England Expects (13 page)

‘I can see why Ben liked you.’ Tony Grillo slid into the driver’s seat, closed the door and started the engine. ‘A very astute man. He passed the business to the right person.’

Mirabelle continued to speak through the open window. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘that was everything I needed to know.’

As the car pulled away, Mirabelle looked back towards the little house. The money might have been meant for Ellie, she thought, but if by sharing it the girl managed to repair at least some of the relations with her sister, then it would be well spent. Twenty-five pounds was more than enough for her to finish her course and set herself up in London. Silently, Mirabelle wished Ellie well as she turned back towards the main street. Checking her slim gold watch she noted that it was only nine o’clock and already the day had been tremendously eventful. She might be late for work but at least she’d bring news.

Chapter 16

There is no substitute for hard work
.

‘
S
o you think Ellie was a love child?’ said Vesta with relish an hour later in the office. ‘My, that’s a bit of gossip all right.’

Bill rolled his eyes in Mirabelle’s direction. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see? That’s what the money’s about. When Elsie Chapman dies, Captain Henshaw sends this payment. It’s not charity from the masons. They wouldn’t have to hide that by getting Grillo to deliver it and concocting a story about some accumulator bet. And besides, if the lodge was pitching in, surely they’d send money for all the woman’s kids. From what Mirabelle said the two girls are chalk and cheese anyway, and Grillo as good as admitted he was acting for Henshaw. No, I’ll bet the bequest is personal and Ellie Chapman is Henshaw’s kid. I’d lay money on it. Poor bloke. When Elsie died he couldn’t admit to having had an affair, but he still wanted to look after the girl. It’s decent of him, really’

‘Mr Tupps said Captain Henshaw was a decent man. It’s only . . .’

‘What?’ Bill grinned.

‘It’s just the thought of them being lovers.’ Vesta’s eyes narrowed. ‘They were a bit past it, don’t you think? Him with one leg and she looked about ninety with that terrible hairdo.’

‘Watch it,’ said Bill. ‘Mrs Chapman was in her fifties. I’m not so far off myself.’

‘Well, Mr Tupps did say she had admirers,’ Vesta admitted.

‘Oh, she was beautiful.’ Mirabelle stood up. ‘I saw an old
photograph of her this morning. Besides, Ellie is seventeen or so. So Mrs Chapman would have been in her late thirties when she had the girl. It’s not beyond imagining.’ She moved towards the half-open window. The breeze was soothing. The air smelled sweet as it wafted up from the stalls on the Promenade, as if it was calling her. Mirabelle tried not to think about Jack and how she might have had children with him. She’d been young enough when Jack died. If they’d married it would have been something she’d hoped for. She tried to focus on the morning’s activities and piece together the deduction about Captain Henshaw and Mrs Chapman with the information Vesta had turned up at the lodge the evening before. Mr Tupps was an interesting character and she’d overlooked him. Vesta was coming along, even if she hadn’t immediately understood the significance of Tony Grillo handing over a large sum of money.

‘It’s such a huge secret to keep and they kept it for a long time.’ Vesta sounded wistful. She couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. ‘So do you think he paid Tony Grillo to deliver the money?’

Mirabelle nodded. ‘If you wanted someone who’d be a tough nut to crack, you’d likely pick a bookmaker. Grillo was well known. It made sense to pick someone like that. And Elsie Chapman liked the horses. The girls didn’t even question it. We’re only questioning it because we can see more of the picture. I’m just not sure how it all ties in with the lodge.’

Vesta picked up a pencil and began doodling on the notepad in front of her. ‘I don’t understand all the secrecy there. Mr Tupps chucked me out last night because he thought I wanted to tar the lodge with some dreadful smear. But they ask for that kind of thing by keeping everything so hidden, don’t you think? He was such a nice old bloke and then he went a bit potty.’

Mirabelle tried to crystallise her thoughts. In the war there had been a great deal of secrecy but in those days it had been vital. By comparison the masons’ focus on discretion seemed
pointless, and by keeping their small secrets they undervalued the things that were really important. Even at Elsie’s last breath Henshaw hadn’t come clean. If Mrs Chapman was aware he was there, that must have hurt. If she loved him, all she’d have wanted surely was for him to hold her as she died. Wasn’t anyone honest any more?

‘Do you remember yesterday when Mrs Chapman was on the floor? Henshaw was distressed. I mean, it
was
distressing, but at the time I thought he became so defensive because we were in his stupid meeting room or because he wanted some dignity for Mrs Chapman. It must have been awful for him.’ Mirabelle remembered Henshaw’s face set in a stern expression as Elsie writhed on the floor.

‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ Bill said. ‘Watching someone you love die. Still, all this information doesn’t turn up what we need. It’s all circumstantial, isn’t it? It’s all conjecture. We don’t have any real evidence yet about why either of them died. And that’s a big job.’

Mirabelle smiled at Bill’s ‘policeman’ voice. His tone changed periodically when he was giving a professional opinion rather than a personal one.

‘Don’t knock it. This is good conjecture, Bill,’ Vesta insisted. ‘It makes sense, don’t you think? And the more we know about everyone involved, the clearer we’ll see what’s been going on. I reckon we’re getting somewhere.’

Bill stroked his chin. The women were right. It was a plausible theory. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it still doesn’t tell us who killed the old bird or Gillingham either.’

‘No,’ admitted Mirabelle. ‘We need to know the kind of poison they used on Mrs Chapman before we can get a proper start on her killer. And we might want to find out where she’d been the evening before and that morning, too. Before she came in to work.’

Bill looked at the paperwork on his desk. ‘I’d better get on
with my calls,’ he said reluctantly and made for the door. He didn’t want to get too involved with Mirabelle’s extra-office activities. But he was still fascinated by them. ‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ he promised. ‘And for anything to do with Gillingham. Meantime, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ he said cheerily, grabbing his hat and slamming the door behind him.

Vesta pulled out what remained of her Jelly Babies. She picked out a black one and sucked its feet, offering Mirabelle the bag. ‘He’s right. It doesn’t tell us who killed Mrs Chapman. And we haven’t really made the other connection yet.’

‘With Gillingham? No,’ Mirabelle conceded, waving away the sweets. ‘It’ll take time, but we’re getting there. I’ll find out more details from McGregor next time I see him. We just need to keep thinking.’

‘So you’re going to see him again,’ said Vesta. ‘For dinner?’

Mirabelle took in a sharp breath. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not interested in that kind of thing. Really I’m not.’

‘Well, McGregor is. It’s written all over his face. He goes moon-eyed when he sees you. Mr Tupps said love is the most important thing, you know.’

‘Mr Tupps said entirely too much,’ Mirabelle retorted.

Then she wondered if perhaps the old man had. If the reason for all these murders resided in the lodge, Mr Tupps might be in danger himself. It seemed to be the people on the fringes who were at risk. A journalist and a cleaning lady to start with – how far behind might a caretaker lag? Though Mr Tupps had told Vesta he was a signed-up mason – part of the group – and he certainly appeared to be a loyal employee. She sighed.

The air suddenly felt heavy with secrets. Her stomach twisted with guilt. Perhaps she ought to have a word with the Superintendent. Just to make things clear. But there never seemed an apt moment. There were so many other things on
her plate that felt more important. Joey Gillingham’s murder and Elsie Chapman’s, too. As well as the correspondence that was sitting right in front of her. She mustn’t forget that.

‘We’d better get down to work,’ said Vesta.

‘Yes,’ Mirabelle agreed. ‘Something will turn up. It always does.’

Chapter 17

Always trust a woman’s instinct over a man’s reason
.

B
y the end of the afternoon a good deal of McGuigan & McGuigan’s business had been cleared, but Mirabelle realised she couldn’t remember the detail of any of it. She had even gone to the bank and paid in Bill’s collection money and all the cheques, but now she found she couldn’t recall the actual figure or for that matter the route she’d taken to Barclays. Instead, she kept returning to the mystery of Elsie Chapman’s death.

By four o’clock Vesta declared herself ravenous and suggested they pop over to a café in the Lanes for fish pie and mushy peas. Mirabelle agreed. A walk often helped to shift a problem. They had just locked the office door when a shadowy figure came hammering along the corridor.

He was tall and slim, and as he came closer they could see he was immaculately turned out in police trousers and a buttoned-up shirt. The man peered over the women’s shoulders at the name on the office door. ‘Is Bill Turpin in?’ he enquired.

‘I’m sorry. Bill’s out on a call. Can we help you?’ said Mirabelle.

‘You must be Charlie’s missus.’ Belton held out his hand to Vesta.

‘Are you Sergeant Belton?’ Vesta stepped in. ‘Charlie told me about you.’ What Charlie had actually said was he’d never seen a dude who looked like he’d been freshly ironed before. ‘Did you turn up anything on that notebook?’

Jim Belton looked over his shoulder. ‘Hot day,’ he said, as he
considered whether to trust the women with the news. The ladies weren’t quite what he expected – neither of them hard-faced harridans. The older one was as elegant as a model in a magazine. Charlie’s wife was – Belton searched for the word – lush. Yes, that was it. She was exotic. Beautiful. He’d not expected this. He took a deep breath and weighed the matter in hand. He’d other things to be getting on with, after all, and they’d see Bill before he would. Besides, from what he’d said before, Bill rated the women.

‘Yeah,’ he made the decision, ‘I asked around. I didn’t find what Bill was hoping for, thank goodness. I could do without a police scandal, thank you. No, you tell Bill I reckon the killer took Gillingham’s notebook. I’ve asked in both stations. The book was gone by the time our lads got to the body. The force has got feelers out for it themselves. I’ll keep half an eye out and let Bill know if it turns up. The feeling is that the murderer made for London straight after he clipped the poor bloke. We don’t have any professional hitmen in Brighton. It’s a London thing, thank God.’

‘That’s very helpful,’ said Mirabelle. ‘We’ll let Bill know. I wonder, though, Sergeant, if you’ve any idea why Mr Gillingham’s body was moved so quickly? It’s been on my mind.’

Belton shrugged. ‘It was a hot day . . .’

Mirabelle eyed him, waiting. She was a skilled interrogator, Belton thought. She left exactly the kind of space in a conversation that it was tempting to fill and her voice was like a glass of cold beer. Wouldn’t that be nice?

‘I wouldn’t worry about it, love. After all, we’ve got a killer to track down, and that’s far more important. I won’t hold you up any longer.’ The sergeant turned. ‘I’ve got a break-in to deal with. I just thought I’d pop in while I was passing. You’re close to the scene, see.’

‘A break-in? Near here?’ Vesta enquired as they all trooped downstairs.

‘We’re just lucky the thieves don’t seem to have taken anything,’ he said, glad to have something to talk about. ‘They must have been disturbed. Broad daylight, too, cheeky beggars. Two kids spotted the door was open. Usually schoolkids cause more trouble than they’re worth. But this time the kids were good ’uns and they ran for the beat bobby as soon as they saw something was wrong. The door is usually locked, see. They knew something was up.’

‘Well, the owner will be glad you’ve been so efficient.’ Vesta smiled.

Belton looked momentarily confused as they emerged into the sunshine. ‘Oh, there’s no owner, love. Not as such. There hasn’t been anyone living there since the war when they used it as a hospital for the Gurkhas. No, the Royal Pavilion’s boarded up. Closed to the public. Bleeding huge it is, too. We’re still searching to make sure a sneak thief isn’t hiding inside.’

‘The Pavilion?’ Mirabelle and Vesta said in unison.

‘Yeah,’ said Belton. ‘What of it?’

The path was shady and a policeman was guarding the gate. A crowd of boys kicked a can along the street, jumping and laughing in the bright light, their thin legs a blur as the tin puttered against the paving stones.

‘Anyone from the council here yet?’ said Belton.

‘No, Sir.’

‘You want to move them on,’ he nodded in the direction of the children.

‘They ain’t doing no harm, Sarge,’ the bobby objected.

Belton glared and the man sighed and lumbered over to send the kids in the direction of the shore.

‘Hop it,’ he said and the youngest boy scrambled to get hold of the can as the others moaned and tutted, slipping their hands deep in their pockets as they walked away.

‘You can’t come in. It’s a crime scene.’ Belton turned to Mirabelle and Vesta. He’d been perturbed when the women fell into step with him. As they’d walked towards the main road he kept thinking they’d bid him good afternoon and turn off in a different direction but they hadn’t.

‘I’d like to make sure my friend Daphne is all right,’ said Mirabelle. ‘She works here, you see. She’s a restorer for the National Trust. Poor thing must have had a terrible fright.’

Belton loitered at the gate. ‘Who?’ he said.

‘Daphne Marsden,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘Vesta and I visited her here only yesterday.’

‘It must be her day off. We haven’t come across anyone since the report came in. There’s a guy coming down from the council at some point but they couldn’t really be bothered – I don’t think they care what happens in the old place. If there’s a woman who knows the building, we’ll need to speak to her. Where are her digs?’ He removed a notebook from his shirt pocket and licked the tip of his pencil.

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Mirabelle dodged the question, ‘but Daphne’s always here. She’s dedicated to saving the Pavilion. She’s been working on the restoration of the woodwork day and night.’

‘I suppose she’ll be able to confirm if there’s anything missing. So far we haven’t come across anything obvious but it’s diffcult to tell. The place is so higgledy-piggledy.’

‘We could have a look if you like. We were in there yesterday – at least in some of the rooms,’ Vesta offered.

‘It’s police business, ladies.’ Belton eyed Mirabelle.

The team from McGuigan & McGuigan had been known to all but take over a case. What had happened last year with that London business had been humiliating. In Belton’s opinion, Superintendent McGregor hadn’t been strict enough but then this woman clearly had him pussywhipped. Now he’d seen her, the sergeant couldn’t entirely blame him.

‘You can’t just barge in,’ he insisted.

‘We’re offering to help you, Sergeant. That’s all.’ Mirabelle’s tone was measured.

The sergeant had to admit that if the women had seen the place it would be helpful to have their view. ‘All right,’ he said, making the decision. ‘Just till the council turns up.’

Inside, it took a moment for Mirabelle’s eyes to adjust to the low light of the vestibule. Vesta shivered. It seemed colder than the day before.

‘Careful,’ Belton instructed as they turned into the long hallway. ‘Well, do you notice anything?’

‘There was an ashtray there – a gold one. That’s gone,’ Vesta said as they approached the foot of the stairs. The blue sofa had been straightened and the spray of white feathers cleaned away. The magazines were also missing. It had been carefully done, Mirabelle thought. She wondered by whom. Belton took a note.
Gold ashtray
, Mirabelle read over his shoulder as they went into the room with the ebony statues.

‘This looks the same. I don’t think anything’s gone. We were upstairs in the Yellow Bow Room, too. The Duke of Clarence’s,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Oh, and the kitchen.’

Vesta looked away. She found it diffcult when Mirabelle lied. Sergeant Belton didn’t question it. He led the women upstairs into another hallway where everything smelled even more musty. The long carpet had been rolled back, exposing wide wooden floorboards caked with dust.

Two policemen passed them, the beams from their torches catching dust particles in the air. ‘There’s no one up here, Sarge,’ one of them said.

‘Close it up,’ Belton ordered. ‘We’re just going to see if Miss Bevan and Mrs Lewis can identify anything that might be missing.’

‘That’s what Daphne was working on.’ Mirabelle gestured
towards the carpet. ‘Saving the textiles. Both Daphne and Mrs Chapman, in fact.’

‘Mrs Chapman? Wasn’t she the victim at the lodge yesterday?’ Belton sounded surprised.

‘Yes. We were there when she died. That’s what we were doing here. We came to tell Daphne what had happened. Mrs Chapman worked here, as well as Queen’s Road. Didn’t you know?’ Belton’s grey eyes flickered. It only took a moment but the sergeant was looking at the women in a different way. Mirabelle realised he had moved them into a mental list headed ‘possible suspects’. She couldn’t blame him. Being at two separate crime scenes within days was unfortunately not unusual for them.

‘This hallway must have been very beautiful in its day,’ Vesta mumbled.

Belton stiffened slightly. ‘It’s along here, isn’t it?’

‘To the rear,’ Mirabelle said confidently. ‘It’s difficult to remember all the passageways. Ah, yes,’ she cooed, as they turned into a bedroom with a curved window that overlooked the garden with Old Steine beyond. A four-poster bed with faded gold-trimmed hangings stood forlornly against one wall. A mahogany dressing table sat by the window some way off. Through a connecting door they could just make out a similar adjacent room. Neither contained a camp bed or any of Daphne Marsden’s clothing.

‘Not much up here, is there?’ said Belton. ‘Do you notice anything gone?’

Mirabelle shook her head, catching Vesta’s eye.

‘Looks like the thieves just ran off then, or if they did get away with something it was small.’

‘It’s Daphne you need to speak to – she knows the place inside out. I can’t see anything different, really. Everything that belongs here seems in place. I’m worried about her, though. She’s a reliable sort and, well, in effect, she’s missing. Normally
there would be a few of her things about the place, and they’re gone.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘She works here. The ashtray, for example. Her overcoat. Notes.’ Mirabelle didn’t want to betray the girl but at the same time Daphne appeared to have disappeared. She bet the television set would be gone, too, but telling Sergeant Belton about it would have been too much of a giveaway. ‘She has lunch here every day,’ Mirabelle wound up. ‘But I can’t see anything of hers – not even a cup and saucer. Do you think she might have been spirited away for some reason?’

Belton considered this. ‘That’s a bit dramatic, surely,’ he said, leading them back through the hallway to the head of the stairs. ‘Perhaps she had the day off and took her things home for cleaning. It might be that we’re not dealing with a break-in at all. She could’ve left the door open by mistake when she left. You’ll need to leave a description of her. Don’t worry though. We’ll run her down one way or another.’

‘Would you like us to check the kitchen?’ Mirabelle asked.

Belton shook his head. ‘No, there’s nothing in there worth lifting. We’d have noticed. It’s all tiles and ironmongery.’

Mirabelle noted that Daphne’s Primus stove had probably disappeared along with any supplies. As they returned to the vestibule, the sergeant gestured towards the door and nodded to Vesta. ‘Thanks, and give Charlie my best. I might pop in tomorrow and hear him play.’

Vesta grinned. ‘He’d like that.’

‘In the meantime, I don’t want you two ladies going anywhere. All right?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Stay in Brighton. We might need you. This friend of yours is the acquaintance of a murder victim. And you’re her acquaintance.’ Belton’s voice was expressionless. It didn’t sound like a threat and yet somehow it felt that way. ‘If you
were at the scene of that poor woman’s death yesterday, you’re also witnesses. Besides, if this is a break-in it might be tied to the old woman’s murder. I’m surprised the policeman in charge didn’t instruct you to stay in the vicinity yesterday. We might need to be in touch. Don’t leave Brighton. Neither of you.’ Belton’s voice brooked no question.

Mirabelle couldn’t help but feel slightly miffed. McGregor wouldn’t give her that kind of order. Of course he would know she was innocent, quite beside the fact that he wouldn’t dare.

Sergeant Belton kept an eye on the women as they walked down the pathway.

‘Well, either Daphne packed up . . .’ Vesta began to postulate.

Mirabelle put her hand on Vesta’s arm to stop her talking until they were out of earshot. They were almost at the main road when she considered it safe to continue. ‘Packing up would be both odd and suspicious,’ she agreed, ‘but it looks that way.’

‘Well, it’s either that or she was taken. But if she was taken, who took her? Absconding is far more likely, and, if so, there’s a chance Daphne’s the killer. Perhaps she murdered Mrs Chapman and Joey Gillingham. Maybe she panicked and ran off. We might have had a lucky escape yesterday – she had us in there. Alone. We could have been in all kinds of danger.’

Mirabelle couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Daphne Marsden cut a man’s throat? Do you think she might have tied us up and stabbed us with an eighteenth-century fruit knife? Or poisoned the cleaning lady? Honestly, Vesta, I can’t see it.’

‘Why does everyone think that Mrs Chapman is irrelevant because of her job?’

‘You know I don’t think that. Come on. Belton isn’t going to get very far finding the girl. It would be best if we track her down. We need to get back to the office.’ Mirabelle picked up the pace.

Vesta glanced forlornly in the direction of the Lanes and her long-overdue fish pie. ‘Can’t we just go . . .’

Mirabelle was adamant. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said.

The women turned down East Street and straight into the doorway of the office building. They ran up the stairs and Mirabelle drew out her key. Vesta had become jumpy in the three minutes it had taken them to get back.