England Expects (4 page)

‘I always assumed it was a church building,’ said Mirabelle.

Vesta eyed the door suspiciously. ‘You said they wear something like a uniform?’

‘I think it’s only an apron. And they have badges of office. I saw a suitcase packed with bits and pieces once when I used to work in London – little plaques and tassels. One of the senior fellows had it in his office. But I expect it’s a different drill in different places. If you want to keep things secret you need to let each group have its own way, you see. That’s how guerrilla organisations work. In isolated cells.’

‘Aprons! Bill’s right. Seems silly to me,’ Vesta snorted.

There were no lights on in the building. Mirabelle rang the bell and waited. The tinny sound echoed inside. Nothing. Then she knocked. Vesta looked at her high-heeled shoes with concern, clearly expecting Mirabelle to encourage her, in due course, to break in. It had happened before. The lodge was not an easy target. It looked solid and impregnable. The girl squinted into the bright sunshine and fanned herself more quickly. She was visibly relieved when the door opened and a stocky, elderly man dressed in a brown caretaker’s coat peered into the sunshine.

‘Yes, ladies?’

‘Is this the freemasons’ lodge?’

‘We don’t allow women . . .’

Mirabelle held up her hand. ‘We have come about Joey Gillingham.’

The caretaker looked blank.

‘He’s the journalist who was killed yesterday,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘Is there anybody who might be able to speak to us about him?’

The man’s hair was so white it seemed to glow. He fingered the collar of his brown coat. ‘Are you from the
Express
or the
Argus
or something?’

‘Debt recovery,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘McGuigan & McGuigan, Brills Lane.’

The man stood straighter. ‘No one here will help you with that,’ he said. ‘The fella was murdered, weren’t he? He’ll hardly be cold yet. It doesn’t seem fitting.’

‘Still,’ Mirabelle pushed him, ‘I’d very much like to speak to somebody.’

The caretaker paused. He looked Vesta up and down. ‘Debt recovery,’ he mumbled. ‘Wait here.’

The door closed.

‘Well, he’s not coming back.’ Vesta grinned.

‘He will. They’re men of their word, the masons. Their first priority is loyalty to the lodge, over everything else, but they take honesty very seriously.’

‘And what are you going to ask if we get inside?’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get a feel for things.’ Mirabelle propped her sunglasses onto the top of her head. ‘I always do.’

Chapter 5

The little grey cells, it’s up to them
.

F
ive minutes later the door clicked open again.

‘You’re lucky,’ the caretaker said, standing back to let the women enter. ‘He’ll see you.’

Inside, the building was cool. There was a pervading smell of dusty books. The hallway was paved with black-and-white tiles. An ornate cornice skirted the ceiling and there were plaster reliefs on the walls that depicted a field ready for harvest and figures in Egyptian dress. Inside, the building seemed on too small a scale to house such finery.

The caretaker pointed towards a closed door – the first on the right. ‘In there,’ he directed and retreated into the darkness.

Mirabelle knocked and entered. The room was large and it was unoccupied. The walls were painted yellow and hung with three enormous oil landscapes and a portrait of Sir Isaac Newton. Vast navy-blue curtains framed the long windows. Two crystal chandeliers dropped from ceiling roses, their vague shadows cast over the full height of the back wall. The room must face due east, Mirabelle thought. The morning sunlight streamed in on a set of comfortable sofas and generously proportioned armchairs that looked as if they had been in place for years. Dust motes whirled in the sunbeams. On a table there was a jug of water and some glasses.

‘Do you think they’d mind?’ Vesta asked, and without waiting for Mirabelle’s reply she poured a glass and gulped down the water. ‘Would you like some?’

Mirabelle shook her head.

Vesta perched on the edge of one of the sofas. She could feel the warm chintz along the back of her calves. ‘It’s very nice. It doesn’t feel secretive or sinister at all. I can’t see anything dangerous happening round here. Do you reckon Bill’s just jealous? Perhaps this crowd never asked him to join – maybe that’s his real problem.’

Before Mirabelle could fully consider this idea, the door opened on a balding man in his sixties. He was a rotund fellow, wearing a navy suit and a tie that sported an embossed military insignia that Mirabelle recognised as that of the IX Corps. Thin red veins were visible on his cheeks and he was limping heavily. He raised a hand, half in greeting, half to encourage the women to have patience.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘we don’t often have lady visitors. I’m John Henshaw, the chap in charge today. Don’t mind this.’ He indicated his leg as he settled himself in an armchair. ‘Gallipoli. Got promoted to captain for it before they pensioned me off. Takes me a little longer to move around.’

Mirabelle joined Vesta on the sofa. ‘The Dardanelles campaign,’ she said. ‘An honest foe. You must have been quite young, Captain Henshaw.’

This made the fellow grin and lean forward conspiratorially. ‘Quite. I was straight out of school. Keen as mustard. By now I’ve had one leg for longer than I ever had two. I try to walk normally but sometimes I require a wheelchair. My wife says I
am
the resistance in that regard but I prefer to be on legs than wheels, and that’s that. Thank you for waiting. Well now,’ he regarded the women carefully before continuing, ‘seeing we’re playing a guessing game, if I didn’t know better, from the look of you two ladies, I’d hazard that you were soliciting for charity. We hand out a good deal over the year – we like good causes here at the lodge. I’m informed, however, that you’re debt collectors.’

‘Yes. McGuigan & McGuigan.’

‘Well, I never. And what can I do for you?’

‘Joey Gillingham. The incident in Oxford Street yesterday. The fellow who was murdered. As I understand it, he was a freemason.’

‘And the poor chap owed a client of yours money, Miss? Is that it?’

Mirabelle let the unanswered question settle into being a fact. Vesta looked away. She didn’t like it when Mirabelle stretched the truth.

‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan, and this is Vesta Churchill, my partner in the firm,’ Mirabelle continued.

Captain Henshaw rubbed his chin. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give out details about our membership but what I can say is that Mr Gillingham was not personally known to me and I’ve been a member here for some years. How about that?’

‘So he wasn’t in Brighton on masonic business when he died?’

Captain Henshaw sat back. ‘I couldn’t possibly say what the chap was up to. How would I know?’

Mirabelle wondered what Captain Henshaw might do if she pushed him. She decided to try. ‘As you can imagine, in our profession we have close connections with the police force, many of whom, as I understand it, have close connections here.’

‘That’s hardly a secret.’ An edge crept into Henshaw’s voice though he was still smiling. ‘What specifically is it you want, Miss Bevan?’

‘Mr Gillingham, or, at least, his body, appears to have meant something to the officers who first arrived at the scene of his murder. They removed his corpse without waiting for the senior officer to examine it. That concerned me.’

‘Some members of this lodge are police officers, Miss Bevan. But it does not follow that everyone here has intimate
knowledge of police affairs in Brighton. I myself, for example, was an accountant before I retired. There are always dark stories of conspiracy about the freemasons but we’re a simple bunch. Perhaps you ought to ask the policemen who attended the scene of the murder, if they were familiar with Mr Gillingham. I only read about the affair in the evening paper. I’d say I know a good deal less than you do.’

‘But if it’s a matter that pertains to the lodge, they won’t tell me any more than you will. That, as I understand it, is one of the first rules of freemasonry.’

Captain Henshaw ignored this comment. ‘Tell me, to whom did the chap owe money?’

Mirabelle played with her sunglasses. ‘Captain Henshaw, if you think freemasons have a stringent code of secrecy, it has nothing on the code of honour between a debt collector and her clients.’

A shadow of a smile played on Vesta’s face. Mirabelle really was something.

Captain Henshaw sucked his bottom lip and contemplated his next move. There was a flash of steely anger in his gaze – but only a flash. He took a deep breath. ‘Well, that being the case, it seems to me you require Mr Gillingham’s solicitor to register his debt for probate,’ he parried. ‘The poor chap came from London, I understand, so perhaps you should direct your enquiries there. As far as I’m aware he was not legally represented in Brighton. I’m sorry – there’s nothing more I can do. It might have been better if you had been collecting for charity. I should have liked to have been able to help.’

Captain Henshaw hauled his leg into position and eased himself up in order to bring the meeting to a close. He grimaced as if this caused him some discomfort. Vesta wondered if it was painful, but then how could the leg be painful if it wasn’t there?

‘Takes a minute to get my balance,’ he said.

She was about to form a question, to ask about his injury in a roundabout way, when there was a thump from beyond the room – as if something heavy had fallen elsewhere in the building.

‘What on earth was that?’ Henshaw was becoming annoyed. First these women arrived asking questions and now there appeared to be a disturbance. ‘I don’t know what’s happening today. Giles! Giles!’

‘Giles would be?’ Mirabelle enquired.

‘The caretaker,’ Henshaw snapped as he struggled to keep his leg from buckling.

‘I’ll go and look for him if you like,’ Vesta offered.

‘No, you can’t,’ Henshaw objected. ‘Visitors are only allowed in the hallway and in this room . . .’

Here he was interrupted by another thump, this time followed by a much louder crash. It was clear that the noise was coming from the room next door.

Mirabelle held out her arm. ‘Let me help. We’d better go and take a look.’

Captain Henshaw reluctantly put his hand on Mirabelle’s sleeve and found his balance. They made their way into the hallway while Vesta went ahead to open the door of the adjoining room, but before she could turn the handle Captain Henshaw withdrew his hand from Mirabelle’s arm and motioned for the women to stay at a distance.

‘I’m all right,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

Mirabelle and Vesta remained behind him as he turned the handle.

At first none of them noticed anything odd – or at least nothing that might have caused the noise. The room was in shade, but they could discern ceremonial chairs laid in rows around a central square. The walls were decorated with murals – the night sky in one corner and the sun in the other with a wheatfield just like the one in the hallway. The windows were
small and set high on the wall. The modern chandelier edged with brass lilies was not lit and neither were the large candles on Corinthian columns that skirted the main meeting area. Everything seemed in order, almost church-like, Mirabelle thought. Then a low moan grabbed her attention. The noise had a ghostly quality because it was diffcult to tell where it came from. Vesta felt the skin on her arms prickle.

‘Stay there. I’ll see to this,’ Captain Henshaw barked as he limped inside and closed the door abruptly on the women.

Mirabelle let out a frustrated sigh. She peered towards the rear of the hallway, wondering if the caretaker might appear. The silence settled.

‘This is a very odd place,’ whispered Vesta. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I think Bill might be right. Perhaps we should leave.’

Mirabelle regarded the girl as if she was a madwoman and was about to give Vesta her views about quitting the building just as something appeared to be happening, when another noise could be heard from behind the closed door. It was a high-pitched wail – an animal sound – and was followed by scraping as if Captain Henshaw was moving chairs across the wooden floorboards. Mirabelle’s eyes flashed.

‘I don’t think you should . . .’ begged Vesta, but Mirabelle already had her hand on the door handle.

Inside, Captain Henshaw was in the far corner. He hadn’t realised the door had opened because his attention was fully employed in trying to lower himself towards the floor. This was a diffcult operation, and Mirabelle realised the noise they had heard was the sound of his artificial leg scraping against the floorboards as he attempted to bend down. The fellow would probably be better in a wheelchair, she decided. His wife was right.

Then, from the corner, there was another wail, which this time could be identified as a woman calling out, ‘Please. No. Please.’

Mirabelle didn’t hesitate. She stepped inside and, at last, with a clear sightline she made out a body on the floor.

Captain Henshaw looked up. ‘She’s done for, poor old girl,’ he said sadly. ‘I’ll see to it,’ he insisted, waving Mirabelle off. ‘You aren’t allowed in here.’

Mirabelle ignored him. She dodged between the chairs. The body was writhing in small involuntary movements. As she got closer she could see it was an older lady, who was overweight. Her hair was dyed an extraordinary shade of auburn, which, Mirabelle could not help noting, was far too young a colour for a woman of her age. She was wearing a green tabard and white flannel gloves. Her body twitched as if undergoing an electric shock. Her eyes flickered open and shut. Then her hand flopped to one side like a dying fish on a dry deck.

‘Get out. There’s nothing to be done,’ shouted Captain Henshaw. ‘You can’t just barge in. Give her some dignity, won’t you?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mirabelle firmly. ‘This woman needs proper medical attention. The poor thing’s having some kind of fit. Look, there’s foam on her lips.’ She crouched to take her pulse. ‘Vesta, call an ambulance,’ she shouted towards the door, where the girl hovered uncertainly. ‘There’s a telephone on the table in the hallway.’

‘What is it?’ Vesta gasped. ‘What shall I say?’

‘There’s a woman here and she’s dying.’ Mirabelle glared at Captain Henshaw. He’d wasted valuable time by not calling for help straight away. ‘Hurry, Vesta,’ she urged. ‘Dial 999.’