lady, Inspector Grimsdale has thrown down quite the gauntlet to our investigation in arresting Mr Franklin.’

  ‘Hasn’t he just! I can’t believe we are here again, trying to solve a double murder. I’m sure, however, you’ve been my organisation magician and brought my notebook and a pen?’

  ‘Abracadabra!’ He produced both with a flourish. ‘All included in the ticket price.’

  She flapped a hand at him, almost knocking over the filled crystal champagne flute the waiter had just placed in front of her. ‘Now, we have a most important matter to solve. Oh, but look at those oysters!’

  He busied himself with his napkin.

  ‘Not your thing?’

  ‘It is my humble opinion that they cannot really be anyone’s “thing”, my lady. Food is to be chewed, not glissando’d down one’s digestive tract like a, I believe our American cousin’s call it, a “garbage chute”.’ He failed to cover up a shudder.

  ‘Then I shall selflessly devour the lot. Maybe it’ll fortify me to wade through the muddle of information from all of our suspects. Honestly, Clifford, I’m not at all sure who is telling the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps they all are. Or none of them. But if I might make an alternative suggestion, my lady?’

  She nodded, reaching for another oyster.

  ‘We could turn our attention again to Mr Eden’s inscription on the photograph. If that is not as equally unpalatable to you as the oysters are to me?’

  She paused and sighed. ‘I suppose I can’t wriggle out of it forever.’ She swallowed and turned the pages of her notebook until she found where she’d written out the words from the back of both halves of the photograph.

  Lady Eleanor Letitia Swift

  Captain Hilary Montague Eden

  Married on June 3rd 1914

  At the Hotel Royal Pilgrim’s Rest

  ‘Something old something new

  Something borrowed something blue

  And a sixpence in her hand’

  Till death do us part

  She stared at the page. ‘You know, I’m coming to terms with Hilary having got my middle name wrong. And his. I never liked mine, and, as we know, it possibly wasn’t even his real middle name.’ She shrugged. ‘So, what does it matter?’

  ‘I believe it matters a lot, my la
dy.’

  She examined his face for a moment. Then her eyes widened. ‘Clifford! You think the errors are clues?’

  He nodded. ‘Perhaps only some of them. I’m of the mind that Mr Eden spelt your, and his, middle name wrong on purpose to alert you to the fact that the other errors are, as you stated, clues.’

  She gasped. ‘Of course, Clifford, you clever bean! Dash it though, Longley might be right. I can be quite the blunt brick sometimes.’

  ‘Only when your thoughts are understandably overcome with emotional distress.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you. Although do feel free to refute the brick reference.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘If we could get back to the matter in hand, my lady? So, excluding the first two lines, which of the others has an error?’

  She looked at the page again and frowned. ‘None. The hotel and date are correct.’ She choked. ‘And, it seems the last line.’

  He coughed gently. ‘And the rhyme?’

  She frowned. ‘Do you think it’s just the rhyme he meant me to focus on?’

  ‘I do, my lady. Whilst it has been associated with weddings since the reign of Queen Victoria, there is a subtle error in it too.’

  ‘There is?’ She ran through the rhyme in her head. ‘Ah, of course. It should be “and a sixpence in your shoe”, yes?’

  ‘Correct. A symbol of good luck. Pennies in general, as we know Mr Blunt believed, are a symbol of good luck when placed in your shoes, but it has long been a sixpence for brides.’

  ‘Then why would Hilary have changed it to “hand”?’ She mimed holding a sixpence in her palm.

  Clifford pretended to toss one onto the back of his hand and reveal which side was showing. ‘Navia aut caput, as the Romans would say. “Heads or tails” to us.’

  She took a sip of champagne and frowned even harder. ‘Blast it, Clifford. I’m beginning to feel like poor old Mr Postlethwaite. My head’s splitting. Why couldn’t Hilary just have kept it simple?’

  ‘I believe, my lady, that Mr Eden was trying to tell you something he wanted only you to know. At the same time, he was also trying to keep you safe. I believe that is why he used code and cut the photograph in half. It seems likely, as I postulated earlier, that he was interrupted in the middle of executing his plan.’