England Expects (16 page)

Back at the keyhole, she caught a flash of tweed, brown with a stripe of red through it, as the man with the moustache who had crossed the quad earlier took a seat by the fire. The men’s voices were low and she had to strain to make out what they were saying. Daphne had shouted at her father and he had shouted back, but the tenor of a more normal conversation was difficult to make out. The fellow in black followed his friend silently across the room and sat down. Mirabelle put two and two together. There must be a connecting door with the rooms in the next stair.

Mirabelle shifted her position against the door, ready to listen, but her ankle turned and her gasp of pain echoed up the stairwell. Inside, the man in the tweed suit sprang to his feet. She hurriedly backed up the stairs and round the corner, ignoring the pain, with her heart pounding as the door opened below her.

‘I didn’t hear anything.’ Marsden’s voice was muted.

The man in tweed sniffed. ‘Perfume,’ he commented. ‘Though I can hardly make it out over your damn pipe smoke, Marsden.’

His accent was Scottish, Mirabelle noted, deep and gravelly, the vowels more drawn out than those of Superintendent McGregor’s soft Edinburgh accent.

‘It’ll be Daphne’s,’ said Marsden.

The man in tweed hovered. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I don’t make a habit of sniffing my daughter, but as she just left it would seem logical.’

Marsden and the man in black resumed their conversation. Mirabelle heard the man in tweed go down a few stairs. He must be checking outside.

‘She’s determined on justice for her friend.’ The professor’s
voice sailed up the hallway. ‘That ghastly cleaning lady who was killed. Poisoned.’

‘Who did it?’ The man in black was also Scottish, but his accent was softer.

‘Damned if I know,’ Marsden replied. ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it? Daphne appears to have been fond of her. She’s convinced it was us.’

‘Poison? That’s a woman’s way to murder,’ said the man in black, his voice dripping with contempt.

‘Who knows what the Brighton lodge has been up to?’ Marsden said.

The pair fell silent. The man in tweed returned to the landing. Mirabelle couldn’t tell exactly where he was but she held her breath. She glanced upwards. There was another floor but now he was in the hallway he’d hear her if she climbed the stairs.

From inside the room Marsden’s guest continued speaking. ‘Well, the money’s the easy part. If the girl understood what she had or, indeed, who she was really dealing with, she’d realise we’d have paid more. As for the rest of it, Laidlaw, you’ll need to find out what the hell has been going on. They’re a bunch of amateurs down there. Killing off old ladies.’

‘Aye,’ the man paused in the doorway, ‘I’ll get to the bottom of it, and once I’m at the bottom I’ll dig us out. Someone’s got to do the dirty work.’

‘Good man.’ The fellow in the chair sounded enthusiastic. ‘Laidlaw here is good at doing whatever it takes. Never afraid of a stramash, eh, Laidlaw?’

‘No.’

‘And afterwards . . .’ said Marsden.

‘You’ll write us a history, Peter. The history we want,’ the second man said firmly. ‘And you’ll be paid handsomely for it. You’re a respected academic after all, as well as a respected brother. Don’t worry.’

‘I don’t want money,’ the professor insisted. ‘I want further in. Further up.’

‘That’s all anyone ever wants,’ the man in tweed said from the hallway, his voice sarcastic.

‘You’ll have earned it.’ The voice from inside the room was clearly in charge. ‘Come back in and close the door, Laidlaw,’ he instructed. ‘There’s no one out there.’

The footsteps sounded and the door closed. Mirabelle edged back down the stairs but as she bent towards the keyhole the men were preparing to leave. She scarcely managed to catch a glimpse of Professor Marsden. He wore a sober look that appeared quite uncharacteristic. The man in tweed was making for the door with his friend close behind him.

Mirabelle backed out of sight again just in time. The men emerged into the stairwell and said their gruff goodnights. Then the door swung closed and she crept downwards, following the Scotsmen at a distance as they walked in silence towards the front gate. The air outside smelled clean by comparison to the hallway, which was drenched in Marsden’s pipe tobacco. The man in tweed moved with a jaunty gait but the other one – the master – was as gangly as a teenager, though his hair was grey. Ahead of her, they passed through the gate and disappeared onto the shadowy road beyond. Mirabelle heard an engine pulling up. A car had been waiting. She’d like to get the number plate, she thought, but as she made it to the porter’s lodge the now familiar red face of the man on duty dodged out of the doorway and blocked her way.

‘Evening, Miss.’

Mirabelle nodded, trying to move round the man’s figure so as not to lose sight of her mark.

‘Would you like me to find you a cab? It’s very late.’

Outside, the two men were getting into a black vehicle a little way along the street. She couldn’t see the driver or make out the
number plate. She needed Vesta – the girl knew more about cars. The vehicle pulled off, its engine echoing in the silence.

‘Those gentlemen . . .’

‘Visitors,’ said the porter.

‘When did they arrive?’

‘Before I was on duty.’

That was a lie. ‘Have they come here before?’

‘You ask a lot of questions, Miss. College business is considered private at Downing. Some might find that kind of enquiry rude.’

Mirabelle didn’t back down. She tried to move around the porter but he dodged her.

‘I can call a taxi but it’ll take a while,’ he offered.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She turned back. The car was gone now and she’d best fetch Vesta.

‘Oh no, you don’t.’ The porter nipped round and blocked her path in the other direction. ‘I’m afraid there are no ladies allowed on campus at this time of night.’ The man took her arm firmly and led her into his office. ‘You’ll have to wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you a car. Come this way, please.’

‘I don’t want a car,’ Mirabelle insisted, but before she could free herself from his grip she found she had been steered efficiently into a room beyond the reception desk. The porter talked all the while – blustering on about history and tradition and rules. Cambridge was as curious a place as Oxford, she thought, as she turned towards the threshold to push her way back out, but the man was too quick. The door slammed shut in her face. Mirabelle reached for the handle but she couldn’t move it.

There was an eerie silence. Then the porter spoke. ‘We don’t like snoops at Downing. Those fellows have a right to their privacy.’

‘They’re on the square, you mean,’ snapped Mirabelle. ‘And so are you.’

‘You’d best cool off, Miss. Stop fretting. I’ll let you out at the end of my shift.’

‘But you can’t lock me in here . . . that’s kidnapping,’ Mirabelle shouted.

There was no reply. She tried once more to turn the handle but he’d locked it. She realised there was no keyhole on the inside. The only light came from a lamp that cast a low glow, but the room stretched well beyond it. In front of her there was a grille and further on a small flight of stone stairs and a line of racks – the college wine cellar, she realised, with a chill running up the back of her neck. There wasn’t a window in sight and the cellar itself must cover an acre, Mirabelle thought. She could be here for a very long time.

Chapter 20

Escape is freedom – even from the frying pan into the fire
.

A
t the bottom of the stairs Mirabelle clicked on a light and made out wine bottles that were stacked carefully in stamped wooden boxes. Glancing up and down, she read the names on the sides. Saint Honoré. Haut Médoc. The first bottles were the latest arrivals. Young wines from the Languedoc and Burgundy from 1949 and 1950 and several cases of Saint-Émilion from the year before had clearly just been delivered and were piled at the front.

‘Let me out!’ she called, feeling slightly claustrophobic. She didn’t expect a reply. The porter wouldn’t be back till dawn, assuming he was working a nightshift and stayed true to his word. She shuddered and moved further into the cellar. It quickly became apparent that the college had laid down prewar vintages and was still drinking them. Creeping along the aisles was like walking back in time. Had she drunk some of these wines when she was at college? Had she shared any of these grand vintages with Jack when they had dined occasionally at Claridge’s or Café de Paris?

Mirabelle turned her mind to what she’d heard outside Professor Marsden’s rooms. The men had left intending to quieten Elsie’s murderer. She ran through the parts of their discussion she had managed to catch – Elsie had tried to blackmail someone at the lodge in Brighton. Most likely the blackmail attempt had concerned the object that Daphne was now holding over her father. In any case, Daphne seemed sure
that the men she was dealing with had done for Elsie. But neither of the Scotsmen nor Professor Marsden knew who had perpetrated the murder. Mirabelle wondered what on earth Daphne was selling. It was something important enough to bring these men to Downing College in the middle of the night. Something so important that they’d kill for it.

Mirabelle shivered as she recalled the threat she’d heard the man make in the hallway. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of it,’ he had said. What he meant, surely, was that he’d go to Brighton and find out who had poisoned Elsie and punish them. Something niggled in Mirabelle’s mind. This information changed matters. If Elsie wanted to get money in exchange for a masonic object she surely would have gone to her erstwhile lover. That gave Captain Henshaw a motive for her murder. He had to be the chief suspect. That being the case, the captain was potentially in danger. Mirabelle sank onto a stone ledge. She didn’t buy Henshaw as a murderer. She’d seen him as he’d watched Elsie’s life being snuffed out. No. There was something she was missing – a crucial piece of the jigsaw. What on earth was it? Still, whether he was guilty or not, as the obvious suspect Henshaw was in terrible danger.

The cellar stretched a long way under the paths she’d walked down earlier. So, Mirabelle reasoned, if she wanted to get out, the first job was to check the ceiling. There was an outside chance there was a drain in the paving, which, even if it didn’t open into the cellar directly, might still be accessed as a means of escape. This proved fruitless. The low ceiling stretched unbroken by any kind of hatch. The racks were mired in thick dust and as she made her way between them, sight of the doorway receded. As a precaution, Mirabelle began to mark the stands on the right-hand corner, fingering an ‘X’ in the cobwebs, so she could find her way back. Towards the rear and by her reckoning as far along the quad as the library, the last few columns were reserved solely for brandy,
port and whisky. Inspecting these and realising she could do with a pick-me-up, she selected a bottle of Speyside marked ‘1914’. The year she was born. Mirabelle didn’t recognise the name of the distillery but she decided to break the seal. There was no soda – the entire contents of Downing’s cellar were alcoholic. With a shrug she took a slug from the bottle and then coughed as it took her breath away. The whisky was much too strong to drink neat. It stung the inside of her mouth but the taste revived her. She replaced the bottle and made her mark in the dust.

Here, however, she stopped. The side of this particular rack was nowhere near as filthy as the others. With her curiosity piqued, Mirabelle peered along the row. From halfway up, the boxes containing bottled whisky turned into casks stacked on top of one another. At the bottom were sherry casks, far too heavy for her to move, but two thirds of the way up were three layers of blood tubs – smaller barrels and more manoeuvrable. The pile reached the low ceiling.

Mirabelle decided to investigate. Like the rack on the corner, the casks were devoid of the thick layer of dust that had settled everywhere else. Upon examination she realised they had been in place for some time. At the bottom, one had a lading notice pasted to its side showing it had been delivered to Downing in 1921. Mirabelle looked up quizzically and decided to scale the pile. The barrels formed a roughly constructed but stable stairway, and even in heels it didn’t take her long. At the top, crouching, she removed the two uppermost barrels and realised why the dust had been disturbed. Above the blood tubs, the ceiling plaster had been stripped away. There was a cavity covered by three wide floorboards cut to fit the space. Reaching up, Mirabelle dislodged one with a hefty push and looked through the hatch into a moonlit room. Lined with bookshelves, its dimensions were similar to those of Marsden’s study, but it was tidy and smelled of lavender. Mirabelle pulled
a second floorboard out of the way. Some clever student, she thought, had tunnelled into the cellar and found a method of hiding their tracks. They could take as much wine as they liked as long as they were careful.

It would be easy to haul herself through. First, though, she nipped back into the cellar and removed two bottles of the 1914 Speyside, choosing from the back of the box. Then she scaled the casks, pulled herself through the hole and carefully replaced the last barrel to obscure the exit from easy view.

Through the window she could see she had come up into the accommodation block next to where the professor lived. The lights in his room had now been extinguished. She checked the time – just after one – and cursed herself for wasting time. She opened the window as far as the sash would allow and clambered out, checking to make sure that she wasn’t in sight of the porter’s lodge. The porter made his rounds on the hour. She must be careful. She had to get both herself and Vesta out safely.

The evening air was fresh and it felt good to be free. But, as she looked into the stairwell where she had left Vesta. Her heart skipped a beat. The girl wasn’t there.

‘Vesta,’ she hissed.

Silence.

‘Vesta,’ she tried again a little louder.

Mirabelle climbed a little way up the stairs. The girl was nowhere to be seen. She tried to guess what Vesta would have done when she had woken up on the step alone. Clearly, she’d try to find Mirabelle. That would entail sneaking up to Professor Marsden’s rooms after which, finding no joy, she would most likely cross to the lodge and ask the porter if he’d seen her. Of course she would. The college, after all, only had one obvious entry and exit point. Mirabelle sighed. There was nothing for it. Vesta could be in trouble. Still, she assured herself, she could always nip back into the wine cellar if the
porter had locked the girl in there, too. Now she knew how to break out, it would be a piece of cake.

Mirabelle sneaked towards the porter’s office. From the shadows outside she could see the man sitting at his desk. Keeping close to the brick wall and staying low she stopped beneath the window and looked tentatively over the sill. She almost laughed out loud. Vesta was ensconced on a leather chair, sipping a cup of tea on one side of the desk while the porter sipped his on the other. A packet of peppermint creams lay open between them. What a cosy scene! Vesta, Mirabelle noticed, was giggling and clearly charming the old porter.

Mirabelle had seen Vesta do this before. When she worked at Halley Insurance down the hall, the girl had cast the same spell over every man who walked through the door. This had resulted in her having nary a Friday night to herself, in her pre-Charlie days. She could coax a fellow into practically anything – tea and peppermint creams would have been easy. Well, she did better than me, thought Mirabelle and smiled. At least the porter hadn’t incarcerated the poor girl. Now to catch her attention. Mirabelle knew that the younger a person was, the wider their peripheral vision, and women had far better awareness at the fringes than men. Positioning herself carefully out of the porter’s line of sight but well within Vesta’s scope, she put up her hand and waved frantically. Even in the dark surely Vesta would see the movement. Nothing. Mirabelle tried again. Vesta put down her teacup and cocked her head to one side as the porter regaled her with stories. When he stopped speaking Vesta said, ‘Well, I can’t imagine what’s happened to my friend.’

Mirabelle bit her lip with frustration. It was better if the girl stayed off that topic of conversation for it could only lead to the wine cellar. She waved again. Vesta’s eyesight was clearly deficient. The girl should go to an optician when they got home. There were some very attractive spectacles available these days.

Mirabelle changed tack. She looked for a good-sized stone and then, staying out of sight, she pitched the object at one of the library windows, scuttling back into the shadows as it found its mark. Satisfyingly, the sound rang out. This had the desired effect. Inside, a chair scraped back, the door opened and the porter looked out. He disappeared for a moment, and more distinctly this time Mirabelle heard him say, ‘I’d best do my rounds, love. Wait here and I’ll be back shortly. Don’t worry, your chum’s probably just gone off. When I get back, we’ll sort out that lift, shall we?’

Vesta murmured, making a sound that suggested her mouth was full. Mirabelle held her breath. The man took a torch and clumped across the paving stones to investigate the noise. She waited until he was a good few yards away before she sneaked towards the door. Putting her fingers to her lips as she entered, she managed to get Vesta to suppress the inevitable squeal.

‘We have to get out of here,’ she whispered. ‘Come on.’

She pulled the girl out of the lodge door and towards the gate but realised quickly that the porter had locked it. ‘Dash it,’ she said, scrambling in her bag for her lock picks as she checked over her shoulder. This would take extra time. The light of the porter’s torch was still visible proceeding down the pathway in the other direction, but he’d be back soon. His rounds, she recalled, lasted only eight minutes. There wasn’t long.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Vesta. She ran back into the little office and leaned across the man’s desk. She lifted a peppermint cream with one hand and drew out an iron ring of keys with the other. ‘Pretty careless of him,’ she said as she strolled back outside.

‘Thanks.’ Mirabelle snatched the ring and searched its contents for the key to the gate while still keeping one eye on the path. It gave a satisfying jangle as she found the right one and turned it in the lock. The women slipped onto the deserted street, locking the gate behind them.

Mirabelle dropped the keyring into the gutter. ‘This way,’ she said.

Vesta stared at it. ‘I could put the keys back, if you like,’ she offered. ‘It’d save him the trouble.’

The girl had no idea what had happened. Mirabelle grabbed Vesta’s arm to pull her along the road. ‘This way he’ll have to spend time looking for the spare set. He won’t be able to follow us as quickly.’

Vesta stood firm. ‘Well,’ her eyes were accusing, ‘what happened to you? They’re never going to let us into the B&B this late. Where on earth are we going to sleep?’

Mirabelle looked up and down the street. ‘That odious little man locked me in the wine cellar.’

Vesta giggled. ‘Sid?’

‘Yes.’ Mirabelle was not amused. ‘Sid. While you were sleeping, Professor Marsden had visitors. Daphne first of all, and then two men. Masons, I think. The men who crossed the quad and went into the building next door – do you remember? Daphne’s blackmailing them. She’s found something at the Pavilion. Something they want. Elsie Chapman was killed because of it. She tried to blackmail them, too, on her own. The puzzler is that these men don’t know who killed the woman but they’re heading for Brighton to find out, and when they get there there’s going to be trouble.’

‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ Vesta was furious. ‘You’re always leaving me out. You can’t do that, Mirabelle.’

Mirabelle stopped for a moment. The girl was right, of course. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Really, I am. But you were fast asleep and we haven’t got time to argue now. We have to get back. Superintendent McGregor has to be informed and I think he should take Captain Henshaw into custody. Logically, the poor man will be their chief suspect. These men felt dangerous. If not Henshaw, then someone’s going to get hurt. I’m sure of it. McGregor needs to know.’

Vesta checked her watch as Mirabelle processed this information. ‘Now? Brighton? It’s the middle of the night.’

‘Yes. We’re going to have to find the driver. He went this way, didn’t he?’

‘What driver?’

‘The cab driver. Remember? The one who brought us here.’

‘Couldn’t we just find a phonebox and call the police station? I’m sure we could get a message to McGregor. It’d be easier.’

Mirabelle turned. ‘You want to phone a police station and tell whoever is on the desk that some masons may be planning a murder? Given what Bill said about the number of masons on the force?’

Vesta hesitated.

Mirabelle gripped the girl’s arm more tightly. ‘We have to look for the cab now,’ she said. ‘We can talk about it on the way if you like, but we have to get going. McGregor’s our best chance of dealing with this, honestly.’

Vesta relented. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Well, the car was quite new. An Austin FX3.’

Vesta’s old job at Halley Insurance had some advantages. She could name any car that graced England’s roads.

‘Come on.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘It’s got to be around here somewhere. He said he lived round the corner.’

They trawled the side streets of terraced brick houses that surrounded the college. There were hardly any parked cars. Cambridge was a town of bicycles and punts, after all.