England Expects (23 page)

‘They couldn’t lock me up for killing him. Not after what he did to Daddy. Not after what he was about to do to you.’

‘I know. I know.’ Mirabelle put an arm around Daphne’s shoulder. ‘Come on, dear. Do you think you can walk?’

The girl nodded. ‘What if they come back? More of them? What about that?’

‘That’s why I burned the letters. The police will find the paper in the grate and the lodge will hear of it. They’ll think their secret is safe. It’s their history they’re interested in, not you or me. And if, well, just about every man we know is anything to go by, they won’t come to the conclusion that you killed Laidlaw. They’ll think it had to be a man – someone from Mr Tupps’ lodge, I expect, or the man who was with Laidlaw in Cambridge. But, now we need to get to Brills Lane. And, Daphne, don’t tell anyone that you wrote the letters. Ever. That has to stay secret. We’re the last people who know. If they find out they’ll kill you. They’ll come back. And I wouldn’t blame them.’

Chapter 28

Your antagonist can be your helper
.

B
ill took one look at the state of Mirabelle and Daphne and dropped the pencil with which he was making notes in the cash ledger. ‘Miss Bevan,’ he said, ‘what on earth’s happened?’

Mirabelle guided Daphne into a chair on the other side of the table and then straightened her clothes and flexed her ankles in the unaccustomed low heels. ‘I need your help, Bill,’ she said.

Bill looked quizzical. He switched on the kettle. It was something to do.

‘Before you make the tea, would you ring the Grand and leave Charlie a message, please?’

‘Charlie?’ he said. ‘What’s Charlie got to do with anything?’

‘Tell him that you just received the two parcels that he saw to earlier. And thank him. I don’t want him worrying.’

Realising that no further explanation would be forthcoming, Bill reached for the handset and began to dial. Mirabelle emptied the suitcase of the money, slipping the notes into the inside pocket of her handbag. ‘Don’t worry,’ she reassured Daphne. ‘I’ll bring the cash back if I don’t need it. I’m going to ditch the suitcase.’

When Bill finished speaking to the hotel receptionist, Mirabelle turned the phone around and dialled the station at Bartholomew Square. ‘Sergeant Simmons, please.’

Bill raised his eyebrows and then, taking pity on Daphne, started to make the tea.

‘Sergeant, it’s Mirabelle Bevan here. I wondered if you had found Superintendent McGregor? . . . I see . . . No. I was concerned, that’s all . . . Twice? Really. What did they say? . . . Thanks so much,’ said Mirabelle. ‘I won’t detain you any longer.’ Taking a deep breath, she looked around as if noticing the office properly for the first time since she entered. ‘Where’s Vesta?’

‘I don’t know.’ Bill shrugged his shoulders. ‘Do you want a cup?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Have you seen her this morning?’

‘No,’ said Bill. ‘I assumed she was with you.’

Mirabelle checked her watch. She picked up her bag. One thing at a time, she told herself.

‘Daphne’s had a terrible shock and in an hour or two she’ll need to ring her mother. Do you understand, Daphne? You remember what I said?’

Daphne nodded. Bill fiddled with the milk bottle with his back turned.

‘Bill used to be a policeman. He’ll look after you. And don’t worry. He’s definitely not in the masons. Don’t put him in a difficult position,’ Mirabelle whispered into the girl’s ear. Then she turned to go.

‘Bill, you need to look after her. Just till I get back,’ she instructed.

‘But where are you going?’ Daphne asked plaintively.

‘Never you mind that. Bill, you make sure this girl is kept safely here for the time being. She’s in a state of shock’

‘Right-o,’ Bill said. ‘Leave it to me.’

Daphne was wide-eyed. ‘Really? You’re not in the brotherhood?’ she asked. ‘But you were on the force?’

‘I don’t hold with the lodge.’ Bill handed the girl a steaming cup of tea. ‘Can I get you some sugar in that?’

Outside, the air felt fresh and warm. Mirabelle walked towards the sea front. A police car with its siren blaring passed her on East Street, coming from Bartholomew Square and turning in the direction of the Grand. Mirabelle caught a glimpse of Detective Inspector Robinson. At the bottom of the street she turned left and strode in the opposite direction to the hotel. The pier was only just opening for business and a small crowd of holidaymakers was hovering around the entrance. She slipped inside as the gate swung open and walked briskly past the stalls, taking in the smell of candyfloss. A little boy ran past her towards the helter-skelter. The sound of organ music echoed along the deserted pier.

At the end, Mirabelle paused. She could see the Grand from here. The police car had parked at the entrance alongside two others. A policeman was standing at the hotel door, his uniform austere alongside the gold brocade of the doorman’s jacket. From here, the men looked like tiny toys. It seemed too peaceful for what was going on inside. Mirabelle loosened the catch on the suitcase. It was bound to wash up on the beach, she thought, but there would be no fingerprints and it would be impossible to establish a connection with the atrocity that had just taken place. Letting go, she watched the case open as it splashed into the water and the fake banknotes, scattered and sodden, floated off. Soon the police would start looking for the fourth person who had been in the suite. They would assume it was a man.

Turning to the exit, Mirabelle glanced up Old Steine. The city was a blur of white stucco punctuated by dark grey roof slates. She felt nauseous. She made herself take a deep breath. A man behind the coconut shy asked her if she was feeling all right. Mirabelle held up her hand, hoping he wouldn’t try to help her further. A little way along, she sat on a deckchair. Somewhere further up a woman was singing ‘Greensleeves’ with her little girl. Mirabelle looked up. McGregor was
somewhere in the mass of buildings beyond her sight – maybe only his body. And Vesta was missing. She took a moment to think. It was all about the suicide note – the one Henshaw had written, or rather the one he hadn’t.

McGregor must have realised the note wasn’t genuine. It couldn’t have been. What was it the boy with Simmons had said when they woke her? It had struck her immediately as being out of place. People didn’t lie in suicide notes. Not in her experience and Henshaw had said himself only a few days ago that he didn’t believe in heaven or hell. That phrase begged the question of who had written and planted the letter. McGregor might have been suspicious of Tupps already and this would have given him something to question the old caretaker about. He’d have gone straight to the lodge.

Mirabelle tried to remember the old man. She’d only met him at the door on Tuesday morning – it seemed now as if it was months ago. Mr Tupps had been stocky, and now she came to think of it, he looked as if he could handle himself. He hadn’t seemed like a killer, but he’d poisoned Elsie Chapman already that day to protect the honour of his lodge. She wondered if he’d thought poisoning her was the kindest way. When it came to Henshaw he hadn’t been so kind, but then Henshaw’s objections to Elsie’s murder were more of a betrayal. Hadn’t Mr Tupps told Vesta that it was important to be loyal? For a moment she contrasted the old man with Laidlaw. It was difficult to decide who was the more ruthless. Mirabelle wondered where Vesta had got to. It would all come out in the end. That’s what Jack used to say. Mirabelle only hoped that she wasn’t too late.

She pulled herself to her feet and flagged a cab at the pier gates. ‘Queen’s Road, please,’ she said and slipped into the back. It wasn’t far.

The driver turned the car in a wide arc and turned up the hill. ‘On holiday?’ The man tried to make conversation but Mirabelle pretended not to hear. She rolled down the window
and let the warm breeze caress her skin. As the car turned the corner she said, ‘Just let me out here, please.’

Once the driver had gone, Mirabelle walked to the lodge’s front door. She pressed the bell. No answer. She tried again. Still nothing. She twisted the knob, but the door was locked. And she couldn’t attempt to pick the lock in the broad daylight. She began to mull over the possibilities. The street was long and there were few breaks in the frontage but to one side there was a turn-off. Mirabelle decided to investigate. She turned the corner of Church Street and discovered Crown Gardens – a lane that ran along the rear of the buildings.

Checking over her shoulder as she stalked along the alley Mirabelle found a foothold and climbed over the back wall of the lodge in one smooth movement. She dropped lightly to her feet and looked around. The garden was only a small yard with some creepers, foxgloves, belladonna and a small laburnum tree growing by the back wall. Of course. All these plants were poisonous. She peered at a cluster of small white flowers growing to one side. Was that hemlock? She wasn’t sure. The thought sent a shiver up her spine.

Mirabelle tried the back door. It was locked and bolted. Set into the Victorian wooden panels there was a large square of stained glass. Mirabelle found a stone and gave the pane a thump. The glass didn’t so much shatter as turn to powder, and she had to chip away at it before there was a big enough hole to clamber through. She hauled herself into the kitchen and brushed down her skirt.

This had been the old caretaker’s domain and he’d left it ship-shape. A rinsed teapot was on the draining board but it was the only sign of occupation. The place was silent, too. With no meetings until the afternoon and both Captain Henshaw and Mr Tupps dead, the brotherhood would have to make alternative arrangements to look after the property during the day. Mirabelle glanced into the pantry but the
shelves betrayed only a tea caddy, an almost empty bag of sugar and some silverware. Behind her, the tap dripped, a plump drop of water splashed onto the enamel and Mirabelle jumped.

Simmons had come here – twice he said when he spoke to her on the telephone. Once there had been no one. The next time he had met Mr Tupps who had assured him Superintendent McGregor hadn’t been in the lodge since Mrs Chapman’s body had been removed. The sergeant had asked to look around but he hadn’t been able to find any evidence in the only room where Tupps would grant him admission – the reception chamber upstairs. Did he have a warrant and was he looking for something in particular, Mr Tupps had enquired. If the sergeant wanted to send someone else – perhaps someone from the fraternity – they’d be able to look round properly, the old man had insisted. Simmons had not pursued the matter back at the station.

‘When it’s twenty-four hours, I’ll log it officially. Then the masons can get involved,’ he’d said.

That was still a few hours away, and Mirabelle was here. She’d need to start from the bottom – the servants’ quarters again. Methodically she checked the whole of the lower floor – store cupboards, pantries and even a laundry, which was so pristine she doubted anything had actually been washed there. To the front, there was a coal cellar that ran under the pavement outside and, disappointingly, contained only coal. The first floor was familiar and empty – the reception and meeting rooms she had seen the other day. Mirabelle climbed upwards. There was a library with long windows that looked down onto the street.

‘McGregor,’ she called quietly. ‘Are you here?’

Then, as she turned to make her way up to the next floor she noticed something from the vantage point of the staircase. It was only a detail, but she had left the door to the library open, and from where she stood she realised that the wall was in the wrong place. It was too far forward, even accounting for
the books. Mirabelle ran downstairs and opened the door to the room below the library. She stood back. There was no question it was out here as well, and by a good three feet. She ran back upstairs, skipping the library floor and going to the top of the house. Here, the wall was exactly where it should be. Over two floors there was a cavity.

Mirabelle stood in front of the wall of mahogany bookshelves. If she were a mason, where would she locate a secret door? A book that was important? There must be hundreds here. She cast her eyes around, scanning the shelves for something – a small lever or a button perhaps. There was nothing. She got down on her hands and knees and peered at the place where the bookcases joined the floor, hoping to feel a breeze or see a tiny gap that might mark a secret entrance. Then looking up, she found it. At the top of the bookcases there was a pattern, carved in wood and repeated all the way round – little gable steps going up and down. A sign.

Mirabelle grabbed the librarian’s ladder, which was on castors. She pulled until it came to a stop about two thirds of the way down the cases and then she climbed, reading the titles as she rose. The freemasons were sworn to secrecy, but they must have books they thought were important. And that would be the key. Sure enough, on one of the upper shelves she noticed one entitled
Freemasonry and Symbolism: Freedom of the Mind
. Below the title and tooled in gold there was the same up-and-down symbol as ran along the top of the bookcases. She reached towards the book and pulled. It scarcely moved. She waited and pulled it again, realising it was held in place somehow and wouldn’t move from the shelf. Nothing. Changing tack, Mirabelle tried pushing it. Bingo! There was the sound of machinery, an automatic latch moving, and to her left the bookshelves opened inwards like a door. With her heart pounding, she felt in her pocket for the torch and passed the beam of light over the cavity that she had unearthed. Inside,
there was a staircase that led downwards. Mirabelle stepped off the ladder and onto the stairs. She couldn’t see how far they went or where they led.

‘McGregor,’ she called, reaching for her old torch, ‘are you down there?’

There was a distinct thump.

The door swung closed behind her. Mirabelle felt anxious but she continued downwards. She must be at the level of the library floor, she thought, as she carried on through the downstairs ceiling and beyond. The stairs were steep and her fitted skirt restricted her movement. The light of the torch betrayed nothing but exposed brickwork and the stone staircase.

‘McGregor,’ she called again.

There was another thump. He was down here, somewhere.

At the basement level of the building the stairs turned into a corridor.

‘I’m coming,’ Mirabelle called with more confidence.

She must be at the back of the house by now but the corridor continued into what seemed to be a cavern. She directed the torchlight into the absolute darkness but the beam didn’t reach very far. Of course, she thought, the back of the building was on a slope. The lodge had taken advantage of it to create a hidden cavity here, like an air raid shelter, but judging by the stairs and the entrance in the library, they had done the work long before the Luftwaffe’s raids made underground hiding places common. She flashed the torch slowly across the floor, as far as the light would reach. To her left there were two other tunnels leading away from the end of the garden. She supposed these might bring one out further east of Queen’s Road, on Windsor Street perhaps. As the light twitched into the darkness, there was another thump to the right, and then another. She felt a wave of relief. He was trying to attract her attention. Mirabelle followed the sound and almost tripped over him.