Murder in the Museum (Fethering Mysteries) (13 page)

It certainly interested him more than the food on the plate in front of him. Laurence had never been much of an eater, though he loved restaurants. So long as he had his whisky and his cigarette, he was quite happy – no he positively enjoyed – to watch his female companion of the moment tucking into the biggest platefuls that the chefs could provide. At that moment he drew pleasure from the sight of Jude working her way through the Crown and Anchor’s Crispy Fish Pie, while he broke the occasional morsel off his ham roll.

Jude would have put money on the fact that he still didn’t sleep much. Still liked staying up late, talking the circular talk of academics, then snatching a few jumpy hours in bed before rising early to light up the first cigarette of a new day.

Laurence Hawker had cultivated self-neglect almost into an art form.

Jude often wondered why she was so drawn to him. Had she ever attempted to describe him, she knew she would project the image of a total poseur. The black clothes, the languid voice, the total unconcern for the practicalities of life, the cigarettes, the whisky, the promiscuity . . . it all made him sound like a refugee from the seventies, the redbrick academic who could spout for hours on the minutiae of the latest vogue in critical theory.

But what no description could put across was Laurence Hawker’s own in-built irony. There was always a twinkle in his eye, an awareness of his potential absurdity that removed the risk of his ever being thought absurd. He had always been post-modernist, even before the expression was coined.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Are you working?’

‘Not a full-time job. But I do some of the healing, counselling stuff, you know . . .’

He nodded. That was another thing about Laurence. Though he could be excoriatingly funny at the expense of other academics, he never sent up his friends. If there was something they took seriously, he respected that. He had never uttered a word of criticism or scepticism about Jude’s alternative therapies.

Mischievously, she thought she’d test the limits of his tolerance. ‘And I have got involved in solving the occasional murder.’

This too he took at face value. ‘You’d be good at that. Good understanding of human nature, suitably lateral mind. Yes, would suit you.’

‘Ever appealed to you, Laurence?’

He chuckled languidly. ‘Well, I certainly know about back-stabbing in academia. Trouble is, there are always too many suspects.’

‘There’s something around at the moment on which you might be quite helpful.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, I say there is. Not much to go on yet. A body’s been found, that’s all. A skeleton. No news yet whether it’s even a murder.’

‘Let’s assume it is. Always makes for more fun.’

‘Mm.’

‘But why might I be helpful?’

‘There is a literary connection, Laurence. The body was found in the grounds of a house called Bracketts.’

‘Ah.’ He was there instantly. ‘Esmond Chadleigh.’

‘You know his work?’

‘Hard to avoid knowing “Threnody for the Lost”. Or, if you had parents like mine,
Naughty Nursie’s Nursery Rhymes
. I even read the impossibly twee
Demesnes of Eregonne
. Yes, he was an interesting figure. Minor figure, of course. I think he knew that, and I think the fact made him very miserable. Versatility can be a curse for a writer, you know. The curse of being “almost good at everything”.’

‘Have you studied Esmond Chadleigh then?’

‘No, not studied seriously. Read a lot of stuff around him. I’m quite interested in that between the wars period, when it was still possible to make a living as a “man of letters”.’ There was a wistfulness in his voice, and Jude wondered whether that was what Laurence himself would really like to have been.

‘Do you think Chadleigh was more interesting as a man than he was as a writer?’

‘Sadly, no. Settled comfortably at Bracketts at a relatively early age, cushioned by a bit of family money. Stayed married to the same woman till he died. No great emotional upheavals in his life, I’m afraid. Not the stuff of biographies.’

‘At least two are being written of him.’

‘Are they? I’m afraid I won’t be rushing out to buy either. Esmond Chadleigh was too like too many other literary figures to be that interesting in his own right. There was the Catholicism, of course, but there are plenty of other, more interestingly neurotic Catholics in English literature.’

‘Had he got a strong faith?’

‘Like many other Catholics, Esmond had a crust of Catholic complacency over a thin layer of doubt, which spanned a deep morass of sheer terror.’

‘Right. Well, nice to know an expert.’ Jude grinned at him. ‘When I need further information, I’ll come and pick your brains mercilessly.’

‘Sounds fun.’ Laurence Hawker looked at her plate, now empty of Crispy Fish Pie, then at his equally empty whisky glass. ‘Could I offer you another drink perhaps?’

‘I have both whisky and wine back at home.’

‘Ah.’

‘Would you maybe like to see the delights of Wood-side Cottage?’

‘Yes. Thank you, Jude. I’d like that very much.’

‘Hello?’

‘Carole, it’s me, Jude.’

‘Where are you calling from?’

‘Home.’ That was odd. Jude would never use the phone when just dropping in was an option. ‘Just a couple of things I found out from Mervyn Hunter.’

‘I didn’t know you were going to see him.’ Once again pique was not far away from Carole’s voice.

‘No. Well, I told you, I don’t talk a lot about that prison stuff.’

‘Right.’ But it didn’t sound as though everything was quite right, so far as Carole was concerned.

‘Anyway, I found out two important details about the body.’

‘The Bracketts body?’

‘Yes. These were the reasons why the police didn’t take Mervyn’s confession seriously. For a start, the skeleton is a man’s. And, second, it had been buried in the kitchen garden for a very long time.’

‘How long?’

‘Before Mervyn was even born. Possibly as much as ninety years ago.’

Carole quickly did the calculation. Second decade of the twentieth century. ‘That’s very interesting. Thank you for telling me.’

Carole was about to ask why Jude hadn’t come round to give the information in person, but missed the opportunity, as her friend went on, ‘You didn’t find out anything more at Bracketts?’

‘About the body? No.’

‘I’m amazed there still hasn’t been anything in the press. It’s not the sort of thing you can keep quiet for long.’

‘Sheila Cartwright claimed to have a direct line to the Chief Constable. Maybe that’s it. She’s persuaded him to sit on it.’

‘Can’t do that for ever.’

‘No. By the way, I’ve fixed up my meeting with Professor Marla Teischbaum.’

‘Ah.’ Jude sounded intrigued, as if she wanted to know more. But then there was a sound on the line, and she seemed to change her mind. ‘Tell me all the details when the deed is done.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ said Carole.

‘Must dash. Bye.’

It was with a familiar frustration that Carole put down the phone. Jude could sometimes be so infuriating. She didn’t deliberately withhold information, just rarely volunteered it. There remained vast areas of her life about which her neighbour knew nothing at all.

And was Carole being fanciful to imagine she’d heard the distant rumble of a man’s voice on the line just before Jude rang off? Not of course that it was her business. Jude had a perfect right to live her life exactly as she chose, giving away only as much information about it as she chose to. And, thought Carole with a return of frustration, that was a right of which Jude took full advantage.

Still, no time to brood. She was meeting Marla Teischbaum in Fedborough at four. The Professor had offered to come to High Tor, but Carole thought she’d feel safer on neutral ground, so they’d agreed to meet at the American’s hotel, the Pelling Arms.

Which meant that, if her Labrador Gulliver was going to get his walk on Fethering Beach, Carole would have to get her skates on. Even though he found the hot weather oppressive, Gulliver was panting, pathetically grateful to her for being taken out.

She didn’t positively look at Woodside Cottage as they walked past, but Carole couldn’t help noticing that the curtains of Jude’s bedroom were drawn. Maybe she wasn’t well? Maybe Carole should go round with some neighbourly grapes? No, probably not.

She wondered what was going on, and again her sense of frustration returned.

It wasn’t that Carole didn’t like mysteries. But she liked mysteries that were capable of rational solution. And those which surrounded her friend Jude very rarely were.

Carole wasn’t quite sure what she’d been expecting from Professor Marla Teischbaum. The voice on the phone had suggested that, though she worked there, she wasn’t a native of California. From the nasal voice, Carole had conjured up the image of someone small, bustling, combative and, yes, very Jewish. She certainly wasn’t expecting the extremely tall, elegant woman who uncoiled from a chintzy armchair to greet her in the Residents’ Lounge of the Pelling Arms.

‘You must be Mrs Seddon.’

‘Please, call me Carole.’

‘And I’m Marla.’ They sat down. ‘Can I get you coffee or something?’

‘Coffee would be nice, thank you.’

‘Well, I’ll do my best. The secret in this place seems to be to get your order in quickly. Then after the second or third time you order it, something may arrive. Excuse me, I’ll go to the bar. Passing waiters in this Lounge are rarer than passenger pigeons. Regular coffee, is it?’

‘Please.’

Carole watched the tall figure leave the room. Marla wore trousers in the subtlest of green, and a loosely-hanging oatmeal top which, in spite of its price, was probably still designated a T-shirt. Her neatly sculpted hair was a rich chestnut, almost copper beech in tone. Her make-up was expertly applied, highlighting the dark eyes and full lips. She didn’t match any of the scruffy stereotypes of academics; someone passing her in the street might mark her down as an actress or a model.

When she returned, Marla Teischbaum sank with a graceful mock-ennui back into her armchair. ‘They appeared to get the message,’ she said dubiously.

‘Do I detect you’re not over-impressed with the Pelling Arms?’

‘Gard, where do I start? Goodwill, friendliness of staff, I give them one hundred per cent. Efficiency . . . I’m afraid a bit lower down the scale.’ She enumerated on her long beautifully manicured fingers, ‘No elevators, no air conditioning, no ice machines, no . . .’ She stopped and smiled, setting up a ripple of fine lines around her mocha-coloured eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m sounding terribly American.’

‘Don’t worry. You’re not treading on any toes. The local reputation of this place isn’t that great.’

‘Right. Anyway, it’s somewhere to stay. Right area. Location is what counts, after all. Convenient for the County Records Office in Chichester.’ She paused significantly. ‘And, of course, for Bracketts . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘By the way, Carole, I do know why you’re here.’

‘Well, yes, of course.’ Carole found herself unaccountably flustered. ‘I’m here because you wanted to meet me.’

Marla Teischbaum raised a single long finger of objection. ‘Not entirely correct. With no offence to you at all, I hope, Carole, I did not initially ask for a meeting with you. I approached the Bracketts Trustees requesting co-operation for my researches into Esmond Chadleigh.’

‘Yes. And the Trustees are prepared to co-operate.’

Carole tapped the folder on her lap. ‘This is an expression of their willingness to share with you . . .’

But the slow shaking of Marla’s head dried up her words. ‘No,’ said the American calmly. ‘You know and I know that that is just a gesture, throwing a bone to the slavering dog in the hope that it will get distracted and forget to attack you.’ The assessment was so accurate that Carole could only hang her head in embarrassment. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if such expressions have been used about me in your Trustees’ Meetings.’

Again it was too close to the truth for any sensible argument to be offered. All Carole could say was, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not really an expert on Esmond Chadleigh.’

‘I am well aware of that. Also well aware of the fact that that is why you have been sent to see me.’

Marla Teischbaum’s understanding of the situation was so total that Carole started to wonder whether the Professor actually had a spy in the Bracketts camp. Was one of the Trustees feeding her information? If that were the case, Carole didn’t have to look far for her chief suspect. She remembered the glee with which George Ferris had brought up Professor Marla Teisch-baum’s name at the last meeting. And he’d been the one who knew she was about to visit West Sussex. Yes, Carole could see George Ferris relishing the glamour a woman like Marla might bring into the tedium of his retirement.

‘You’re the perfect emissary,’ the American went on, one hand unconsciously smoothing the contours of her chestnut hair. ‘Since you know virtually nothing about my chosen subject, you can’t let slip anything about Esmond Chadleigh that you shouldn’t.’