Murder at Brighton Beach

by Lee Strauss

  Colour drained from Floyd’s face, confirming what Basil had been suspecting all along. He didn’t think Floyd had done the actual pushing, but he was probably a witness. An accomplice after the fact. He pressed Floyd further.

  “You’re guilty of one death or two, Mr. Floyd. I hereby arrest you on the suspicion—”

  “No, wait! It wasn’t me!”

  “Who was it, then? You’d better speak up.”

  Floyd’s shoulders shuddered, and Basil was about to grab the man by the collar when Floyd pressed his gloved hands against his eyes. “It was Gwen,” he muttered,

  Floyd was on the verge of a confession. Basil nudged him along.

  “Gwen Merrick, your cousin?”

  “Yes. She pushed Mr. Bainbridge. She didn’t see me here. I was bent down behind the desk. I stood just as she sharply pushed the gentleman from behind. She tried to brush it off as accidental, saying the man was drunk, but I know what I saw.”

  “Whose idea was it to dump the deceased in the sea?”

  “It was mine. We managed to move the body to the storage room behind the desk before anyone could see it. It was a miracle that the hotel was nearly empty at that point. A new group of guests arrived shortly afterwards.

  “Oh, it was dreadful because Miss Kerslake was actively searching for Mr. Bainbridge, but once she’d gone back to her room, I sent Cooper upstairs to get Miss Kerslake’s trunk. Told him Miss Kerslake wanted it oiled.

  “Once the guests were settled for the night, and Cooper and Weaver had gone home, Gwen and I packed up the body. The catamarans were locked up, so I used a bolt clipper—we have an assortment of tools at the hotel as one never knows what one might need—and we borrowed it for an hour. Afterwards, my nerves were shattered.”

  Basil could hardly feel sorry for the man.

  “Where is Mrs. Merrick now?”

  “We had a tiff, you see, I suspected she might’ve given Miss Kerslake a little help falling again, and she ran out of the hotel in a huff.”

  “She’s left?”

  “No, she’s returned since. Never said a word to me.”

  Basil checked his watch, and his concern for Ginger’s prolonged absence increased sharply. “Have you seen Mrs. Reed recently?”

  “About twenty minutes ago, sir. I just caught sight of her as she got to the landing. She seemed to be in a hurry.”

  Basil spun on his heel and sprinted up the staircase.

  25

  Ginger blinked as her eyes adjusted to the brightness of the light. Gwen Merrick glared like a ferocious beast ready to attack. Ginger went on the offensive.

  “Mrs. Merrick, forgive me. I can explain.”

  “There’s only one reason why you’d be snooping in my things. You believe me to be guilty of murder!”

  “And why would I believe that?”

  “Because you and your husband are desperate to pin the deaths on someone so you can go back to your fancy home and fancy life in London.”

  Slowly, Mrs. Merrick closed the door behind her, turned the key in the lock, removed it, and slipped it into her pocket.

  “Did you kill them, Mrs. Merrick?”

  The quiet in the room resounded as each second ticked off without an answer. Mrs. Merrick’s eyes flickered to the desk, and before Ginger could intercept her, she’d made it to the object of her desire—Ginger’s clutch bag.

  “Wait!” Ginger ran as well, but the housekeeper was too quick, and in a flash, Ginger was staring down the barrel of her own gun. She took a careful step back.

  “Ha!” Mrs. Merrick exclaimed with the excitement of her win. “You’re not the only one who snoops in other people’s things. I’ve been in your suite a few times while you were being a busybody about the hotel, Mrs. Reed. The discovery that you liked to carry this little beauty in your handbag was quite useful. And don’t think I don’t know how to use it. My father was a gamekeeper with no sons to teach.”

  The housekeeper’s restrained fury seeped out with each word, and Ginger feared the woman would not be able to hold on to the intensity of her emotions for much longer. Ginger chose another approach and motioned towards the gas ring on the small counter. “Why don’t we have a cup of tea and talk it over. I’ll make it. How does that sound?”

  Mrs. Merrick’s lips tightened, but after a moment, she nodded. “No problem that a cup of tea can’t solve.” The housekeeper pulled out a chair and, keeping the gun at the ready, allowed Ginger to wait on her.

  “This is a reversal of roles, now, isn’t it?” she laughed.

  Ginger filled the kettle and set it on the stove then found two teacups with matching saucers, and a bowl of sugar, all the while keeping an eye on her captor.

  “No milk to be had,” Mrs. Merrick said. “No refrigerator up here, so I hope you’re not expecting fancy.”

  “Sugar is fine,” Ginger said as her mind worked in the background. Basil will be wondering where I am. It’s been a good twenty minutes or more since I excused myself to use the ladies, probably longer. If he hasn’t already, Basil will scout about the lounge for me then the lobby. From there, he’ll go to our suite. Not finding me there, what will he do? Boss was still in our room, so Basil won’t assume I’ve taken him for a walk, though I’d never do such a thing without letting him know my change of plans. He’ll know something is amiss.

  Will he think to search the top floor?

  Ginger poured the tea and pulled out a chair.

  “Move it back,” Mrs. Merrick said with a wave of the gun. “I don’t want you close enough to pull something funny.”

  Ginger slid the chair back. It wasn’t as if she could wrestle the gun out of Mrs. Merrick’s hand. The housekeeper, though slender, was strong and fit from years of physical work at the hotel, plus having to go up and down all those stairs several times a day.

  Besides, Ginger would do nothing that might put her baby in danger. She had to get away from Mrs. Merrick without the gun going off. She had to keep her talking.

  “Tell me about your son,” she said.

  With one hand firmly gripping Ginger’s beloved pistol, Mrs. Merrick kept her narrowed gaze on Ginger. She lifted her teacup with her other hand, took a tentative sip, and after lowering it back to its saucer, answered, “John was the perfect boy, the perfect son.”

  “You must miss him.”

  “Terribly. My heart is broken and will never be whole again.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Mrs. Merrick sniffed. “I’m not alone in this world when it comes to dead sons, but mine survived the war only to be ruined by that floozy!”

  “Miss Kerslake, I presume?”

  “Yes. My John met her shortly after she moved here from Australia. She was still doing small plays in London. Oh, I wish to God she’d never set foot in our country.”

  She waved the little pistol about without thought as she continued, “John fell head over heels for her. Lost his senses. But when she started getting famous, she dropped him like a hot potato. My John was a hard-working man, worked for the papers, but that wasn’t good enough for her. No. When she left him, he was beside himself. Lost weight. Gave up his job. Then one day, he announced he was going to South Africa to make his fortune in diamonds. ‘I’ll come back to England a wealthy man, and then Poppy Kerslake will have me,’ he’d said. Ha!”

  “But why did you push Austin Bainbridge?”

  “He was the one who told my son about the mine in South Africa, convincing him to go, guaranteeing John’s success. Except that they’d cut corners on the proper equipment to save money, which led to the disaster. If it weren’t for Mr. Bainbridge putting profits over lives, my John would still be alive.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Ginger said with sincerity.

  “I am too. You seem like a nice lady, Mrs. Reed—nicer than most of your ilk, but you put your nose where it didn’t belong, and now you’re a problem.”

  Ginger felt the threads of fear tighten. Mrs. Merrick was emotionally damaged and pr
one to sudden acts of violence. Ginger could be quick but not quicker than a bullet.

  “Mrs. Merrick, I must appeal to your sense of motherhood. I, too, am a mother. I have a son at home, and…” Ginger lowered her hand to her stomach, “I’m expecting another child.”

  Sincere remorse flashed behind Mrs. Merrick’s eyes. “Oh.” She suddenly stood to her feet, her brown eyes darting as her mind worked for a solution. Ginger believed that the woman didn’t want to kill her.

  “Give me the gun, Mrs. Merrick.”

  “No! Stay away. They’ll hang me, you know. Hang me!”

  The distraught lady wasn’t wrong. “Another murder won’t change that.”

  “They don’t know what I’ve done. They don’t have any proof. Only you know because you snooped!”

  Ginger’s eyes were glued to Mrs. Merrick’s shaky hand. “Mrs. Merrick?”

  Resolve settled in the housekeeper’s eyes. And then, the gun went off.

  26

  A bark from behind the door of their suite had Basil’s heart racing. Boss was an exceptionally intelligent canine and one hundred percent devoted to his mistress. As far as Basil was concerned, the dog had a sixth sense. He rarely barked when he was left behind, and Basil was certain Ginger must be in trouble.

  The door was locked, which meant Ginger, or someone, had locked it from the inside. If Ginger had meant to just pop in to check on her pet—not an unlikely scenario—she wouldn’t have bothered to lock the door. She’d only have done that if she meant to stay, perhaps to have a quick nap?

  Still, Basil couldn’t believe she’d do such a thing without letting him know. Ginger was as considerate as they came, and she’d never intentionally do anything that might give him reason to worry. Just a quick look-see was in order.

  Basil removed a key from his trouser pocket and unlocked the door.

  “Ginger?”

  Boss stood near the entrance, staring.

  “Where is she, boy?” Basil said. “Is she here?”

  Boss whimpered while his normally unstoppable stub of a tail didn’t move.

  Basil rushed from room to room. The bed was unrumpled, the quilt tightly fitted to the mattress, so Ginger hadn’t been back to have a quick lie down. The adjoining bathroom was unoccupied, the claw-foot bathtub empty.

  His brow beaded with nervous sweat, and he ran the back of his suit sleeve against it. He had to stay calm. Ginger would show herself at any moment with a perfectly reasonable explanation. It was only this blasted case causing him to fear irrationally. Besides, Ginger had repeatedly proved her clever adaptability in even the most bizarre and dangerous situations. How often had she saved his life? She had plenty of skills most women only dreamt of, due to the mysterious work she had done in the war, but not enough fear, in Basil’s opinion, to keep her out of trouble.

  He circled back to the sitting area, hoping that Ginger would be lounging in one of the chairs, but it was only Floyd who hovered by the door, hands clasped in front of himself.

  “Is she here, sir?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Floyd said. “Ladies tend to wander, their attentions grabbed by every new shiny thing. I bet she’s left the hotel and found a dress shop which has opened late.”

  Basil frowned at the man’s low estimation of the gentler sex, and Floyd most certainly didn’t know Basil’s wife. However, Basil could concede that something had caught Ginger’s attention, and perhaps she’d merely lost track of time . . . if it weren’t for Boss.

  The animal continued to stare at him with his dark-brown eyes, an innate sense of worry behind them. When he let out a low-belly whine, Basil grew sincerely concerned.

  “Mr. Floyd, where do you think Mrs. Merrick is?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “She has a room in this hotel, does she not?”

  “Yes, we both do. On the top floor.”

  The housekeeper might’ve seen Ginger. Perhaps she could lead me in the right direction. “Take me there.”

  “Of course.”

  Basil followed Floyd into the corridor and, before he could get the door closed, found that Boss had slipped in behind him. Basil should’ve called for the dog himself. If anyone could sniff out Ginger’s whereabouts, it would be him.

  “Come on, Boss,” Basil said, then to Floyd, “Please hurry along.”

  They’d just reached the foot of the staff staircase at the end of the hall when the blast of a gun went off.

  “Ginger!”

  Basil’s blood went cold. He pushed Floyd out of the way and sprinted up the stairs, Boss on his heels.

  “Ginger!”

  Faced with three closed doors, Basil shouted, “Which one is it, man?”

  Floyd pointed. “This one, sir.”

  Basil twisted the knob. “Blast! It’s locked!” Not bothering to wait for Floyd to produce a key, he raised a leg and kicked. The door sprang open.

  Basil lost his breath at the scene before him: a body slumped on the floor, a pool of blood.

  “Ginger?”

  His wife turned to face him. All colour had drained from her face. “She shot herself, Basil. Right before my eyes.”

  Basil pulled his wife into an embrace, held her tightly, and kissed her head. “I thought it was you, love. Oh heavens, I was in such a panic.”

  “I’m fine. It’s poor Mrs. Merrick we need to think of now.”

  Boss sat eagerly at their feet, and Ginger bent to pick him up. “Hey, Bossy. Thanks for looking for me.”

  Floyd took tentative steps inside. “Gwen?”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry,” Ginger said. “She took my gun. I thought she wanted to harm me, but—”

  Basil felt sympathy for the deceased woman, but he couldn’t have been more thankful that it wasn’t his Ginger lying dead on the ground. Pulling himself together, he took charge.

  “Mr. Floyd, we’ll have to summon the police and the medical examiner.”

  Floyd stared back with eyes like a wild dog then sprinted out of the room as if his life depended on it.

  “Floyd, stop!” Basil took off after the manager, wondering exactly what the man hoped to accomplish. It wasn’t as if he could run forever. “Floyd!”

  “Is this who you’re after, old chap?”

  Basil nearly ran into the earl, who had Floyd gripped by the arm.

  Ginger stepped up alongside them. “Oh, Lord Davenport-Witt! What are you doing here?”

  “I was in my room and couldn’t help hearing the commotion. It almost sounded like a gun had gone off.”

  “Indeed,” Basil said. “One had.” Without a set of handcuffs at the ready, Basil restrained Floyd by pinning his arm up behind his back. “Would you mind summoning the police and the medical examiner,” he asked the earl.

  The earl nodded sharply, turned, hurried down the corridor, and disappeared down the stairs.

  “Would you be up to retrieving a set of handcuffs from our suite?” Basil said as he peered at Ginger. “There’s a set in my briefcase.”

  “Certainly, darling,” Ginger said. She patted her thigh. “Come, Boss, we’ve work to do.”

  27

  The sun shone brightly the next morning, the same way it had when Ginger and her family arrived in Brighton only a few days before. So much had happened in such a short time that the days felt both long and short, a paradox.

  Their train back to London wasn’t scheduled until later that afternoon, so Ginger and Basil had a picnic breakfast on the beach. Ginger, naturally, invited Felicia, who, unsurprisingly, invited Lord Davenport-Witt.

  The surprise to Ginger was that he accepted, completely upsetting her idea that he was a deceitful cad simply playing with Felicia’s feelings to pass the time. Judge and jury were still out on his character, though Ginger had to admit that perhaps she’d been unduly hard on the earl, and there was a slight chance her knack for rightly judging character had failed her.

  Beneath a clear blue sky, the beach was
populated with deckchairs and sun umbrellas. Both Ginger and Felicia possessed a parasol to avoid those dreaded freckles brought on by the sun, but oh how tempting it was just to let one’s face bask in the rays of light.

  “More tea, love?”

  Ginger opened her eyes and smiled at the handsome face shaded by the brim of a brand new hat. Her husband’s hazel eyes took her in with fondness as she held out her teacup and saucer. “That would be delightful, thank you.”

  The picnic basket prepared by the hotel kitchen sat between the two couples and was nearly empty of the continental breakfast of fresh croissants, rich butter, and apricot jam, along with hard-boiled eggs, and mature cheese. Boss sat contentedly at Ginger’s feet, having had his share of hard-boiled egg.

  As the waves danced rhythmically to shore, Ginger replayed the events of the last few days in her mind. How tormented poor Mrs. Merrick must have been over losing her son to go to such drastic measures to avenge his death, trying, though failing, to find peace through her efforts.

  Ferociously protective of young Scout, not yet twelve, Ginger couldn’t imagine that changing as he grew older. Her fingers subconsciously caressed her stomach, feeling the fist-sized hard ball that had formed there over the last four months. Even though she knew nothing about the child growing within, she already knew she’d do everything she could to protect the baby from harm. The maternal instinct could be frightfully powerful.

  Mrs. Adeline Bainbridge had returned to London with her husband and would soon give birth to her baby. Would Quentin Bainbridge ever learn of the true paternal heritage of his offspring? If he suspected his wife had betrayed him with his brother, would he ignore it and raise the child as his own? The baby did have the Bainbridge bloodline. Would Adeline ever confess?

  What Ginger had learned about them was that neither liked to rock the boat. Nothing that was done could be undone now. Hopefully, the couple could learn to communicate better going forward. One could pray that the child would be a salve of healing and not a reminder of bitter times.