England Expects (19 page)

Mirabelle nodded curtly. ‘I can’t wait to get there,’ she assured him.

Chapter 23

Look for truth and you may find comfort
.

‘
H
e’s right, you know,’ Vesta insisted as the women left the station. ‘Anything could have happened to us.’

Mirabelle didn’t respond.

Vesta stopped to pick up a half-pint of milk for the office. ‘Bill won’t have remembered,’ she said with a smile, ‘and in this heat milk goes off so quickly that yesterday’s is bound to have turned by now.’

Mirabelle cast her a stony glance that did not deter the girl from linking her arm through her friend’s as they continued down the hill.

‘“We shouldn’t be poking our noses into this.” Really, Vesta,’ Mirabelle scolded, mimicking the tone of the girl’s apology.

‘But he’s right,’ Vesta repeated. ‘You know he is. And we’re out now, aren’t we?’

By the time they turned into Brills Lane it was almost eleven o’clock and it was a relief to get out of the sun.

‘There you are,’ Bill said as they walked in. ‘I think the weather’s putting people off business. There’s not been a soul over the door all morning. You seen this?’ He lifted the paper to show them a short article about Captain Henshaw’s death. ‘It doesn’t say why he did it,’ he added.

Panther looked up as the women removed their summer jackets. He let his head fall back on his paws and slowly wagged his tail.

‘It’s the heat,’ Bill explained. ‘Neither of us can really get going.’

Mirabelle sank into her seat. She felt exhausted and, worse, unwanted. No one seemed to care what she thought about Captain Henshaw, Joey Gillingham or Elsie Chapman. McGregor wanted to work it out for himself, and as far as he was concerned she was an irritation. Vesta had already given up. She felt angry. The details rushed through her mind but she couldn’t grasp them, and for once she wasn’t sure what to do next. With no clear pathway presenting itself she leafed half-heartedly through the paperwork in front of her. Bill was right. It had been a quiet week.

Vesta put a strong cup of tea on her desk with an apologetic smile. ‘Are you all right?’

Mirabelle sipped the tea. She rubbed her tired, dry eyes. ‘You could go home,’ Vesta suggested. ‘Why don’t you have a lie down? You haven’t slept a wink all night. Bill and I can manage things here.’

Mirabelle thought about closing her bedroom curtains and curling up on the mattress. It was an attractive proposition. She felt as if she’d wasted her time and run off on a wild goose chase. If no one cared, where was the harm in taking it easy? She might as well get some sleep. For once she didn’t want to be in the office. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.

Vesta fetched Mirabelle’s jacket from the stand. ‘Here,’ she offered. ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve had a snooze. We’ll see you tomorrow. Leave everything to me.’

Mirabelle folded the garment over her arm and picked up her handbag. ‘All right,’ she said.

Outside on the pavement she kept to the shadows. Instead of heading to the front and walking along the shore, she went up East Street and past Bartholomew Square. Somehow the sea seemed too bright. It would be better to head along the maze of streets towards Hove. She passed the turn-off for Fred’s place without a second glance. Within half a mile she was on the long straight road out of town. Women
were shopping, shopkeepers were tending their displays and children were hanging around the bakery. Things were normal. This was what her life ought to be like, she reflected. Grocery shopping and cups of tea. Why did she find herself drawn to these horrible cases? It was none of her business. She hadn’t even managed to save Henshaw.

She bought a copy of the local paper and then, heading towards The Lawns, she withdrew her key, almost starting at the sight of the coin on her key ring, a memento of her very first case. Things had seemed easier even only those few years ago. Inside, she slipped off her shoes and turned over the first few pages of the afternoon edition. In the Deaths column Mrs Chapman’s funeral was announced – at All Saints on Saturday afternoon. Mirabelle closed the paper and decided to blank out the world by drawing the curtains. Fully clothed she lay down on the bed. The outside world disappeared.

As her breathing slowed, she slipped into unconsciousness trying not to think of poor Ellie Chapman, all alone in the world, or Mrs Henshaw, frantically trying to reconcile her husband’s suicide with the man she had lived with for forty years, or Ida Gillingham, sorting out her brother’s clothes. Vesta had given up on them all and maybe she was right. As her thoughts eased out with the tide, the warm light filtering through the curtains faded even further and Mirabelle didn’t so much as dream.

Chapter 24

Curiosity killed the cat
.

V
esta finished work at half past five. Charlie was playing later, but she didn’t want to wait for hours in a smoky pub. The humdrum routine of the office had provided more than enough of a steady rhythm and lots of time to think. After lunch Bill had gone on his calls, and she’d been left alone with insufficient paperwork and a nagging sense of guilt. Mirabelle had looked deflated when she’d been packed off. In the two years Vesta had known her friend and partner she’d never seen her look so dejected. Some women distracted themselves from their troubles by knitting or cleaning or playing music or dancing. Nothing perked up Vesta like a biscuit. She didn’t hide it. But for Mirabelle these thorny cases she was drawn to were the only things that took her out of herself. They made her feel alive. Mirabelle didn’t appear to feel fear. Vesta felt ashamed of herself. If she’d been old enough to understand what was going on, she’d never have made it through the war. Now she was out of immediate danger her mind returned to the thorny issue of Mrs Chapman’s death and her curiosity was aroused. Had McGregor succeeded in tracking down what had really been going on, she wondered as she locked the office door.

On East Street she emerged into the sunshine and picked up a paper from the news-stand. Leafing through it, she realised there was nothing that might offer a clue to whatever police action was underway. It was far too soon for that. The evening
stretched ahead of her. Neither option of how to spend it – sitting listening to Charlie drum or chatting to Mrs Agora – seemed satisfactory. Looking left and right Vesta made the snap decision to walk up to Queen’s Road. She’d call on Mr Tupps. The caretaker had been cross the last time she’d seen him but she was sure he’d have got over it by now. She’d pushed the old man’s buttons all right. It’d be interesting to see how he was taking the latest death. Captain Henshaw had been his boss – he was sure to have an opinion.

Vesta dodged through the busy side streets. Everyone was on their way home from work. Navvies from the nearby building site were heading for the front. Men in suits slipped into the Black Lion or the Cricketers for a pint or two before going home. As she turned onto Queen’s Road several gentlemen were walking up the hill towards the station. Vesta took a seat on a low wall opposite the lodge. One after another at least a dozen men slipped through the building’s front door carrying small suitcases. There must be a meeting tonight. She grinned at the idea of them wearing little aprons. Really, it was quite the most ridiculous thing!

In the balmy evening air she began to daydream, running one scenario after another. It was for this reason that she jumped as someone laid a hand on her shoulder.

‘Hello,’ Mr Tupps said cheerily. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just thinking.’ Vesta smiled.

‘I thought I warned you off that, young lady,’ he said with a grin. ‘What’s on your mind?’

Vesta shrugged. ‘Perhaps I play things too safe. That’s what I’m wondering. Do you know if they’ve found the murderer yet?’

Mr Tupps let out a low whistle. ‘It’s a bad business,’ he said. ‘But a man’s sins will find him out. If he has sinned, that is. If there is a murderer still at large.’

‘There has to be,’ Vesta insisted.

‘What makes you so sure?’

Vesta considered this, thinking out loud. ‘The blackmail,’ she said. ‘This girl I know has found something. And men from outside your lodge have got involved. That’s what the murders are really about. Whatever she’s found is valuable, you see. That’s the crux of everything. I talked Mirabelle out of looking into it, but the more I think about it, the more I realise we’re the only people who will be able to make all the connections. Mirabelle likes this kind of thing. Sometimes I think she needs it.’

Mr Tupps narrowed his eyes. ‘You want to discredit Queen’s Road – that’s what you’re after.’

Vesta shook her head. ‘No, you’re wrong,’ she insisted. ‘Mirabelle reckons the masons are too inefficient to have done all of this. There’s something else at play. These other fellas are from a Scottish lodge. They’re the ones to watch. You’d best be careful, Mr Tupps. Truly.’

Across the road another man entered the lodge with a small bag under his arm.

‘What is it that you do in there?’ Vesta laughed, her mind moving on. ‘There’s a dozen men gone in at least, just as I’ve been sitting here, and every one of them looked shifty.’

Mr Tupps nodded towards the building. ‘I’ll let you have a peek, if you like. You’ll be disappointed though. It’s only fellas chatting to each other. A few prayers. That’s all. Do you want to take a look? I won’t let you in the meeting room, of course, but I could get you into the reception room. You can’t help being curious. I can see that. Perhaps if you have a look you’ll realise it’s all on the square.’

‘Do they really wear aprons?’

Tupps nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘They’re badges of office. You mustn’t make a sound or you’ll get me into trouble.’

Vesta looked round.

‘Afterwards you can come down to the kitchen and I’ll make you a cuppa.’

‘All right,’ she said. She wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.

They crossed the road together and Mr Tupps opened the door. There was a murmur of conversation from the meeting room to the rear. He ushered her through a door on the opposite side of the hallway.

‘Quick. In,’ he said. ‘And keep quiet.’

Vesta suppressed a giggle. And then she felt his hands. One curled around her face and the other manoeuvred her shoulders. As Mr Tupps bundled her into the room she bit hard into his flesh but the old man was strong and he just kept going. What was he doing? Vesta struggled as he opened a door in the wall and pushed her down a set of stairs. ‘No!’ she shouted but his hand was over her mouth. She managed to squeal – not quite a scream. Down the stairs it was pitch black. Her eyes couldn’t adjust.

‘Help!’ she shouted. ‘Help!’

She desperately tried to fight him off. She could feel her blood pumping as she lashed out. Once she almost got away and made it in a scramble as far as the foot of the stairs, but he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back.

‘No, no, my lovely,’ he growled. His voice sounded different in the darkness. He wasn’t old here and he wasn’t wise. He produced rope from somewhere and bound Vesta’s hands behind her back. She remembered too late that she ought to flex her wrists as he did so to make it impossible to tie the knot tightly. She’d learned all these things but she wasn’t quick enough to put them into practice. Kicking out hard she at least landed a few blows before he tackled her and brought her to the ground, working on her legs with the ropes.

‘You hurt me and my Charlie’ll kill you.’

Mr Tupps laughed harshly. ‘You ain’t going to see your Charlie again, girlie. Don’t worry about that.’

‘I knew it. I knew there was something wrong. All you masons are evil.’ Vesta’s temper was rising. At least it distracted her from feeling afraid.

‘Oh, not all of us. The lower orders don’t know about this place, dearie. Most of the men upstairs – you know the ones, with their little bags, coming in for their meeting – never rise above the third degree. No one looks at the caretaker, do they? But he runs the place, do you see? He’s the man in charge here. It’s only the upper echelons who get to take part in the real fun downstairs. Just a few of us. Men with the nerve to take action when things get tough.’

‘You killed Elsie, didn’t you?’

‘I had to. She was blackmailing poor Henshaw. She was confusing him. Women’ll do that, you see. I put a stop to it.’

‘And he couldn’t live without her.’

Mr Tupps chortled. ‘No, he could have. But he went to pieces. You’ve got to be loyal to the brotherhood above everything else, see. That’s what you swear to. I couldn’t have him blundering about making accusations. It was as if he just stopped caring about the lodge.’

‘You killed him!’

‘Yes, and if Mr Laidlaw gives me the order I’ll kill you, too. He’s in charge now he’s here.’

But before Vesta could scream or even reply Mr Tupps stuffed a piece of material into her mouth to gag her. She panicked, scared that she wouldn’t be able to breathe. Then Mr Tupps rolled her across the floor as if she was a barrel of beer, and no matter how hard she struggled it had no effect. The floor was hard and cold. He propped her up to tie her in place against a post of some kind – she couldn’t see what. I’m going to fight him, she swore to herself. Right to my last breath. She pulled at the tight ropes with her heart hammering. Nothing shifted. She counted to ten and as she brought her panic under control she realised he’d gone. She took a deep
breath and then another. She waited. It was so dark. It was silent. And no one but Mr Tupps knew she was here.

And then she heard the sound. It was breathing. Not Tupps, she thought. No, not him. This had a different rhythm. She tried to speak. Tried to scream. The sound that came from her mouth was negligible. Even the low whimper in her throat was barely audible. She kicked blindly as far into the darkness as she could without touching anything. But there was breathing. Someone or something was down here with her.

Chapter 25

Trust is a greater compliment than love
.

Later that night . . .

T
he hammering on the door woke Mirabelle with a start. Groggily she got up. She peeked through the curtains. The sky was dark beyond the pane of glass. She stumbled to her feet and glanced at the bedside clock – five past three. There was a moment of confusion as she realised she had slept the whole day through and into the night. It must be Friday morning.

She padded barefoot to the front door. Slipping the catch she opened up. Sergeant Simmons and a younger man stood on her doorstep. She could see the strain on the older man’s face in the harsh light. The younger one looked unruffled. He was still at an age when staying up all night was an excitement rather than a hardship. As she stood back to let them enter, Mirabelle recognised the boy. He was the young constable from Wellington Road. Both men were in uniform.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Is he here, Miss Bevan?’ There was an edge of urgency to Simmons’ voice.

‘Who?’

Simmons caught the constable’s eye. ‘Superintendent McGregor,’ he said. ‘We can’t find him anywhere.’

‘Why on earth would he be here? It’s three o’clock in the morning.’

The constable’s steady gaze made it plain the kind of woman he considered her to be. There was, Mirabelle realised, no point in arguing. She had long understood that men thought of women the way they wanted to. There was no way out of that.

‘I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,’ she said. ‘At Wellington Road.’

Simmons’ eyes betrayed his disappointment. ‘I can’t think of anywhere else. Mayhew and I have tried everywhere. He’s missing.’

‘What were his last known movements?’ Mirabelle was familiar with the drill.

‘Wellington Road nick, as you say. He talked to Belton about the case.’

‘Did he get sight of Captain Henshaw’s suicide note?’

Mayhew nodded.

‘Typed?’

The boy nodded again.

‘He’d done that at the lodge?’

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Simmons confirmed. ‘He used the machine in his office. They checked, and it was an exact match. He must’ve written it earlier in the day.’

‘What did the note say?’

The constable cast his eyes towards Simmons to check if it was all right to speak. The sergeant gave him the go-ahead with a curt nod and Mayhew formed the words slowly. ‘Just that the old fellow had done in the cleaning lady. They had an affair for years and she wanted him to recognise their child. It was a girl, I think. Then he couldn’t take what he’d done.’

‘That’s not what I meant. What did the note say exactly?’ Mirabelle pushed him. ‘The actual words.’

‘He said he loved the woman. I remember that. I thought that can’t have been nice for his wife. He said he was overcome with guilt and that he knew he was going to hell but he couldn’t take living any more. Nothing unusual for a suicide note.’

Mirabelle’s mind darted. ‘Thank you, Constable. That’s very interesting,’ she said. ‘And did the postmark tally?’

‘Yes. He posted it near his house in time for the last pick-up. He knew what he was going to do. The chief got it the next morning.’

‘Well?’ said Simmons. ‘Does that help? Do you know where McGregor is, Miss Bevan?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Not exactly,’ she admitted, ‘but I’d start at the lodge. That’s where he must have been heading, you see. It’s the only place that makes sense – the linchpin of it all. It wasn’t suicide, you know. It couldn’t have been.’

‘I’ve already checked the lodge,’ said Simmons. ‘I went over when I first realised I didn’t know where he was. A call came in and I couldn’t track him down. Anyway, the bloke hadn’t seen him. The Superintendent ain’t been anywhere I’d have expected. Tell you the truth, I’m worried. He’s been missing a long time.’

‘How many hours?’

Simmons checked his watch. ‘Must be close on fifteen now. He left the station at Wellington Road on foot just before midday and there’s been no sign of him since. I tried the victims’ homes, the lodge, the racetrack, his usual haunts – everywhere I could think of. He hasn’t been home either.’

‘He was with Robinson at Wellington Road. Doesn’t he have any idea?’

‘He sent the inspector off – asked him to make a couple of enquiries.’

‘About Elsie Chapman’s estate? Checking out the daughter? That side of things?’

Simmons nodded.

It was as she thought. ‘Neither you nor Mayhew are masons, are you?’

Mayhew examined his feet.

‘No,’ Simmons admitted. ‘That’s why I recruited the constable for this. I haven’t filed a missing person’s report or started
a full-scale manhunt. I wasn’t sure if making it official was a good idea. I was hoping Mayhew and I could turn up the Superintendent on our own.’

‘You didn’t think to use one of the female constables? I mean, they’d definitely not be part of the brotherhood.’

Simmons shook his head. ‘Something like this, Miss, begging your pardon, but a murder inquiry – the ladies wouldn’t be up for it.’

Mirabelle sighed inwardly. Simmons was a good sergeant but he had no understanding. If she wanted to prevent further bloodshed she’d have to get on with things herself. And she decided on balance she’d do better alone. Vesta had made it clear that she wasn’t interested and as for involving Simmons, well, the way in was definitely through a woman. Bringing the sergeant in on the game would only put the poor girl’s back up.

‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘All I can tell you is that if I was looking for McGregor I’d focus on the masonic lodge. I hope he turns up.’

The streets were deserted and washed with pale moonlight as Mirabelle hit King’s Road. She had quickly pulled on a black dress and flat shoes, and had brought with her a large handbag into which she had tucked several necessities. She felt for the torch in her pocket – she had got into the habit of carrying it during the blackout in London but it had been years since she’d used it. Thankfully the batteries had not worn out. She moved now with a sense of purpose. The lights were out in every building on the way into town and not a single car passed her. It didn’t take long to get as far as the pier and head up to the Royal Pavilion. An old-fashioned car was parked alone on North Street – a racing-green Chambers with a soft top. Mirabelle could just make out a road map with a stylish pair of women’s sunglasses folded on top of it on the passenger seat.
Apart from that there was no evidence of anybody’s presence in the palace. Mirabelle smiled. She’d been right.

Effortlessly she picked the lock on the gate and made a circuit of the building and the grounds. As she passed the laburnum tree, Mirabelle shuddered. The only way inside, she figured, would be through the rear window that wasn’t completely boarded up. With the aerial gone, it was easy to jemmy the plasterboard open. Behind it was an oriental casement and Mirabelle slipped it loose of its catch, hauled herself over the sill and landed inside with a soft bump. She flicked the torch over her new surroundings. Above her, a crystal chandelier glinted in the torchlight.

‘Daphne,’ she called.

There was no reply but then the building was vast. Her voice felt as if it had been swallowed by the dark empty space. Mirabelle made her way into the pink-wallpapered hall. The blue sofa lay as the police had left it, all signs of occupation removed. Daphne usually slept upstairs so Mirabelle decided to try there. Her footsteps didn’t make a sound on the carpeted staircase. She noticed that the light from the torch was wavering a little and she steeled herself.

‘Daphne,’ she called again. ‘It’s Mirabelle Bevan.’

Nothing.

On one side of the palace the shutters were closed. With no aspect to the world outside it made the rooms seem particularly eerie. A mahogany dresser loomed out of the darkness as she rounded a corner and she let out an involuntary squawk. Getting hold of her emotions, she carried on into the Yellow Bow Rooms. The bed was immaculate. There was no one in the place – not a soul. The Pavilion was the logical place for the girl to retreat. Where on earth was she? It was far safer for her to hand over whatever it was that the masons held in such high esteem in Brighton rather than somewhere in London or Cambridge. Besides, the car parked outside couldn’t belong to
anyone else. Mirabelle decided to go back downstairs. She had just reached the bottom of the staircase when her whole body was arrested in motion. She was jerked backwards and pulled against the wall. She shouted, ‘Get off me!’ as strong arms grabbed her from behind and the torch fell from her grip.

Then the wooden panel, against which she had been forced, sprang away and she tumbled into what appeared to be a large cupboard. She gulped in the musty air. Then her training kicked in. As the person behind tried to push her forward, Mirabelle used the momentum to tip her attacker’s body over her shoulder. With her assailant on the ground, she stamped hard on the wrist holding the torch, and it went flying. She grabbed it and shone the light directly onto her attacker.

‘Where the hell did you learn to do that?’ yelled Daphne.

Mirabelle’s heart was hammering and she felt nauseous. It was difficult to overcome an assailant from behind.

‘Never mind. You gave me an awful fright. Why on earth did you grab me like that?’

‘I wasn’t sure who it was. It’s pitch black in here. And, in any case, you’re the intruder. You broke in.’

Daphne got to her feet and passed Mirabelle a flask of water. It was the sort of canvas container used by hill-walkers. Mirabelle took a sip and looked around. They weren’t in a cupboard; they were in a corridor. Mirabelle wondered if there was something in her stars about hidden cavities and confined spaces – wine cellars, police cells and secret passages.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ Daphne smiled weakly. ‘I have brothers. Three of them. It’s probably just a bruise.’ She rubbed her wrist.

Mirabelle looked around.

‘Servants’ quarters,’ the girl said. ‘I moved everything out of the main Pavilion to make it look like I’d gone for good. But like an idiot I left the front door open. I was in a rush. The police didn’t find my things though, did they? No one ever
thinks of this part of the palace. The grooms used it to sneak women up to the bedrooms.’

Mirabelle had a fleeting image of the side gate of Buckingham Palace with its discreet guard station and proximity to the anonymous streets of Pimlico. That sort of thing doubtless still went on. Then she pulled her attention back to the situation in hand.

‘I should have garaged the car, shouldn’t I?’ Daphne was thinking things through.

‘Do they know what you drive? Might they guess you’re here?’

‘Well, you did.’

‘Yes, but I knew you were here to start with. I mean, I knew you were living here, and, if you don’t mind me saying, I knew you had nowhere else to go.’

Daphne took back the water flask. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I might have stayed with friends.’

‘Most of your friends would probably have a mason in the house. A father, a brother or an uncle. A butler or a footman, perhaps. That would be risky, wouldn’t it? You were right. This is far safer. Where did you get that old car, anyway? It looks fifty years old if it’s a day.’

The girl pursed her lips. ‘It belongs to my aunt,’ she said. ‘She was the first woman in her county to get a licence but she can’t drive it any more. She gave it to me earlier this year. It’s my getaway vehicle.’

‘Good. That’s positive thinking. You’re expecting to get away.’

Daphne pulled a packet of Camels from her pocket and lit a cigarette without offering one to Mirabelle. ‘Of course I’m going to get away. Off into the sunset. The sunset in the south of France, I expect. At least for a while. What I want to know is what on earth you’re doing here.’

‘I came to help.’

‘Oh no, you don’t. You think you’re going to get in on the action, do you? You think you can just waltz in here . . .’

‘No. Nothing like that. Though I admit I’m curious about what you’ve uncovered that has them so excited.’

Daphne took a deep draw of her cigarette. The girl’s eyes shone in the light from the glowing tip. The smoke hung in the dank air for a few seconds before she spoke. ‘I don’t know what it is that makes you think I’ll treat you like my long-lost mother and spill my guts. Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘You know who I am. And there are a lot of reasons you should trust me.’ Mirabelle kept her tone even. Daphne was getting angry and it was best not to inflame the situation. ‘The main thing that should concern you is that I know more about what’s going on than you do by some margin.’

‘Ha!’ Daphne’s voice was scornful. ‘I doubt that.’

‘For a start,’ Mirabelle continued, ‘after you left your father’s rooms last night he met with two men, one of whom said that if you knew who you were dealing with and what you had, you’d ask for more money. Also, there appears to be more than one secret society – or at least more than one lodge. The men your father is dealing with appear to be very senior.’

‘You were at Downing? Yesterday?’

Mirabelle nodded. ‘I didn’t know you were going to be there, to be honest. But you’d gone missing and I was concerned. I tracked down your father.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Lucky I did, as it turns out. Your father, by the way, is one of the least caring parents I think I’ve ever come across.’

‘Did you eavesdrop on my meeting with Daddy? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes,’ Mirabelle admitted.

‘A real little snoop, aren’t you?’

‘I expect snoop is a word mostly used by people who don’t get important information from people who are engaged in
snooping. People who recognise its importance call it intelligence gathering.’

The girl laughed. Then she stopped. ‘Tell me, by any chance, were these men Scottish?’

Mirabelle nodded.

‘Hmmm.’ Daphne leaned against the wall. ‘Well, that’s a turn-up for the books.’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t matter. The masons are habitually pragmatic – wherever they come from. I just hadn’t reckoned on Dad having such good contacts. Oh well. Money, in the long run, is probably cheaper than most of the alternatives available to them. I knew they’d pay up one way or another.’