England Expects (8 page)

‘What is it that you actually want?’ Daphne asked. She sounded angry but then Mirabelle couldn’t blame her.

‘We want help,’ said Mirabelle simply. ‘Vesta and I are curious about what happened. We’d like you to tell us everything you know about Mrs Chapman.’

‘I don’t really
know
the woman,’ Daphne insisted. ‘I only see her twice a week and direct her attention to where I think she might best be able to help.’

‘You knew her better than we do,’ Vesta cut in.

‘Please.’ Mirabelle held Daphne’s gaze.

Daphne considered for a moment. The women hadn’t threatened her directly but they had her over a barrel. ‘All right. You’d better come in,’ she conceded. ‘Just as far as the long hallway. That’s relatively safe. You need to be careful. There aren’t any lights.’

Chapter 10

Friendship is a slow ripening fruit
.

B
ill and Charlie left the office with Panther at their heels. Charlie turned towards Bartholomew Square, choosing the shady side of the street, but Bill jerked his head in the other direction and into the sunshine.

‘Wellington Road nick. We’re much more likely to turn up something there,’ he said, and they set off down East Street and along the front.

The Promenade was packed. The good weather had attracted a crowd of midweek visitors from London. For weeks England had been engulfed in grey cold drizzle, so when the sun finally came out, everyone wanted to make the most of it. Ponytailed girls sashayed past groups of boys in short-sleeved shirts and flannels, perched, captivated, on the railings. Around the pier the tantalising aroma of fresh baking rose on the hot air. At the shore, a pair of toddlers paddled in the water while their mothers stood patiently, brandishing thin towels in shades of overwashed grey. The deckchair attendants were doing great business, dispensing chairs and change to those who didn’t want to sit on the scalding pebbles. Older couples watched the sea, dozed in the sun or read the paper. On the Promenade, two fresh-faced girls took photographs of young couples posed with the pier behind them, to be printed and picked up later.

‘Gillingham’s sister seems to care more about the money than she does about her brother,’ Charlie mused.

‘Death affects people in different ways, mind you,’ said Bill. ‘You never can tell what it’ll throw up. You think people will do one thing and usually they do another. Something like that isn’t always suspicious. It’s just the way it takes them. In fairness to the girl, it sounded to me as if things swung both ways in her house and Gillingham cared more about the money than he did about her. Families, eh? My guess is that he battered the poor kid. You know, when he lost on the gee-gees.’

Charlie sucked his teeth in disapproval. ‘Yeah, I thought that, too. You gotta treat the ladies right.’ His mother, a formidable sparrow of a woman from Delaware, had imprinted this mantra on her son’s consciousness along with the absolute necessity of eating good food, by which she meant copious quantities of cornbread and fried chicken.

‘Yeah,’ Bill grinned, eying Charlie up and down. ‘You gotta treat the ladies right. Your lady, in particular, son.’

‘Hey,’ Charlie put up his hands as if surrendering, ‘I want to marry Vesta. I asked her over and over. She ain’t having none of it. I almost went up to London to see her father and ask his advice but I don’t want to drop her in it. I don’t know what to do, man. It’s a sin – this living together. I know it’s wrong. I just can’t figure her out. She won’t say what’s on her mind. I thought all women wanted to get hitched, like they was keen on it, but not Vesta. I guess they broke the mould after they made her.’

‘If it’s a sin and it bothers you, you should move out.’ Bill kept his eyes on the street ahead. ‘No one’s making you stay against your conscience.’

‘I can’t do that.’ Charlie sounded genuinely shocked. ‘After I’ve taken advantage of her? That would be worse than anything. Besides, I love her, man, and that’s that. I just got to find a way to get her to see sense, that’s all.’

‘Have you bought a ring? A proper ring. A diamond?’

Charlie delved into his pocket and brought out a small black velvet box which he flipped open with his thumb. Inside there
were three diamonds perched on a plain gold setting. ‘I bought it from an antiques shop in the Lanes. I carry it with me all the time, just in case. I keep thinking she’ll weaken.’

‘You bought it from that fat bastard with the gold chains hanging in his window?’

‘Sure. That guy’s got connections with the London auction houses. I asked around. He goes up twice a week just to buy stuff. I took my time choosing this ring. It came from some swanky family who was clearing out. I saved up for it. And now I’d like to see it on Vesta’s finger, but I tried everything, man. Everything. I sang to her. I
sang
. She wouldn’t have none of it.’

Bill cast a sympathetic glance at the lovesick chef. ‘Are her parents married?’

Charlie nodded. ‘Yeah. I don’t know anyone more respectable. I doubt the Churchills have a dark secret. I don’t think there’s anything she can’t bear to come out. Though there’s something on her mind, Bill, that’s for sure, and I can’t figure out what to do to make it right.’

The men fell into companionable silence as they approached Wellington Road. Bill bypassed the front entrance of the police station and headed to the rear of the building. He rapped on the back door.

A gimlet-eyed sergeant peered through the spyhole and let them in. ‘Blimey. Ain’t seen you in a while, mate,’ he greeted Bill warmly.

‘This is Charlie Lewis, Jim.’ Bill indicated his friend. ‘Charlie, meet Jim Belton. He’s in charge of this nick. Isn’t that right, Jim?’

Sergeant Belton stood back to let the men enter. ‘I’ll get the kettle on.’

Charlie regarded the policeman. There was something absurdly tidy about him. The buttons on his uniform gleamed. His shoes gleamed. Even his face gleamed. Charlie wondered
how Bill had ever fitted in. Bill’s hair stayed in place, but the rest of him looked like he’d fallen into a whirlwind. He always had an untied shoelace or a missing button or a tie that had twisted.

Bill smiled at his friend. ‘Nah. Charlie and I just had a cuppa back at the office. Helluva day for it.’ He pulled out a white handkerchief and mopped his forehead. ‘Tell you what though, Panther could do with a saucer of water.’

‘Always looking out for the dogs, eh? Good for you, Bill.’ The sergeant went to the sink and filled a small bowl with water. As he put it on the ground, Panther fell on it, slurping furiously.

Bill laughed. ‘Thirsty, eh? Listen, Jim, I wanted to ask a couple of questions about that hack that got done in. Were you on duty? Did you see his body come in?’

‘Yeah. I was on duty, at least. They took him over to the mortuary, though it was the boys from Bartholomew Square that handled it.’

‘But you’re closer here.’

‘It’s just how it got called in.’ Belton shrugged. ‘You know what the boundaries are like. There’s always arguments. The super calls it our very own turf war.’

Bill put his hands in his pockets. ‘So it was the boys from Bartholomew Square that itemised the bloke’s possessions, then?’

‘I suppose. Yeah. What’s this about? Did he owe someone money?’

‘Kind of. The thing is, they’re saying that the bloke’s notebook’s gone missing. His sister’s in a right old tizzy. The fella had all sorts inside including a few winning betting slips. Seems he was a demon for the horses. A sports hack – it ain’t surprising. And the lady, that’s to say, the sister’s sentimental, like, about the slips that ain’t been cashed in.’

‘I can’t see the boys over at Bartholomew Square . . .’

‘Can’t you?’ Bill interrupted. ‘Not a bent copper on the whole force? Not one of them tempted by slips that’ve got to be worth fifty, sixty quid, maybe more, and some solid betting tips besides?’

‘You want me to check?’ Belton sighed. ‘I can ask around. Winning betting slips, eh? Off a dead man. Whoever’d do that would have to be a right chancer. The bookie’d know, wouldn’t he?’

‘Well, he’d probably take a cut then. The slips are missing, so someone took them. You’re thick as thieves with Simmons, aintcha? He’s in charge of the desk over there, and if anything got nicked on his watch he’ll know. Discreet, like, Jim. Be careful.’

Belton nodded. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘Mum’s the word. Hey,’ he addressed Charlie, ‘ain’t I seen you playing drums down the Lanes? On a Thursday?’

Charlie grinned. ‘Sure. Every week. Tonight and Thursday.’

‘Great stuff,’ enthused Belton. ‘Best night of my week, a Thursday. The wife’s sisters come round and I get out sharpish. I’m glad to meet you, mate. I love a spot of jazz. You working for those women, too, then? It’s turning into a hive of industry at McGuigan & McGuigan. Looks like the debt collection business is booming.’

‘Nah,’ Charlie said shyly, ‘I’m just a friend.’

‘Don’t go knocking it, Belton,’ said Bill. He knew his old colleagues thought it was hilarious that he was working for a company where there were two women in charge. He got teased in the pub about it regularly. ‘Miss Bevan and Miss Churchill are smart as whips, and they’re fair with it.’

‘Bit of a change from the force though.’ Belton laughed.

‘Laugh all you like, mate.’ Bill folded his arms. ‘They got lady police officers all over these days.’

‘WPCs.’ Belton emphasised the letters. ‘And we ain’t got any. There’s two at Bartholomew Square. They deal with the missing children off the beach.’

‘Matter of time,’ Bill said sagely. ‘They’ll get promoted. Things are changing. There’ll be lady sergeants. Inspectors, even. Detectives. Mark my words. It’s coming your way.’

Belton grimaced. ‘Not on my watch, sunshine. The lads’d start a revolution.’

Bill smiled and shrugged as if to say that Belton’s approval was by the by.

Chapter 11

Don’t trust appearances
.

T
he air was cool inside the Royal Pavilion. It was hard to believe the sun was splitting the stones outside. Vesta shivered as she followed Mirabelle and Daphne Marsden up a short flight of stairs, through a lobby and into a long corridor with a grubby threadbare carpet. Mirabelle peered at the ceiling. It was made of coloured glass and absolutely filthy. The dust of decades of neglect peppered the skylights, and the watery, tinted light made the place seem even more shabby.

Lighting another cigarette, the girl led them up the hallway past vacant Chinese plant pots and gilded mirrors towards a pool of bright natural light at the foot of a staircase. The balustrade appeared to be constructed out of bamboo, but on close inspection Mirabelle realised that it was intricately carved wood. At the bottom of the steps there were two sofas upholstered in fraying blue silk.

‘The old place wasn’t built to survive without staff,’ Daphne explained. ‘Queen Victoria neglected it before she sold it to the council. She hated it here. Too many kids to make it workable, I expect, even as a holiday home. And the bedrooms are small for a royal residence.’

Vesta stared at a life-size burnished ebony statue of two black men wearing turbans that she could just make out in the shadows of a room that led off the hallway. It was as if they were waiting to give service, perpetually frozen. She shuddered and forced herself to look away. ‘Has it been left just as it was?’

Daphne shook her head. ‘It used to be properly habitable. And it used to be fully furnished. Queen Victoria retained the contents when she sold it but she gifted things back now and then. In the late nineteenth century they did some restoration work – not the kind of thing we do today but it propped the old place up for a while. Then it was used as a hospital. Occasionally I find things from the early days in the cupboards. There was a day dress that must have belonged to George IV’s daughter, Princess Charlotte. It was sewn with gold thread. I sent it to London – to a friend at the Victoria and Albert Museum. For safe keeping and whatnot.’

Mirabelle took in the state of the sofas. A copy of an illustrated magazine, a tattered
Complete Works of Alfred Lord Tennyson
and an overflowing gold ashtray that looked like it was the butter dish from a very fancy dinner service betrayed the fact that Daphne spent at least some of her day here. She tried to imagine what the place would be like at night with its long unlit corridors and looming artworks. ‘Don’t you get afraid on your own?’

‘Ghosts, you mean?’ Daphne snorted. ‘I don’t believe in that kind of thing. And as for intruders, well, the place is pretty secure. The only thing that makes me nervous is the falling masonry. Now that really could do some harm. I keep out of the way when there are high winds. Afterwards I sweep up whatever’s fallen and keep it. One day there’ll be money for a stonemason and we’ll have it all reinstated. The Music Room needs a lot of that kind of work.’

Mirabelle nodded. There was nothing to be afraid of here. The girl was quite right. Still, she was plucky. Mirabelle admitted to herself that she wouldn’t relish staying in the old palace alone with no light other than a candle. The place teetered on the cusp of grandeur and squalor. It was an uneasy accommodation.

‘I have storm lamps,’ Daphne conceded. ‘And there’s running water. The water closets work. It’s a lot better than you’d expect.’

‘Where do you sleep?’

‘There’s a camp bed,’ the girl said. ‘Look, do we have to go through all this? I thought you wanted to know about Mrs Chapman.’

Vesta perched on the edge of one of the sofas. ‘But how do you cook?’

Daphne let out an exasperated sigh and dropped onto the plump cushion at the other end of the sofa. This sent three small white feathers sailing onto the floor where they joined several more. The sofa had evidently not been moved and the cushion had not been repaired for some time. The girl stubbed out her cigarette in the butter dish.

‘George had extensive kitchens built when he commissioned the early renovations from Henry Holland in 1787. I keep my Primus there – I didn’t want the house to smell of tinned soup. The kitchens don’t function but they have adequate ventilation – you can open the skylights with a stick. I try to use the old place respectfully. I don’t eat in the dining room, if that’s what you’re about to ask. At the weekends I visit friends. The railway station is very convenient. You can get practically anywhere from Brighton these days.’

Mirabelle hovered at the bottom of the staircase. She wanted to have a look around. ‘Do you know where Mrs Chapman lived, Daphne?’

Daphne’s features betrayed relief at the spotlight being off her illicit activities. ‘Miles out. Patcham, I think.’

‘Do you know if she took in lodgers?’

‘I haven’t a clue. She never mentioned anyone. Honestly, I only saw her twice a week – Mondays and Thursdays. I’d let her in. When she first started, she dusted. Can you imagine? In all this disarray she got out a feather duster and some beeswax
and off she went. As if that would help. Anyway, I redirected her attention. Less dusting, more of the important stuff. Lately I’ve had her do some of the donkey work on the textiles. She’s saved a few early curtains. Not originals – George IV got rid of those – but there are a couple left from his first round of renovations. The place is rotting, you see, as well as falling apart. I had Mrs Chapman dry the fabric and treat the mould. The old girl was working on the carpets. She wasn’t bad. You have to have an eye for detail. A lot of restoration work isn’t difficult, it’s just slow and repetitive. Mrs Chapman wasn’t interested in the place’s history but she got caught up in the job. She wanted to see it done correctly. So textiles became her bag.’

‘Did Mrs Chapman know that you live here?’

Daphne eyed Mirabelle. ‘Come off it! You think I knocked her off because she caught me camping? What’s your interest in this, if you don’t mind me asking? You aren’t just some kind of ghastly busybody, are you?’

‘At the least.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘You’re the second person to call me a busybody today. Let’s just say I don’t like seeing people die unnecessarily. And you haven’t answered my question. Did she know what you were up to?’

Daphne shrugged. ‘I sleep in one of the Yellow Bow Rooms at the back of the building. The Duke of Clarence’s, if you must know. I keep my clothes there. Mrs Chapman has never been there, though. She brings a sandwich that she eats wherever she’s working. She’s never voiced any suspicions about my presence. Why should she? I didn’t chat to her much – she was only the cleaning lady. I issued instructions and kept an eye on her work, that’s all. She came in, did her seven hours and left. It’s not as if we were friends.’

Vesta’s eyes flashed at the implication, but she managed to bite her tongue. ‘When was Mrs Chapman here last?’

‘Yesterday. She arrived at eight thirty in the morning and left at four.’

‘Is there anything poisonous she could have come into contact with in that time?’

Daphne considered. ‘You mean, might she have accidentally ingested poison while she was here? Well, there’s lead paint in some of the rooms, but she’d have to have licked the walls for that to have an effect. And there’s none in the Yellow Bow Rooms, before you ask. Some of the cleaning fluids are probably toxic, and the stuff I use to treat woodworm definitely is, but she was cleaning carpets the last few times she was here so she was only handling carpet shampoo. So, no, there’s nothing poisonous that she could have swallowed inadvertently unless she ate some of the mushrooms that are growing where the wood is rotten. She wasn’t stupid. And, in any case, if she’d done that, she’d have been ill yesterday – that kind of thing is pretty immediate. I don’t think she was poisoned here. Honestly, are you sure the old girl didn’t just eat a dodgy sandwich before she popped off? If she was poisoned at all.’

Vesta shifted uncomfortably. Mirabelle’s steady gaze held Miss Marsden’s pale eyes without blinking. She wondered if anyone really cared about anyone else these days. Things had changed a good deal since the war.

‘Mrs Chapman died in a fit on the floor of the lodge on Queen’s Road. Her heart gave out and she stopped breathing about an hour ago. I was holding her head,’ she said. ‘Her pupils were dilated. She was frothing at the mouth and then she fell unconscious. That isn’t caused by an iffy sandwich, Miss Marsden. That’s chemical poisoning. That’s deliberate. It’s strange that you don’t appear to care. The poor woman was probably murdered.’

‘That’s unfair. It isn’t that I don’t care about the old stick. Of course I’m sorry she’s dead, but if it’s murder, isn’t it really a police matter, Miss Bevan? I mean, if Mrs Chapman was poisoned they’ll find out how when they do a post mortem. I still don’t understand what you’re doing here. Not really.’

Mirabelle ignored the girl’s comment. If the fact that she had been present when the old lady died didn’t explain her presence adequately there was little she could add. She changed tack. ‘And she hadn’t come into money of late?’

Vesta got up from the sofa and wandered to the door of the darkened room. She peered past the slave figures. ‘She doesn’t know, Mirabelle. Miss Marsden doesn’t pay attention to insignificant details concerning insignificant people. Servants, that is.’

Daphne rolled her eyes. She flicked another Camel out of the carton and lit it. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if Mrs Chapman had suddenly come into money. But she turned up for work so she can’t have come into that much money, can she? Look, I’ll show you her apron if you like – her dusters and whatnot, if you care so much.’ The girl’s voice was sarcastic now. ‘She used a cupboard at the other end of the building. They’re the only things she kept here.’

Mirabelle and Vesta turned towards her in absolute unity. ‘Yes,’ they chimed together.

Vesta grinned at Mirabelle. ‘Maybe we’re both busybodies,’ she said.

The Pavilion might have been on a small scale for a royal palace but it felt labyrinthine. Daphne lit a storm lamp and set out along the gloomy corridor once more. It was clear she had expected the women to refuse her offer.

At the far end of the hallway there was a concealed door that was flush with the sweep of the wall. Daphne opened it. The light from the storm lamp sliced into a void of pitch black. Mirabelle could just make out some chipped paintwork and a stone floor. Compared to the ornate decoration of the public hall this corridor looked positively monastic, though it smelled less damp. There was perhaps less to rot away.

‘The servants’ side of the operation,’ Daphne explained. Their heels echoed now they weren’t walking on carpet. ‘No
one wanted to see the staff at work, so there are passages to keep the business of the house out of the way.’

Mirabelle heard Vesta tut in the dark. ‘So they had everyone sneaking around?’

‘Yes,’ Daphne continued breezily. ‘You see it all over the place. Like most stately homes, the Pavilion is really two houses intertwined – the service house and the royal one. Buckets of coal and housemaids were kept off the corridors. In some houses they had the servants move entirely underground, but this place already had its foundations in place when George took it over. Over a hundred people lived here – residents and staff . . . Now it’s only me.’

She led the way into a pantry. Mirabelle could just make out a wall of pale wooden cupboards behind a plain scrubbed-pine table. Lifting the lamp high Daphne opened one of the doors and continued. ‘I think this room was for the footmen. It’s convenient for the front doors and the hallways. The rest of the cupboards are empty. This is the one Mrs Chapman used.’

Mirabelle peered inside as Daphne held up the lamp. A grey apron with posies of lavender printed onto the fabric hung on a solitary hook. To one side there was a feather duster, a pile of rags and a bucket. The cupboard smelled faintly of bleach. Mirabelle reached in and checked the pocket of the apron. It was empty.

‘Nothing much to see.’ Daphne’s voice was drenched in told-you-so.

Vesta, however, fell to her knees. Beyond the main beam of light, the bottom of the cupboard was lined with something. She reached in and pulled out some tattered sheets of paper, holding them up to the lamplight. The sheaf was patterned with newsprint and stiff with dirt. There was an indent and smears of mud where Mrs Chapman must have placed her outdoor shoes.

‘It’s a racing paper,’ Vesta said triumphantly, reading the text sideways. ‘From May this year. Well, well. Our Mrs Chapman liked the horses. That has to be how she knew Joey Gillingham. We’ve found the connection.’