England Expects (15 page)

‘Hilary?’

‘My wife. You look as if you’ve something to do with her. Women’s Institute through and through. White knickers and crossed legs.’ He took a swig of his brandy. ‘She’s allowed her club but I’m not allowed mine. Isn’t that the way?’

Mirabelle shook her head and decided to ignore the implication. With anyone drunk, you had to guide them to where you wanted and then guide them back again when they rambled. And, of course, the comment meant he was a mason, so that was a start.

‘No. It’s Daphne we’re looking for. Your daughter.’

‘They’re all the same,’ he said bitterly.

‘I doubt that, Professor.’

‘Do you, indeed?’

Mirabelle felt her hackles rise. This man, after all, had left his daughter with an allowance so small it was impossible to live on it. Surely he must realise the girl’s job didn’t pay a living wage.

‘I’d have thought you’d be proud of Daphne,’ she said. ‘She’s following in your footsteps after a fashion. She seems to be doing good work for the National Trust. If it wasn’t for her efforts, the Royal Pavilion would be in a far worse state than it is. Surely you approve? She seems a thoroughly decent girl to me.’

Marsden spluttered. ‘Daphne? Well, she’s obviously pulled the wool over your eyes. My daughter doesn’t care about heritage. She doesn’t give a fig about our past. She hasn’t got the first idea about history and no discrimination about what’s really important. That girl is the only thing that Hilary and I agree upon. She’s nothing but trouble. My daughter is obsessed with money and possessions, Miss Bevan. A green silk scarf can turn her head. It suits her, of course – matches her eyes and so on – but that’s not the point. Money. That’s Daphne’s
real interest in the people around her, and I’ve no doubt, in her precious Trust, too. It’s her only interest in anything. We should never have let the little gold-digger leave home.’

‘Gracious. I had no idea. Well, you can’t force them to stay, can you? And I can see it’s making you terribly cross.’ Mirabelle continued to lead him in and out of his argument.

Marsden’s demeanour softened at the sign of what he took to be her sympathy. He lit his pipe and sank into a chair beside the fireplace. Then he propped his head in his hand and took another swig of brandy. Mirabelle motioned towards the sofa and Marsden nodded. The women sat.

‘How did you meet Daphne?’ he asked.

‘We had a mutual acquaintance.’

‘Look, I haven’t seen the girl for months,’ the professor said. ‘We got together at Christmas for a dreadful week of family celebrations. A dozen people with the same surname, that’s all. I don’t understand why you’re looking for her. What has she done now?’

‘We met Daphne in Brighton,’ Mirabelle said slowly. ‘Both Vesta and I live there. Today we went to visit her and she had simply disappeared. Her digs had been cleared and the door left wide open. She didn’t turn up for work at the Pavilion, and that isn’t like her. Naturally, we were concerned and when we rang the Trust they gave your name as Daphne’s only contact. We came to check she was all right – we thought you’d know where she was. We were worried something might have happened to her.’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry,’ Professor Marsden said dismissively. ‘She’ll have met a man.’

Mirabelle’s eyes narrowed. It was disrespectful of him to talk about his daughter this way, drunk or not. Calling the girl a gold-digger was nasty enough, but throwing out the assumption that she’d left town with a man on a whim was quite another. Daphne was a good-looking girl but she hadn’t given
any sign of being fast. It was the quickest way to discredit someone, she thought, to accuse them of loose living – especially a woman. On principle, Mirabelle never judged the private lives of others. She knew that’s what would have happened to her had people known about Jack. They’d have thought she was a home-wrecker. A scarlet woman. And they would have been wrong.

Marsden glanced at his wristwatch. Unlike the rest of his attire it was smart and expensive. A Longines, Mirabelle noticed. He checked it again as surreptitiously as he could. So, he wanted to get rid of them. It was time to press Professor Marsden’s buttons.

‘I noticed Daphne wasn’t keen on the masons when I spoke to her,’ she tried. ‘What was it she said, Vesta?’

Vesta was transfixed by the books and the pictures. She tore her eyes away from the walls as if she was startled. ‘She said they didn’t care much about equality.’

‘Yes, that was it. She seemed annoyed that the freemasons didn’t admit women.’

Marsden’s stare was uncompromising. Just for a moment, he looked as if he might erupt in rage, but he controlled himself. ‘She’s always been jealous of her brothers,’ he said. ‘Ever since she was little. And she resents me, of course. That goes without saying.’

‘So, Daphne’s the only girl apart from your wife?’

Marsden gave a half-nod. ‘Well, my wife has sisters. But that’s not the point. Women don’t belong in the masons. It’s not that kind of organisation. We don’t need women.’ He was slurring now. ‘We never have. There’s a female chapter in London. It was set up by a bunch of dykes. Ridiculous! They’re not affiliated at all. Freemasonry is a man’s business.’

He checked his watch again.

‘Well,’ said Mirabelle, getting to her feet, ‘it has been very interesting to meet you, Professor.’

Vesta glared. She clearly felt there was more mileage to be had.

‘Come along. We have to go,’ Mirabelle chivvied her.

‘Will you stay overnight in Cambridge, Miss Bevan?’ The professor’s manner became unexpectedly solicitous now that he knew they were leaving.

‘No. There’s a late train, I believe.’ Mirabelle shook the man’s hand. ‘If we leave now we’ll make it. I’m sure Daphne’s fine and she’ll be back in a few days. I had no idea about her behaviour. We’d never have come had we known.’

The professor looked relieved. ‘I’m sorry that she bothered you,’ he said. ‘It was kind of you to take the trouble, but, really, there’s no point in trying to help Daphne, Miss Bevan. She’s a lost cause.’ He got to his feet and ushered them to the door. Mirabelle noted that he remained there, making sure they walked down the staircase. As she glanced back, he raised an encouraging hand. The moment the women set foot outside, Mirabelle grasped Vesta’s arm.

‘Don’t look back,’ she whispered. She was convinced that the professor would be watching them from his window, checking that they were heading for the gate.

‘Well?’ said Vesta as they rounded the corner and ground to a halt. ‘What was that about?’

‘She’s obviously been here.’

‘Who?’

‘Daphne.’

‘Really?’ Vesta declared. ‘After all the I-hate-my-daughter and there’s-no-place-for-women-in-the-masons. And that weird stuff everywhere – creepy old pictures and books lying around. He can’t actually be reading them all. The old man’s mad.’

‘It’s the green scarf, don’t you see? Daphne said her uncle sent it with the television. But if Daphne hadn’t seen her father since Christmas, well, he couldn’t have known it suited her – he’d never have seen it. So she’s been with him in the last few
weeks – since the Coronation. He won’t have gone to her, let’s face it. So, she must have been up here. And I tell you what, I’ll wager it was today.’

‘Why on earth would Daphne want to see him?’ Vesta sounded mystified. ‘If he was my father I’d avoid him like the plague.’

‘I don’t know. But no other woman’s going to want to go up there, is she? Think about what the porter said. Marsden’s a joke, don’t you see? He’s a charmless old misogynist. He’s had women visitors for the first time in the college’s history. Three of us in twenty-four hours. The porter thought it was hilarious, and no wonder.’

Vesta’s mouth spread into a grin.

‘When they made out he was a catch, I hoped he might be your type,’ she started to giggle.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘You’ve got to meet a man sometime, Mirabelle. A woman like you needs someone. I thought a brain-box professor might be your type. Though, having seen him, perhaps not that one. Look, maybe someone else told him about the silk scarf and he just knew it would suit Daphne’s eyes. If Marsden had a lady visitor today, it could be anyone. Maybe he’s cheating on Hilary already,’ Vesta whispered. ‘Maybe he got lucky. You never know.’

Mirabelle frowned. ‘Today? On the very day his daughter goes missing? By chance? A fine specimen like Peter Marsden? No. Daphne’s been here. And let’s face it, she wouldn’t have come if she hadn’t had to. The old fellow was watching the time the whole time we were there. He’s expecting visitors. Come on, we need to keep an eye on the entrance to his rooms without being spotted. We’ll have to swing round the long way. Thank goodness it’s almost dark.’

Chapter 19

There is no agony worse than tedium
.

T
rying to keep the click of their heels on the cobbles to a minimum, the women sneaked into the shadowy entranceway directly opposite Marsden’s rooms. The last of the light had faded. It was ten o’clock. All over Cambridge, church bells were striking. Two students parked their bikes and disappeared with a clatter into a building further along. The porter, now wearing an old-fashioned cape, set out on his rounds, checking the library door and making sure the gates in the railings that skirted the campus were locked and chained. Out of habit, Mirabelle timed him. The accommodation blocks, unlit for the most part, were completely silent. A fox stalked elegantly between the rows of potatoes and disappeared through the railings at the other end.

Vesta sighed and wriggled around on the bottom step of the stairway. She rested her chin in her palm. It had perhaps been half an hour but, Vesta thought, it seemed considerably longer.

‘This isn’t promising,’ she complained. ‘Nothing’s happening.’

‘Surveillance is always boring,’ Mirabelle replied.

She seemed entirely resigned to sitting here for however long it might take for something to happen. Vesta wondered if Professor Marsden had been simply checking his watch because it was almost time to go to bed.

‘What are you hoping for?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted without taking her eyes off the professor’s window. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

A further forty minutes later Vesta yawned heavily once more and wished she’d worn flat shoes. She cocked her head to read the time on the slim gold watch on Mirabelle’s wrist. The lights in Marsden’s room were still switched on. ‘He’s just up there drinking himself into a stupor,’ she said. ‘Sad old man. Don’t you think we should head for the B&B?’

‘You walk round if you like.’

‘Yeah. I won’t have any trouble booking in by myself.’

Mirabelle sat down next to her. Last year checking into a London hotel, the receptionist had assumed Vesta was Mirabelle’s maid. The memory still made her cheeks burn. It wasn’t easy to be black. It wasn’t easy, Mirabelle told herself, to be different in any way.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Mind you, they’re a bit more open-minded here – Oxford and Cambridge are probably better than London. Colleges are accustomed to visitors from overseas.’

‘I’m English,’ Vesta said petulantly. ‘And there’s hardly any white people round here, never mind black ones. I’d prefer it if you’d come with me.’

It was a fair point. Whoever ran the B&B wouldn’t be a cosmopolitan university professor, and the provincial English landladies of Vesta’s experience had usually never seen a coloured person, let alone accommodated one.

Mirabelle stared across the quad. Jack always said information was vital – of course it was – and in this instance there was no other way to get it than to sit things out. There was a strong argument that surveillance had won Britain the war. On that basis alone, she told herself, there were ample reasons to stay. Daphne had been here. Professor Marsden had lied about it and where there was a lie, there was a reason for a lie.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘We’ve come all this way and he’s trying to hide Daphne. It only takes a second to miss something
important. Hopefully it shouldn’t be too much longer. At least it isn’t cold tonight.’

That much was true. It was also silent, or near enough. You could almost believe you were in the countryside.

Then, on the evening air the women heard men’s voices, indistinct but in conversation some way off. They both perked up. Vesta sprang to her feet. Perhaps here was their evidence. They craned to see two figures, strolling along the path on the other side of the quad. The gentlemen looked like typical academics, Vesta decided. One fellow had a moustache and was wearing a well-tailored three-piece tweed suit. The tone of his voice was low and he gestured emphatically as he walked. Neither of the women could make out what he was saying. The other fellow was dressed in an old-fashioned black outfit that looked as if it might be clerical. Clean-shaven, he was tall and slim, and sported a bowler hat. A bit like Alastair Sim, thought Vesta.

Mirabelle held her breath as the men passed the doorway to the professor’s rooms and instead entered the next stairwell. Inside, a moment later, the first-floor curtains were drawn and a dim light seeped over the potato plants.

Vesta sighed with frustration. ‘I’m exhausted. You think of stairwells as places you move through,’ she said. ‘Not for dossing down. I feel like an old tramp.’

Still, she slipped back to the step, leaned her head on the wall and closed her eyes. Back in Brighton Charlie would have got her message by now. He’d sit up with Mrs Agora and then go to bed early, she thought. He was always tired on Wednesdays after the gig on Tuesday night and the long day in the kitchens that followed. Now Vesta imagined she was curled up next to him on their thick soft mattress. They had taken to sleeping naked in the heat, their winter nightwear abandoned and only a thin blue sheet over the top. She liked slipping out of consciousness with Charlie’s arms wrapped round her, his
smooth skin warm along her back. Some nights she woke up to find she had puckered her lips onto his forearm and was sucking his skin like a hungry baby.

‘Sorry,’ she’d murmur drowsily. But Charlie didn’t mind. He didn’t mind anything. Not her flashes of temper, her independent streak or her inability to keep things tidy. With a rush she realised how much she missed him.

‘I love Charlie, you know,’ she whispered sleepily. ‘You mustn’t think that I don’t.’

‘Of course you do,’ Mirabelle soothed. ‘Perhaps you should say yes to him and stop fretting all the time. Being Mrs Lewis wouldn’t be half as horrifying as you’re imagining – it might be lovely.’

‘Mr Tupps said that institutions are all that matter – all that endures. The masons. The church. Marriage, too, I guess.’

‘He might be right,’ Mirabelle whispered. She was about to say more – something about how important marriage was and how lucky Vesta and Charlie were to have found each other – when Vesta let out a little snore and she realised the girl had fallen asleep. Mirabelle envied her. Vesta always seemed so relaxed at the heart of her whirlwind. Underneath the disarray and excitable thinking the girl had a great capacity for happiness. Vesta was an alien creature sometimes. She wondered if the girl’s mother, a loving but strict woman from South London, might be the reason that domestic life held such terrors for her. The Churchills had been shocked enough at Vesta’s behaviour when she took the job at McGuigan & McGuigan, never mind how they’d feel if they knew Vesta and Charlie were sharing digs. So many people seemed to live their lives in reaction to their parents, Mirabelle pondered. If she hadn’t been orphaned while she was still at college, perhaps she’d have done the same. It must be difficult for Daphne, she realised, with a father who was so uncaring. Girls needed their fathers and, given she’d gone into
restoration, Daphne must feel a connection with her old man, even if it wasn’t reciprocated. Perhaps in getting involved with the Trust she had been trying to please him or at the very least show him that she was worthwhile. In return, the professor was almost unbelievably cruel.

Vesta’s breathing was even. An owl hooted, far off, the sound carrying on the still night air. At long last, just before midnight Mirabelle noticed someone on the path. She stood up and pressed herself against the wall. She couldn’t make out if the figure was male or female but then it passed beneath a light and it was clear that not only was it female, it was Daphne. She was wearing a cream, belted mackintosh with the green silk scarf tied jauntily at her throat. A pair of patent pumps flashed in the lamplight. Mirabelle allowed herself a smile. She’d been right. Persistence always paid off. Daphne turned into her father’s stairwell.

Mirabelle was about to lay a hand on Vesta’s arm to wake her when something made her hold off. There wasn’t any time to explain and Vesta would be dozy. She’d make too much noise. This wouldn’t take long.

She intended to sneak up the stairs and listen at the keyhole. Any conversation between Daphne and her father must surely be illuminating. She tiptoed between the plants to avoid sinking into the soil. She was halfway over, at the most exposed point, when she caught sight of a man walking down the main path. Instinctively Mirabelle flung herself to the ground, squashing several plants but hiding herself in the centre of the vegetable patch. She could just see the man loitering in the light from Marsden’s windows, staring upwards as if something was on his mind. This close, she recognised him as the porter who had let her in. Eventually the man shrugged his shoulders and continued on his round. Mirabelle pulled herself up. The earth smelled musty and the sap of the plants let out a fresh perfume. The dirt was dry and it would brush off easily.
Thank goodness this was all happening in a warm June, she thought, rather than a soggy November.

With her eyes on the receding figure of the porter, Mirabelle stole to the foot of the stairs and crept upwards. During the war, she told herself, men had visited bars frequented by Nazis all over occupied France and had calmly sat listening to loose talk from SS officers. The best intelligence had come from people who risked their lives. What she was doing was mild by comparison. She tried to calm herself. Still, her heart was pounding and her fingers felt weak as she lingered, leaving in to listen outside the door.

‘Of course I haven’t brought it with me,’ the girl was saying. ‘Do you think I’m a complete fool? You’re only the broker, Daddy – that’s all. They need to pay before they’ll get a sniff at it. Those are my terms.’

Mirabelle couldn’t hear Marsden’s response but she could tell that he was furious. What had he expected Daphne to bring to his rooms in the middle of the night, she wondered. She crouched down, placing herself behind the hinge of the door. If it opened suddenly she could dash up to the next flight and be round the corner in seconds.

‘You aren’t seriously expecting me to boo-hoo and just give up?’ Daphne taunted her father. ‘You can shout all you like. Honestly, Daddy. Not such clever old men now, are you – you and your “brothers”? Don’t you wish you’d been nicer to me?’ The girl sounded as if she was enjoying herself.

‘It’s a lot of money, Daphne.’ The professor’s voice was rising, which made it easier to make out. ‘Thousands of pounds. You’re being far too greedy. It’s more than your brother’s inheritance, for God’s sake.’

Daphne dismissed the objection. ‘It’s worth every penny and you know it. If Danny isn’t clever enough to make his own money, that’s his lookout. And it isn’t only the cash. Those bastards killed poor Mrs Chapman. You owe me justice as well as money. You’re paying the market price, that’s all. I’m not
looking for any favours. You’re used to hiding criminals in your ranks. Well, I won’t have a cover-up. Not this time.’

‘From what I understand, the woman who died was a criminal.’

Daphne laughed. ‘Elsie Chapman? She was no angel, but you killed her, Daddy. Who on earth deserves that?’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘You know exactly what I mean. You killed her. You people.’

‘She wanted five hundred pounds, I heard. She was a blackmailer.’

‘She underpriced herself.’

‘She threatened to expose the very man she wanted to pay her.’

‘So what? I’ll bring down the whole organisation if I don’t get what I want. I’m only telling the truth, after all.’

‘Sometimes, I could strangle you, girl,’ spat Marsden.

Daphne laughed again. ‘You’ll never get what you want that way. I’ve well and truly covered my back. Your brothers won’t like it if you finish me off. I’ve got it hidden, Daddy, and it’ll all come to light if anything happens to me.’

Marsden made a furious huffing noise. ‘You’re going too far, Daphne.’

‘On the contrary. I’m going just far enough,’ she insisted. ‘You’re only annoyed because you thought I’d come home with my tail between my legs and just hand it over. Either that or you thought I wouldn’t realise its significance. Well, you’re wrong. You’ve treated me disgracefully for years. This will draw a line under everything. Stick to your end of the deal and I’ll stick to mine.’

Through the keyhole Mirabelle saw Daphne adjust her scarf in front of a small mirror by the door. She was fixing her hair when, from behind her in a rush, Professor Marsden caught the girl unawares. He grabbed her roughly and shoved her against a bookshelf.

‘You don’t know what you’re getting into. They’re dangerous people, you little fool,’ he growled.

Daphne pulled away. ‘Me, too,’ she said, turning with a steady gaze. ‘I could bring the whole lot into the open. All it would take is a little donation to the British Museum. Or the Royal Scottish Academy. Any institution would do. Or perhaps I’ll deliver it straight to a newspaper – one that isn’t run by a freemason, of course. And
bam!
There’d be headlines all over the world. But luckily for you, I’d rather have the money and some justice for Elsie. You know how to get in touch with me when you’re ready, and you’d better not be a penny short, old man, or I might change my mind.’

Mirabelle sprang to her feet as the door handle moved. She got out of the way just in time. The girl burst into the hall slamming the door shut behind her. Her patent shoes flashed down the steps and onto the paving stones. With one eye on the closed door, Mirabelle followed. Outside, she realised that Daphne must have broken into a run as she rounded the corner. Up ahead, she was already almost at the porter’s lodge. She had stood up to her father but it had terrified her. It was admirable really that she held her nerve and that she was set on bringing Mrs Chapman’s murderer to justice. As admirable, Mirabelle told herself, as a blackmailer could ever be. So, the masons killed Mrs Chapman over whatever it was that Daphne had got her hands on. That made sense. Mirabelle kept her eyes on the figure of the girl up ahead but she was moving too quickly. Daphne disappeared through the unlocked gate.

Mirabelle stopped suddenly. Over her shoulder she noticed the professor’s light was now the only one switched on in the quad. Like a vague pulse from above, she heard the low tenor of male voices in discussion. The noise was coming from Marsden’s rooms. With Daphne gone, Mirabelle turned and crept back upstairs. It was odd. She had watched the entrance
all night. No one else had gone in. She’d seen no telephone in the rooms. Was the drunken old sot talking to himself in a rage?