Dressed in her Brighton clothes, a navy trouser suit and a small blue hat with black veil, she pretended to have been a visitor to Lord and Lady Montrose’s residence. The taxi took her to Paddington Station. Her visits to Brighton always began on the staff’s day off and her most recent escapade had followed the usual routine. She’d caught the train to Brighton, sat among the hoi polloi, her head lowered, reading or facing the window, ignoring all other passengers. The likelihood of meeting any of their peers was negligible, however caution was her byword. When in Brighton she adopted the persona of Mrs Brown, widow—comfortably well off, still in deep grief and requiring complete peace and rest. The boutique hotel where she stayed accepted her cover story and she’d become a regular customer in years past with, recently, two sojourns in as many months. It took but a short, brisk walk from the hotel to reach the establishment in Moore Street that specialised in ‘sexual satisfaction for lonely ladies’, or so their discreet reputation purported to supply.
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