England Expects (7 page)

Chapter 9

Charity begins at home. It shouldn’t end there
.

H
aving knocked on the front door and elicited no reply, Mirabelle and Vesta took a turn around the Pavilion’s gardens. Amid the tall grass and copious weeds, the roses were in bloom and a trail of vibrant laburnum dripped over the overgrown flowerbeds. At the edges, patches of mallow sent a peppery trail through the hot air. Closed for years, the Pavilion had been carefully secured. The doors were bolted, and most had been padlocked for good measure. All the windows were boarded up. Even with her standard issue lock picks, Mirabelle couldn’t find an easy chink in the building’s armour beyond the garden gate.

Vesta stopped to fiddle with her shoe. ‘These heels were not designed for long grass,’ she said. ‘You’re not going to find an easy way in, Mirabelle. You can’t go housebreaking in broad daylight. It’s a palace.’ The girl waved towards Old Steine, only a few yards away over the Pavilion’s perimeter fence.

‘Ha!’ said Mirabelle triumphantly, pointing at the side of the building. ‘There’s someone living in it.’

‘What do you mean? There can’t be. Look at the place.’

Vesta’s curiosity saw her risk her heels once more as she joined Mirabelle back in the long grass. Almost hidden from view by an enormous clump of red ivy was a television aerial sticking up like a prong from a makeshift fissure in a boarded ground-floor window.

‘Crikey,’ said Vesta.

‘It can’t have been there long, can it?’

‘Well, they’re not answering the door. Who do you think’s inside? Queen Victoria’s lost grandson?’

Mirabelle did not grace this quip with a response; instead she extracted herself from the undergrowth and led Vesta back round the exterior of the building. They were almost at the front door when a man in a blue uniform unlocked the gate at the end of the path.

‘Oi, you two,’ he said as it swung open. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Mirabelle turned and squared up to him. ‘Do you work in the Pavilion?’ she said.

Answering a question with a question usually worked. The man adjusted his cap and altered his tone slightly as if he had only just realised he was speaking to a lady. ‘Of course I work here. Parks and Recreation. I check the gardens. The public aren’t allowed in, Miss.’

‘I need to speak to someone who is responsible for this building.’ Mirabelle stood firm, with Vesta behind her.

‘What about?’ The man fingered the whistle that hung from his top pocket on a short chain. It was only Mirabelle’s demeanour that stopped him blowing it.

‘It’s about the woman who cleans the place.’

The man’s moustache twitched. He leaned to one side, looking around her. ‘There ain’t no job for you here, love,’ he said, enunciating the words with slow clarity in Vesta’s direction. ‘One of the council cleaners has done this old place for years. Nice old bird.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, who works in the building? Who is responsible for it?’ Mirabelle persisted.

‘The council owns it, Miss. Then there’s the restorer.’ From his tone of voice it was clear that the man did not rate restoration work highly. ‘The restorer’s the only one who works here full-time. Making a list of the repairs the old place needs.
Course, they’ll never be able to pay for it. I reckon they’ll end up tearing the whole thing down and building something useful. People could do with something useful, not this white elephant. Amenities, like.’

Mirabelle eyed the overgrown vegetation. ‘Well, you’re not helping. This garden is neglected. Shouldn’t you at least cut it back?’

‘Summer, innit?’ he said defensively. ‘We send in a team once the leaves is finished. They do it all at once. This isn’t a functioning public park. It’s a plot, is all. I’m here to check it for safety. Once a week.’

‘And is there anyone else?’ Mirabelle enquired.

‘From Parks?’

‘From anywhere. What about this restorer?’

The man walked to the front door and fumbled with the chain in his pocket. He drew the whistle to his lips and blew it several times in succession. ‘Takes a moment, dunnit? It’s a big house and there ain’t no doorbell. They built the walls thick in them days. They probably had some poor blighter sitting at the door all day in case of callers. S’only way to do it. No one would even hear the whistle on the upper floors, never mind a bell.’ He took a deep breath and blew again.

‘The gardens are very pretty,’ said Vesta. ‘The flowers are gorgeous. It just needs a little looking after, doesn’t it?’

The man apparently found it impossible to address himself to Vesta in the matter of anything other than a cleaning job, so he ignored her comment and kept his eyes on Mirabelle. ‘Wouldn’t you be better making an appointment through the council? They won’t let you in, but I’m sure you’d find someone who could help you at City Hall.’

Then, suddenly, behind him there was the sound of the door unbolting from inside the Pavilion and the man stepped aside. There, stood a slim woman in her early twenties wearing linen trousers, a brown shirt and round spectacles perched
on her nose. There were smudges of dust on her cheek and she had tied a pretty green scarf around her auburn hair, some of which escaped at the sides.

‘What is it?’ she said, her voice like cut glass as she eyed the park keeper. ‘Problems with the willow tree again?’

‘It’s this lady. She wants to talk to you.’

Mirabelle stepped forward and held out her hand. ‘How do you do? I’m Mirabelle Bevan.’

The woman paused as if considering whether to indulge herself in a handshake. ‘Daphne Marsden,’ she finally announced, as if saying her name constituted a weighty decision. ‘Excuse my appearance.’ She ran a palm across her thigh and limply shook Mirabelle’s fingers. ‘Trousers are so much easier when one is up a ladder.’

Her smile revealed a gap between her front teeth. The girl’s skin was as white as alabaster, and underneath her eccentric attire you could just pick out the makings of a classic beauty. Mirabelle removed her sunglasses. In an American military handbook she’d read some years ago it stated that people were likely to be more helpful if they could see your eyes when you talked to them.

‘This is Vesta Churchill,’ she gestured, ‘and I’m afraid we’ve arrived with bad news. Might we come in?’

Daphne moved forward, blocking the doorway. ‘Where are you from?’

‘It’s a private agency,’ Mirabelle parried. ‘This isn’t an official visit. We have some news for you, Miss Marsden. That’s all.’

Daphne stood her ground. ‘It’s not entirely presentable inside, I’m afraid. It’s not presentable at all. People expect a royal palace, but the place is riddled with damp and we’ve had problems with the roof. There’s fallen masonry in the Music Room. The Royal Pavilion isn’t open to the public, Miss Bevan. It’s dangerous, you see.’

Mirabelle stared pointedly at the man from Parks and Recreation. ‘I think it would be better if we spoke to you in private.’

The keeper got the message and indicated to Miss Marsden that he’d be round the back if she needed him as he walked off smartly.

‘When he said a restorer, I expected a man,’ said Mirabelle and smiled. ‘That’s terrible of me, isn’t it? Good for you, I say.’

Daphne brought out a packet of Camels from her trouser pocket and offered them to her visitors. Both said no, thanks. The girl flicked the bottom of the packet so that a cigarette popped up. She placed it between her lips and lit it. She seemed more relaxed now that the park keeper had left.

‘I don’t think a man would take this job.’ She exhaled. ‘There’s no money in it, so they’re stuck with me. Not many people think this kind of building is important, but I do. It’s a hopeless case, of course, but it’s still our history. Heritage isn’t all about saving the countryside. I mean, that’s what everyone goes on about – saving England’s past and preserving the country – but these town buildings are just as important as watermills and ancient stone circles. And they’re falling apart. If we don’t save this one, they’ll tear it down and build a bus station, you’ll see. That’s what that chap wants. Him and his like. Anyway, I’m doing my best to prop up the old place, but it’s a bit of an uphill struggle.’

‘Are you from the National Trust or Historic Monuments?’ Mirabelle enquired.

Daphne smiled. ‘The Trust. Fighting the octopus,’ she declared. ‘Historic Monuments don’t really
do
women.’

Vesta frowned. ‘What octopus?’

‘The octopus. Haven’t you seen it in the papers?’

Vesta shook her head.

Mirabelle prompted the girl. ‘The octopus of development. Its tentacles spreading over England . . .’

When the daily newspaper arrived, Vesta always leafed through it, but she clearly wasn’t taking in a thing. Now Mirabelle came to think of it, Vesta spent a good deal more time on the
Picture Post
than
The Times
or the
Argus
.

Daphne folded her arms. ‘So, what’s this news, then?’

‘It’s your cleaning lady,’ said Vesta quietly. ‘I’m afraid it’s most unfortunate. She’s dead, Miss Marsden. She died this morning.’

Daphne put her hand to her mouth. ‘But Mrs Chapman was here only yesterday. The old girl seemed in such good spirits. She’d had a bash at the Dining Room. We’re trying to stop the carpet going mouldy. What on earth happened?’

‘That’s the thing.’ Mirabelle decided to take over. Vesta had been a little blunt, but the girl seemed able to take it. ‘It looks very much as if Mrs Chapman was poisoned. That is to say, murdered.’

Miss Marsden seemed to take this information in her stride. She flicked the ash of her cigarette so that it sprang into the overgrown box hedge beyond the doorway.

‘Poisoned? Don’t be ridiculous. Who on earth would want to do that?’

‘That’s something I was hoping you might help us find out. Do you mind if I ask if you have any connection with the freemasons?’

Daphne smiled at the suggestion. ‘Mrs Chapman certainly did. She cleaned the lodge on Queen’s Road. There are only funds to have someone two days a week here, you see. The council makes a small allowance and whatnot. I don’t know why you’re asking me about the freemasons. I doubt they’ve had a fit of equality. They don’t admit women.’

‘No,’ said Mirabelle. ‘It’s only because that’s where Mrs Chapman died – at the lodge. The police are there now.’

Daphne glanced involuntarily behind her. It was a fleeting gesture, but Mirabelle thought it was telling.

‘The police?’ Daphne checked.

‘Yes. Of course. I mean, when there’s a murder, the police are always involved.’

‘But that’s absurd.’ Daphne’s eyes were hard. ‘I mean, she was quite elderly. Probably her heart just gave out or something. You must be mistaken.’

Mirabelle and Vesta just stared.

The girl stepped back inside the door as if she was retreating. ‘The police, indeed. They’ll be at home up there at the lodge, anyway.’

‘You seem well informed,’ Mirabelle pushed.

‘George IV was a mason. A Grand Master, in fact. Brighton’s always been knee-deep in that kind of thing. Policemen, magistrates. Historically speaking,
gentlemen
.’ The girl was babbling. ‘Anyway, thank you for letting me know. I’ll write a note to the council to inform them Mrs Chapman won’t be back. Poor woman. They’ll have to find a replacement, won’t they? And there’ll be a funeral, I expect. I shall telephone and find out.’

Daphne retreated another step as Mirabelle’s mind flicked through the available information. Miss Marsden was behaving quite strangely, but she didn’t want to jump to conclusions. The girl might not be paid much but she was wearing a well-tailored silk blouse. The television aerial hidden at the rear of the building meant she was here at night. She didn’t like the idea of the police poking around and wasn’t entirely comfortable at the idea of the local council becoming involved.

Mirabelle spoke as the idea fell into place in her mind. ‘They don’t know you’re living here, do they? The council thinks you’re coming in and propping up the old place, but you’re living here and you don’t want them to find out. Not him,’ she pointed in the direction the keeper had taken, ‘not the council, and certainly not the police.’

Daphne bit her lip. ‘I don’t know what you mean. And it’s actually none of your business. You’ve no right to come here and snoop.’ She made to close the front door.

Mirabelle inserted a perfectly timed foot. ‘No one has a television set at work, Miss Marsden. It’s quite a luxury for a girl with not much money. It means you’re here in the evenings and it means you have resources – perhaps not your own – but enough to provide an item like that and yet somehow not cover your rent.’

‘Blow it.’ Daphne paused to consider the situation for a second before she made the decision to come clean. ‘Is it that obvious?’ She sighed. ‘Oh, all right. My uncle bought the television. He thinks I rent a place down here and he sent it from Harrods so I could watch the Coronation. My family are quite well off, you see. He sent me this silk square, too – just this season’s colour. He doesn’t have anyone else to shop for.’ She touched the edge of the green scarf. ‘It’s kind of him. Really, I ought to try to find a proper job but I want to do this. It’s important, but it doesn’t pay. Not more than peanuts, anyway. They really won’t find anyone else to do it, you see. Not easily. Are you going to tell on me?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No. Someone should be trying to save the old place.’ It was a shame. At least a few people still cared about what happened – about history and what was right. The girl was well educated, but so many families these days couldn’t afford to keep up their daughters’ allowances. Unmarried girls who would never have considered taking a job in the days before the war were earning their keep if they wanted to leave home or, in Daphne’s case, earning pocket money and making do.

Mirabelle hadn’t had to take on McGuigan & McGuigan. She’d had an inheritance that afforded an allowance and the flat Jack had bought was in her name. But if she only kept house, she knew that her spirits would fester in no time now
he was gone. She had that in common with Vesta, though for different reasons. Perhaps she had it in common with Miss Marsden, too. They all needed something to keep them occupied – something worthwhile.