England Expects (24 page)

Superintendent McGregor was tied to an iron post that was
set into the ground. He had been gagged. With trembling fingers, she put the torch on the floor. Then she bent down and loosened a knot to free his mouth. The piece of fabric opened in her hand. It was part of a dishcloth.

‘Mirabelle,’ McGregor’s words came out garbled, ‘he said he was coming back soon. Tupps. The caretaker. I don’t know how long he’s been. But we have to get away.’

Mirabelle smiled. ‘He’s not coming back,’ she said firmly, starting to loosen the rope that tied McGregor’s hands. ‘Don’t worry.’

He stank of stale sweat. The smell of desperation and abandonment. He’d need fluid. That would be the main thing. He was shaken of course, but that was normal. What had the masons built this place for, she wondered. Was it an escape route? A hiding place? As she fumbled to untie the Superintendent the torch toppled and the light fell on the wall behind McGregor’s frame. Mirabelle stifled a scream. There were niches built into the rough brickwork. One was filled with human skulls, balanced precariously on top of one another as in a catacomb. Composing herself, she flicked the light of the torch further along, her fingers shaking as strange objects appeared out of the darkness – brass candlesticks, dusty dark glass bottles labelled in Greek, jars filled with . . .

‘Oh,’ Mirabelle gasped as she made out what looked like medical samples suspended in viscous fluid. There was a hand with six fingers in one of the smaller containers and the wide face of a Chinese man with a shaven head, who, when she looked closer, had no ears.

‘We have to help Vesta.’ McGregor was regaining control of his voice. He put his hand on the torch and lowered it. His skin was cold.

‘Vesta?’ said Mirabelle. She followed the line of light. And there she was. Over to one side, Vesta sat in the dark. She was bound and gagged like McGregor. She looked terrified.

‘Good Lord!’ Mirabelle ran to the girl and pulled off the cloth that covered her mouth. Her fingers moved frantically. Finding McGregor was one thing, but poor Vesta had been down here all along, too.

‘What on earth have they been doing here?’ She turned to McGregor, her voice tremulous as her fingers unravelled the knots.

McGregor was trying to stand up. ‘God knows,’ he said. ‘I’ve been staring at these things for hours, trying to make them out. It’s a chamber of bloody horrors.’

Mirabelle sensed him smile in the darkness.

‘The main thing now is to get out,’ he said. ‘We need to focus on that. How did you get in?’

‘The library.’

‘He took me through the coal cellar, I think. I was woozy though.’ The Superintendent rubbed his wrists and then untied his ankles.

Mirabelle could feel Vesta’s whole body shaking. As the girl’s hands were freed she flung her arms around Mirabelle, tears streaming down her face.

‘You’re all right now,’ Mirabelle said. ‘And you were right, Vesta. It was too dangerous. Far too dangerous. We should never have got involved.’ She stroked the girl’s hair. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she soothed. ‘There, there.’

McGregor moved the torch slowly to one side and spotlit another niche, which housed several stuffed and mounted birds of prey. At the end, there was a pile of very ancient books. Lettering in faded gold read
Olde Magicke
.

‘Magic? Superstitious nonsense, if you ask me.’ McGregor’s voice sounded stronger than he looked. ‘I think you’ve saved my life, Mirabelle. Thank you.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to thank you enough.’

Vesta got to her feet, grasping Mirabelle’s arm.

‘Now, given we’re the walking wounded, which way is the best to get out, do you think?’ he said.

‘Back through the coal cellar,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘Fewer stairs. It’s at the front of the building.’

McGregor nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of this place.’

Two minutes later, as the three of them stumbled blinking onto Queen’s Road, Mirabelle could see that McGregor was still trembling. The three of them must look in a terrible state, she thought. The coal cellar had been filthy. Still, given what the pair had been through, it could have been worse. McGregor had a livid scar on his cheek and bruises on his wrists. Vesta was subdued and looked as if she had been beaten.

‘Mirabelle, I can’t thank you enough,’ said McGregor, his voice hoarse with emotion.

‘You need to drink something.’ Mirabelle put her hand on his arm. ‘Water. Tea. Both of you. You’re still in shock.’

She didn’t want to be thanked, she realised. She only wanted to get further away. There was something disturbing about the lodge even if Mr Tupps would never be returning to it. It was as if the building might reach out and pull them back in. She wanted to ask McGregor what he thought of it all. What did grown men get out of arcane ceremonies, books about magic and stuffed birds? Were they so desperate to feel important that they’d do anything? It was superstition gone mad She pushed the thoughts away. Getting her friends something to drink was the priority now. There was a pub across the road towards the front. It wasn’t open yet, but a thin, pasty-faced woman with her hair wrapped in a scarf was scrubbing the doorstep.

Vesta still hadn’t spoken. Mirabelle clasped her hand. ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘We need to get something in you.’

McGregor flashed his warrant card as they approached the door. ‘We need water,’ he said.

The woman got off her knees. ‘We’re not really open,’ she
replied but she led them inside and poured water into three glasses, which she set on the bar.

McGregor gulped his down. ‘That’s better,’ he said with relief.

The woman filled his glass again. Vesta lifted hers shakily to her lips.

‘What happened to you then?’ the woman enquired. ‘That darkie’s in a right state.’

‘The Detective Superintendent has had a shock, that’s all, and Miss Churchill is unwell. Do you think you might let us sit here for a moment?’ Mirabelle said. ‘Don’t let us keep you.’

‘This best not affect the licence.’

‘No. Nothing like that.’ Mirabelle’s voice was reassuring.

The woman shrugged and returned to her bucket and mop. Mirabelle helped Vesta to take another sip. It was going down. Slowly, but still.

‘Mirabelle,’ said McGregor, ‘you must let me do something for you. Let me thank you properly, please.’

‘Not at all,’ she dismissed him. ‘I just happened to be the one who found you. Simmons was out looking all night. He went to the lodge twice. I tell you what, those masons get away with . . .’

‘Murder? Not quite. Not ours at least, anyway.’

Mirabelle looked down. She had to focus. She couldn’t tell him everything but she could tell him some of it. She put her arm protectively around Vesta, who laid her head on Mirabelle’s shoulder like a child. Mirabelle felt a sudden flush of happiness and relief that the girl was all right.

‘The truth was that I didn’t even know Vesta was there,’ she admitted. ‘I’m a hopeless detective. As it was, I thought I might be too late and you’d be gone.’

‘You saw how we were fixed. We weren’t going anywhere.’

Mirabelle bit her lip. It was good he still had a sense of humour.

‘Do you think you might call me Alan now?’ he asked.

‘Alan,’ she said. The word sounded strange. ‘The thing is, I’m afraid I have quite a story to tell, assuming you want to know. And if you owe me anything because of what I just did, then I’ll be cashing in those chips immediately.’

McGregor stared at her. ‘You mean I’m not the first man you’ve rescued this morning?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Much worse. There have been three deaths at the Grand Hotel. Mr Tupps, Professor Marsden, who is a don from Cambridge and a member of the Grand Lodge in London, and another chap whose name is Laidlaw.’

‘Tupps is dead?’ McGregor’s eyes hardened. ‘I was looking forward to nicking him. What the hell is going on?’

‘I think it’s over now.’

‘Do you know who killed these men?’

‘Yes. I know who killed everyone,’ she said. ‘Or at least I think I do. But if I tell you, I’m hoping you’ll forgive me and you’ll keep me out of it. Me and the person I was with.’

McGregor drained the water in his glass. ‘You just saved my life,’ he said, ‘and now you want me to perjure myself?’

‘Just a little.’ Mirabelle couldn’t look him in the eye. ‘I’m so sorry.’

McGregor wondered if the woman might sell him pork scratchings from behind the bar. He was suddenly ravenously hungry. ‘This wasn’t what I meant when I said I wanted to take you out for a drink, by the way,’ he said, standing up and reaching for the jar of pickled eggs he’d just spotted on the counter. He pulled some coins from his pocket and left them on the bar, pointing out what he’d done to the woman who had looked up from her work.

‘I’ll do whatever I can but you’d better tell me everything, Mirabelle. And start at the beginning.’

Mirabelle slipped her hand into Vesta’s. She stroked the girl’s palm soothingly. Then she began to speak.

Chapter 29

Mercy bears richer fruits than justice
.

M
cGregor walked into the Grand almost an hour later and announced himself at the reception desk. A bellboy was dispatched to take him up to the penthouse floor. At the top, the boy waited awkwardly at the lift doors.

‘You heard what happened?’ McGregor asked.

The boy nodded.

‘Off you go, son. No need to hang about. I’ll find it from here.’

The suite was busy. A photographer was taking shots of the bodies, two pathologists were engaged in measuring the wounds, and Robinson was bent over the fireplace, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the cooling embers.

‘Sir.’ The inspector stood to attention. He flung his cigarette into the grate and then put out his hand as he realised what he had done. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just surprised to see you. Are you all right? We didn’t know where you’d got to.’

McGregor motioned Robinson to follow him into the hallway and around the corner. He checked left and right up the corridor to make sure no one was around. Then he grabbed the inspector by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him so hard against the wall that he could feel the man’s ribs reverberate.

‘I’m only going to ask you once,’ he said, ‘and I’m hoping you’re not completely bent. Why did you remove the journalist’s body?’

‘What journalist?’ Robinson’s voice was tinged with panic. ‘None of them was a journalist.’

‘On Monday, Robinson? Remember Joey Gillingham?’

The inspector nodded furiously. ‘Oh yes. Sorry, Sir. I was thinking about, well, today. In there.’

‘Why did you remove Gillingham’s body?’ McGregor pulled back his fist.

Robinson noticed the bruises around the Superintendent’s wrist and the determination in his eyes. His breath smelled of stale egg. Robinson hesitated. ‘It was the matchbook,’ he said. ‘I know it sounds stupid. It was in his pocket.’

McGregor nodded. That was right. Gillingham’s pockets had contained cigarettes but no lighter or matches. ‘Go on.’

‘It was from the Connaught Rooms. Next to the Grand Lodge. There was a mason’s mark scrawled inside. We didn’t know what had happened, and I just thought it was best to move him. In the end he wasn’t even on the square.’

‘Jesus!’ McGregor’s eyes flashed with fury. ‘You pull anything like that because of your stupid club ever again and I won’t have you demoted, I won’t have you fired, I’ll rip out your gullet. Whatever loyalty the bloody lodge inspires, your first duty is to the force, do you understand? We have six bodies now, Robinson, and if I’d known on Monday that Gillingham had been to the Grand Lodge or near it I might have stopped at least some of these unnecessary deaths, you son of a bitch. You withhold evidence from me again and I’ll kill you.’

Robinson lifted his hands in surrender.

McGregor let go of his deputy’s shoulders. ‘You can walk out now if you want, but from now on if you’re playing, you’re playing on my team, got that? Let your weird friends at the lodge find you another job – it’s your decision but it’s a decision you need to make. Do you understand?’

‘It’s not weird, Sir, it’s just a club. We do charity work . . .’ Robinson stopped protesting under McGregor’s gaze.

‘Have you ever been in the basement of your precious lodge?’ the Superintendent pressed.

‘The basement?’

McGregor sized up the lad. He clearly wasn’t aware of whatever Tupps had been up to. ‘You’re pretty low in the pecking order, then?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so, Sir.’

‘From now on, Robinson, you remember that. You owe the police more than the masons and you owe me absolute loyalty. I’m your mother and your father, do you understand? You make another mistake like that one and you’re worse than out.’

Robinson looked miserable. ‘Yes, Sir.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook.

‘You’re going to fill me in?’ Coming from McGregor’s lips it didn’t sound like a question.

Robinson held the little book out to McGregor. ‘No, Sir. I’m giving it to you. This is Joey’s notebook. I just found it in the personal effects of one of the victims.’

‘Let me guess. The man with the tweed suit, the moustache and half his head blown away?’

‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised. One of our fresh crop of victims kidnapped me yesterday and probably intended to kill me.’ Robinson did not look as perturbed by this information as might be hoped. McGregor continued. ‘We need to find all known associates of the man in there. The one who was shot. His name, I believe, is Laidlaw. I’m interested particularly in a gentleman seen yesterday in his company and indeed in the vicinity of one of the other victims – a Professor Peter Marsden. The man we’re looking for is tall and was last seen wearing a black suit and a bowler hat. They met in Cambridge. You need to liaise with the nick over there and have them collect some statements. Then we need to see if we can find
the fellow. He’ll be here or hereabouts. He’s an associate of Laidlaw’s.’

‘There had to have been someone else in the room.’ Robinson pointed in the direction of the suite. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. None of the victims died slowly enough to be the last one standing. None of them were bleeding out. Someone walked away.’

‘You’re a genius, Robinson. A veritable mastermind. Right. So, find me this fellow – the known associate. That seems a good place to start.’

‘And you think he killed all of them?’

‘No. I reckon Laidlaw killed Gillingham and the two other men in the room today. Tupps killed Mrs Chapman and Captain Henshaw, and I suspect the missing associate was the one to pull the trigger on Laidlaw this morning. All right?’

Robinson looked bemused. ‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure, but your stupid club is up to its neck in it all. You can count on that. Along with a spot of blackmail here and there and an illegitimate child. It started with Mrs Chapman. She found out something that your fellows wanted to keep secret. She had a document for sale. Something that implicated the masons, or at least something important to them. Don’t panic. It isn’t your lot. It’s some chaps from London or even Scotland.’

‘All freemasons are brothers, Sir. It’s a brotherhood.’

‘Very brotherly. All these bodies,’ McGregor spat. ‘Mrs Chapman tried to sell the document to Gillingham. He was killed, then she was killed. The document fell into the hands of Giles Tupps, I think, who was meeting these gentlemen in order to sell it on. God knows what’s happened to it now.’

‘The ashes in the grate, Sir. They look like very high-quality paper and maybe some rope.’

‘Right. What we need is this fellow in the bowler hat. I’m sure he will be able to help us with our inquiries.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I’ll stay here to oversee things and liaise with the Scottish police. Laidlaw, as you might surmise, is from north of the border. You can leave that to me. Your job is to find the chap who’s gone missing. He’s potentially very dangerous. Can you handle it?’

Robinson nodded furiously but stayed rooted to the spot.

‘Well, get on with it, man!’

McGregor leaned against the wall. His skin was clammy. He felt slightly sick. But he was here – alive – and in charge of the investigation. Thank God Robinson was relatively clueless. He looked at the notebook. He’d better ring Simmons, he supposed. It wouldn’t be so easy to hoodwink the old sergeant even with ninety per cent of the truth. He wondered what notes Joey had taken about this whole affair – the notes for which he’d been killed. One way or another he’d see to it that Mirabelle could copy out the notebook for her client, though the book itself was evidence and would have to be retained.

McGregor thought about that moment, sitting in the dark, muscles aching, when he’d heard her voice. He’d felt elated and yet he’d half-hoped that it wouldn’t be her. He didn’t want her to be in danger, but then she was drawn to these situations. She was good at them. Perhaps he’d fallen in love with Mirabelle Bevan. Then he shook his head, dismissing the notion. It had been an emotional day, that was all. He headed for the suite. He’d better get down to work. If he could prove five out of the six murders then he would be happy. And she’d given him the truth, or enough of it to do that.

Ida Gillingham arrived promptly at McGuigan & McGuigan a mere two and a half hours after receiving Mirabelle’s telegram informing her that her brother’s notebook had been found.

‘I got the train straight away,’ she said and drew a handkerchief from her handbag. Today, it was a silk one with little
bluebirds along the edge and bunches of flowers in the corners. Ida dabbed her nose. Mirabelle observed the girl. She didn’t appear bereaved at all, even if she was sniffing. Perhaps she suffered from hay fever.

‘Where is it, then?’ Ida asked.

‘The police have your brother’s notebook, Miss Gillingham. It’s evidence. They are on the trail of his killer.’

‘Well, that’s no good to me,’ Ida objected. ‘I came all the way down here to pick up Joey’s tips, didn’t I?’

‘Mr Turpin is seeing to it for you.’ Mirabelle tried not to show her distaste. ‘He’s had a copy made. He’ll be back in the office soon. Tell me, Miss Gillingham, can you decode Joey’s notebook? It’s written in code as far as I understand.’

Ida drew herself up in her chair. ‘Oh, I can read it all right. It’s the same code Joey and I used when we were kids. It’s a family code, see. No one else can make it out. Our dad used it and all. Before he was killed in the war.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

Ida stared pointedly at the door. ‘I hope Mr Turpin hurries up.’

‘Might I suggest you don’t provide the police with an accurate translation should there be anything in the notebook about your brother’s last days, Miss Gillingham. Anything to do with his work. Just in case they ask.’

Ida fixed an uncompromising stare on Mirabelle. ‘I generally don’t tell anyone nothing unless I have to,’ she nodded.

It certainly seemed that way. Mirabelle was about to reply when she heard Bill’s steps outside the office door. He had a distinctive flat-footed gait. The result of years on the beat. She let it go.

‘Afternoon, ladies.’ He tipped his hat as he came in followed by Panther.

Mirabelle noted the little dog ignored Miss Gillingham – he had a certain animal wisdom, she thought.

‘Well, now.’ Bill reached inside his pocket. ‘I got your winning slips, Miss Gillingham. The sergeant released them. And here’s a transcript of your brother’s notes.’ He put the slips into Ida’s outstretched hand and laid a small sheaf of notepaper on the desk in front of her.

Ida surveyed the notes. Her lips moved as she read the first few lines carefully. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘What do I owe you?’

‘Fifteen per cent, like I said, and if you throw me a racing tip, Miss, that would be lovely.’

Ida reached into her handbag and brought out a small black purse. ‘I make it eight pounds, near enough.’ She leafed through the slips with one hand and pulled out a white fiver and some change with the other. ‘Thank you, Mr Turpin. And I can commend you to, let me see, Nearula. It’s not much of a tip but if you put on money both ways he’ll place almost any race. It’s his third season, see.’

‘Thanks,’ Bill said uncertainly.

Ida bounced to her feet.

‘Do you need any help finding Tony Grillo?’ Bill offered. ‘He’s the man who’ll honour Joey’s betting slips.’

The girl eyed Bill suspiciously and shook her head. ‘Good afternoon.’ She nodded at Mirabelle and made for the door.

Bill sank into his chair and started making notes. ‘Even I would know to back Nearula. Honestly! Shall we put in for an office sweepstake, do you think?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Vesta.

‘My cousin Denny’s hard of hearing.’ Bill grinned and held up the list he’d made. ‘And Miss Gillingham moves her lips when she reads. I caught four horses’ names for meetings taking place this weekend. I’ll nip down and get a racing paper, and we can search them out, eh?’

Mirabelle smiled. It had been such a miserable day – thank heavens for Bill. There was something indomitable about him. ‘You can lip-read?’

‘I learned to do it with Denny when we were nippers. I got the makings of a corking accumulator here. Ten bob each and we’ll walk away with a small fortune – if you’re game, ladies?’

‘Let me fetch my purse,’ insisted Mirabelle, reaching for her handbag. ‘This one’s on me.’

While Bill was away the women relaxed. It seemed odd somehow to get back to normal so easily. Vesta closed her eyes. The office felt right. When she opened them again Mirabelle was leaning across her desk.

‘It’s over, I promise,’ she said quietly. ‘I shall let the troubles of strangers be. At least I’ll try to. I can’t believe that I didn’t realise you were there. I should have looked after you better. I apologise.’

‘No. I sent you home,’ the girl pointed out. ‘I won’t do that again. It’s not as if anyone else noticed, is it? Not even Charlie.’

‘Perhaps there’s a downside to being so independent. Are you going to tell him?’

‘And scare him half to death? No. No, I’m fine.’

‘If you need someone to talk to . . . later, I mean,’ said Mirabelle awkwardly.

‘I know.’ Vesta held her friend’s eye. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

The sound of footsteps hammering on the linoleum outside broke their conversation. Charlie burst into the office. Delighted, Vesta jumped from her chair straight into his arms. Charlie looked surprised. ‘Are you all right, Miss Bevan?’ he said, peering over Vesta’s shoulder.

Mirabelle looked up. ‘Of course.’

‘And the other lady?’

‘She’s gone home. She’ll spend the summer with her mother, I expect.’

‘But you didn’t . . . I mean, you weren’t hurt, were you?’

‘Don’t be silly. We got out long before there was any trouble. It seems to me there was a falling out of thieves after
we left the building. I’ve spoken to Superintendent McGregor and he’s said he’ll keep our presence at a very low profile. I’d be obliged if you’d do the same. And this is for you.’ Mirabelle handed back the key to the suite. ‘Thank you. As it turned out, it was a life-saver. It’s Vesta who’s had a tough afternoon. It’s Vesta you need to look after.’