England Expects (21 page)

Mirabelle checked her watch as the girl continued.

‘Early brotherhoods are fascinating. They’re based on knightly principles. Warriors, I think, maybe even Crusaders at the beginning. They were the gatekeepers. The defenders of relics. And, well, there are stories of treasure, of course.’ She popped a strawberry into her mouth. ‘Not like the masons – they’re just boy scouts behind closed doors.’

‘And they’re definitely Scottish?’ ‘

Yes. At least that’s where the letters were written. Perhaps King George didn’t have time to do anything about it before he died. The letters have lain there for more than a hundred years. Maybe no one knew about them other than the king himself.’

‘We better go upstairs,’ Mirabelle said decisively. ‘I’d like to have a look at the lie of the land.’

Chapter 27

Only in love and murder do we remain sincere
.

C
harlie ushered the women into the service lift. ‘The penthouses have a dining room,’ he explained. ‘No one was booked to eat there yesterday or today so it’s empty at the moment. The fancy rooms are quiet most of the time. It’s only now and then the Grand cashes in on them.’

Upstairs, at the end of a wide corridor was a double doorway. Charlie produced the key and let them inside. The room was lovely though it wasn’t on the seaward side of the building. The roofs of Brighton stretched up the hill beyond the glass. There was a faint smell of cigars and furniture polish.

‘Mostly it’s occupied at night,’ Charlie explained as he ushered the women inside and closed the door with a quiet click. ‘Private parties.’

The view over Brighton might be prettier in the dark, Mirabelle thought. The thing that held the attention was the sky, blue and streaked here and there with a trail of fluffy cloud. The window was framed by blue chintz curtains and dominated by a long mahogany table with two silver candelabra placed at the centre. To one side a chiffonier was stacked with porcelain, cutlery, crystal and silverware monographed with the Grand’s logo. Mirabelle noticed that in addition to the door they’d come in there were three other exits.

Charlie followed her eyes. ‘That one is the dining kitchen. It’s small – for reheating or cooking to order. Most of the food comes up from downstairs in the lift. The other two doors
open directly into the suites, and if I’m not mistaken,’ he started towards the one on the other side of the room, ‘your fellas are in here.’

Mirabelle looked perturbed.

‘Don’t worry, the doors are locked unless the dining room is booked. But I thought you could have a peek. Like the advance guard.’ Charlie put his eye to the keyhole. He turned around. ‘They’re up,’ he whispered, checking his watch. ‘They won’t be needing that alarm call.’

‘Thank you, Charlie. We’ll be fine now. They’ll be missing you downstairs.’

‘OK. If you need me, there’s a direct line to the service kitchen. I’ll keep an eye on it. And if you want to come down, get into the service lift and press B1. It’ll bring you out in the kitchen, right next to where you came in. Oh, and here’s the key to the interconnecting door.’ He pressed it into Mirabelle’s hand. ‘In case you need it. It works on all the doors in here – the rooms on this side can be opened into one big suite with dining facilities if need be, so the locks are the same.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You sure you don’t want anything else? I can stick round if you like.’

‘No. It’s probably best if you go now. I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

Charlie hovered. ‘OK, Mirabelle. But just to fill you in, there’s no one else up here. There’s six large suites on this floor and only one of them taken last night. You’re on your own.’

‘Thanks for not asking too many questions.’

When the door closed behind Charlie, Mirabelle put her eye to the keyhole. On the other side there was a sitting room full of ornate French furniture. In one corner there was a bar. The man in the tweed three-piece suit whom she had last seen in Professor Marsden’s rooms was pouring himself what looked like a whisky. He added a dash of soda and then took the glass
to the window and sipped it as he took in the view. It was early to be drinking.

‘Let me see.’ Daphne jostled Mirabelle’s shoulder.

The girl bent to get a look. ‘Is that him? The Scottish chap? With the moustache?’

Mirabelle stared at the dining-room window and then at the wall to the left of it. The man was twenty feet away at most. ‘We have to be very quiet,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, that’s Laidlaw.’

‘Oh,’ Daphne whispered, ‘now Daddy’s come in. He must have just woken up. I think he’s slept in his clothes. He’s coming out of one of the bedrooms. Lazy beast. It’s almost time for us to arrive.’

‘I’m sure he’s come along to keep things in hand. Or, more specifically, you.’

‘In hand? I don’t think that will be necessary,’ Daphne objected. ‘It should be quick, shouldn’t it? Easy?’

‘In an ideal world.’

‘Today’s the day, then,’ said Professor Marsden jovially to Laidlaw, who raised his glass without turning round.

They still had fifteen minutes. The telephone sounded next door and the professor went to answer it. The alarm call, Mirabelle realised, wasn’t to wake up the men, it was to ensure they were ready when Daphne arrived.

‘Where’s the other one?’ Mirabelle thought out loud. Charlie had said there were three of them.

She bent down again to see if she could make out any sign of him. Before she could establish anything, there was a knock on the door and Laidlaw went to answer it. A waiter with a silver tray came into the suite and laid out a teapot and cups. Professor Marsden, Mirabelle noted, put copious amounts of sugar into his tea – three lumps at least. If he had been trying to keep up with his friend he probably had a hangover. Three men had booked in, and now there were three cups. Where was the third man? Had someone else joined Professor
Marsden and Laidlaw in the suite? If so, why hadn’t he come out when the alarm call sounded and the tea arrived?

‘Well,’ she stood up, ‘there’s no point shilly-shallying. We’re early but we might as well get on with it. Are you ready?’

Daphne passed a hand over her hair. She walked to the window, looked out and then turned with a wide grin. ‘Let’s,’ she said. ‘The early bird catches the worm and all that . . .’

In the hallway the women paused. Mirabelle brushed a hand over her skirt. She wouldn’t have worn black for this, had she known. She didn’t like wearing the colour at all. Widow’s weeds – a grim reminder. She took a deep breath and motioned Daphne towards the door. The girl checked the small pouch of papers in her handbag, then nodded and rapped hard. In an instant the handle moved and the door opened.

Laidlaw stood in the doorway. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘You’re prompt. You must be Miss Marsden?’

‘Yes. And this is my friend, Miss Bevan,’ Daphne introduced Mirabelle.

Neither Mirabelle nor Laidlaw held out their hand.

‘This lady shouldn’t be here,’ he said bluntly, blocking their entry to the suite. ‘Our business is with you alone, Miss Marsden, and confidentiality is very important. We stressed that, I believe, when the arrangements were made.’

‘Then it would seem sensible not to discuss matters in the hallway, would it not?’ Daphne kept her cool.

The man considered this for a moment and then stood back to let them enter. Mirabelle, after all, could not be magicked away now she was here.

‘Good morning, Daddy,’ Daphne said brightly as she strode into the suite.

Professor Marsden let out a grunt and gulped his tea. He did not acknowledge Mirabelle.

‘What do I call you?’ Daphne asked the Scotsman as she sat down, seemingly completely at ease, in an armchair opposite her father.

Mirabelle was impressed. She hovered behind the girl with one hand on the chair’s chintz covering.

The Scotsman looked them up and down. ‘Laidlaw,’ he said.

‘Well, Mr Laidlaw, shall we get started?’

‘Not quite yet. Who exactly is your friend?’ He pointed at Mirabelle, crossing to the bar and pouring himself another drink without offering anyone else.

‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan. I’m just an acquaintance, Mr Laidlaw. Professor Marsden can vouch for that. A family friend, you might say.’

The professor bared his teeth and squinted across the low coffee table. He clearly hadn’t told Laidlaw about Mirabelle’s visit to his rooms. ‘She’s Daphne’s friend,’ he said. ‘She was looking for the girl the other day. I hadn’t set eyes on her before that.’

The Scotsman downed his whisky. ‘Well, she’s here now.’

‘Yes,’ Mirabelle smiled, ‘I am. At Daphne’s invitation.’

The girl nodded. She passed a hand through her hair as if this was a delightful cocktail party and she was enjoying the company.

‘So,’ said Mirabelle, ‘shall we get down to business?’

‘Do you have it?’ Laidlaw glowered in Daphne’s direction.

‘Do you have the money?’ Daphne inclined her head.

Laidlaw drew a small leather suitcase from behind the sofa and laid it on the table. Daphne went to open the catch, but he blocked her move with his arm. ‘Oh no, you don’t. Show me the letters first.’

Daphne removed the neatly parcelled sheaf from her handbag and put it on the table. ‘There.’

‘The way it works, Miss Marsden, is that neither of us removes the goods from the table until they have been inspected and we are agreed. Do you understand?’

Daphne agreed. Laidlaw moved his arm out of the way and she clicked open the case. Mirabelle caught sight of stack upon stack of banknotes. The girl must have netted thousands. Daphne took in a deep breath and her face relaxed. Her summer on the French Riviera was secure. On the other side of the low table, Mr Laidlaw donned a pair of spectacles and opened the letters one by one. He cast an eye over the wide, arching script, pushing each paper along to Daphne’s father. After a minute or two Professor Marsden nodded and Laidlaw refolded the thick scripts.

‘It appears we have a deal,’ Laidlaw stated.

Daphne got up. ‘Well, business is easy, isn’t it, when both parties know what they want? However, we weren’t treating only over the money, were we? There is also the matter of my friend Mrs Chapman – you were to hand over her killer to the police. Miss Bevan here is of the opinion that the man who it is thought committed suicide after killing her is not the murderer. We need to clear that up before we’re done.’

Laidlaw paused. He eyed Mirabelle as if she was a curiosity. ‘Miss Bevan is correct. I don’t want you to worry, Miss Marsden. This is a disciplinary matter and your concerns have been seen to. In fact, I’ve seen to it personally,’ he said with a smile. ‘Will you take my word on it? The man who killed your friend has been punished.’

Daphne hesitated. ‘Why on earth should I take your word? And I don’t want you to punish him, whoever he is. I want you to hand him over to the police. That’s real justice, not just a rap on the knuckles.’

It passed across Mirabelle’s mind that this man wouldn’t restrict himself to a rap on the knuckles if his temper was let loose.

Laidlaw frowned. ‘I tell you what – I have a proposition for you that will ensure you aren’t worried any more about who killed your friend.’

‘What is it?’ Daphne asked.

‘It’ll close the deal, you’ll see.’

Mirabelle tensed. Something was off here. Mr Laidlaw seemed to be enjoying himself – quietly, earnestly even, but enjoying himself nonetheless. There was an underlying relish in his tone.

‘It’ll be a nice tidy affair.’ Mr Laidlaw got up as if he was about to fetch something. He stood behind Professor Marsden so that Daphne had to squint to see him against the light from the window. ‘I suspect you like things tidy, don’t you, Miss Marsden? You look like the kind of woman who prefers it when things work out just so?’

‘Absolutely,’ Professor Marsden agreed. ‘She’s tirelessly exacting.’

‘Accuracy of that nature is costly in so many ways. And now it’ll cost you.’ Mr Laidlaw’s voice had become almost sing-song.

‘It seems to me our business is almost concluded, Mr Laidlaw.’ Daphne’s tone was clipped. ‘I’m only seeking assurance that justice will be done and I’ve requested that since the beginning. This isn’t a game, and I can’t imagine what you’re trying to say.’

‘Imagine this,’ the Scotsman said ominously.

He drew his arm around Professor Marsden’s throat, almost casually, and then began to throttle him with great force. The professor’s eyes betrayed his complete surprise. He spluttered and his skin flushed. He hit Laidlaw’s forearm repeatedly and then rose in his chair, trying to ease the pressure on his windpipe. None of which was any help.

Daphne jumped to her feet.

Laidlaw’s voice remained calm, his tone even. ‘Your father’s life will cost you, young lady. What would you say was a fair amount? In such matters it’s traditional to call it evens. And as for any idea of justice . . . You’re not so worried about that any more, are you?’

‘You won’t kill him. I don’t believe you.’ Daphne clutched the thick leather handle of the little suitcase without removing it from the table.

Laidlaw laughed. It sounded like a train rumbling. ‘That’s entirely up to you,’ he said, tightening his grip so that a gurgling sound came from the professor.

‘This is ridiculous!’ Daphne shouted. ‘Stop it!’

Laidlaw looked as if he was quite at ease. ‘I can make it take any time I like. Strangle a man with your hands and your grip gets tired. But use the crook of your arm like this and it can go on for a very long time. Just enough air . . . and yet not quite enough.’

He loosened his grip as if to illustrate the point. Professor Marsden slumped into the cushions though his neck remained firmly held in place. He tried to say something but he couldn’t get it out. His lips were covered in spittle and he hadn’t the strength to form the words. He wheezed horribly as he gulped at the air. His fingers grasped at the Scotsman’s elbow, trying to insert a barrier between Laidlaw’s arm and his bruised neck.

‘P-p-please,’ he spluttered, his eyes on Daphne.

Laidlaw tightened his grip again. The man was all muscle. The professor’s back arched as if he was having a seizure. ‘You see,’ the Scotsman said slowly, as if this was a conversation over a point of theory at dinner, ‘you probably thought I brought your father because, well, who knows what you thought? There’s no love lost, is there? Not between a silly little girl and her daddy. Oh so clever, but not quite clever enough. Desperate to be part of the club. Jesus, I despise masons. They think they choose their calling but what they don’t realise is that you have to be chosen. Their little club means nothing. Are you really prepared to see him die, Miss Marsden? Here, right in front of you? Your daddy. Your dear daddy? Killed over the matter of a few thousand pounds that isn’t even yours by right? I don’t think you want to live with that. Push the suitcase across the table, there’s a good girl.’

Daphne’s eyes hardened. She turned as if to go, touching Mirabelle’s arm lightly and casting her eyes on the handbag in which she knew the gun was secreted. But Mirabelle’s senses were tingling. There was more going on here, she was sure of it, and she didn’t want to show her hand too soon. There were three men in the suite. She looked round as the professor made another gurgling sound. She couldn’t quite believe Laidlaw would really kill him.