Murder in the Museum (Fethering Mysteries) (15 page)

In spite of her bullying and blackmailing tactics, at times, Carole realized, Sheila Cartwright could be extremely pragmatic and sensible.

‘But it can’t be kept secret much longer, Jude,’ said Carole. ‘I mean, they’ve managed to keep it quiet for nearly a week, but if Professor Marla Teischbaum has heard about the skeleton, then it’s only a matter of time before lots of other people do, and then it’s only a matter of time before the press get hold of the story.’

‘And you say you think it may have been leaked to the Professor by one of the Trustees?’

‘I don’t have any proof of that, Jude . . .’ She wondered whether to confide her recent misgiving about Gina Locke, but it seemed too unsubstantial. ‘I’m very suspicious, though, of a guy called George Ferris. Ex-librarian. Looks like he’s escaped from one of the lesser works of Tolkien. He knew Marla Teischbaum was going to be over here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a hotline to her.’

‘And did she imply that she was going to use her knowledge of the body as a bargaining counter or something of that kind?’

Carole screwed up her face in disagreement. ‘Not really. I mean, how could she use it? Threaten to break the news to the press? It’s got to come out soon, anyway.’

‘Why do you think the police are sitting on the story?’

‘If Sheila Cartwright’s to be believed, it’s because of pressure she’s putting on the Chief Constable. Her friend “Paul”.’ Something of Sheila’s autocratic manner coloured the name as Carole spoke it. ‘I know she’s well-connected, but I doubt if she could do that. On the other hand, if they can keep the story quiet just till the end of this week, when the house is closed to the public for the winter, that would make sense. Save a lot of gawpers and ghouls coming round to inspect the Scene of the Crime.’

‘If there is a crime.’

‘Hm.’

Carole was feeling resentful. Jude had done it to her again. Just breezed round to High Tor with no explanation for why her bedroom curtains had been drawn earlier in the afternoon. And, as ever, before Carole had had time to ascertain basic facts, the conversation had moved on. Still, too late to do anything about it now.

She went on, ‘Mind you, there is a logic to holding the story till Bracketts becomes a private house again for the winter. I can see that would appeal to the people who run the place.’

‘But Sheila Cartwright no longer has anything to do with running the place.’

‘You try telling her that.’

‘I had a thought, Carole . . .’

‘Hm?’

‘I’d quite fancy doing another Guided Tour of Bracketts . . .’

‘Good idea.’

‘If there is a mystery to solve, I’d like to get a feeling of the place.’

‘Yes. Well, it’ll have to be this week.’

‘I know. Would it bore you to come too?’

‘No, Jude. I’d like that very much.’ She remembered that she hadn’t yet got round to posting the letter Graham Chadleigh-Bewes had mistakenly left in the file for Marla Teischbaum. ‘As a matter of fact, there’s something I’ve got to drop in there, anyway.’

‘How about going tomorrow? Thursday? That all right for you?’

‘Fine.’

‘And I’ve got a friend staying with me. He might want to come too.’

‘Oh,’ was all Carole said, but she felt a little pang of disappointment. Was this the explanation of the closed curtains? She hadn’t had many friends throughout her life, and she knew she was over-possessive of those she had. But with Jude, she’d been fine, known that her neighbour had a life of many strands, and usually managed not to feel slighted when her friend was off in another part of her life. But never before had Jude suggested involving someone else in one of their mystery investigations.

The weather was much better than the last time Carole had been to Bracketts, but summer was just a memory. Though direct sunlight remained hot, in the shadows she could feel the chill breath of autumn.

Nor had she warmed, on the drive from Fethering, to Laurence Hawker. For one thing, as soon as they all got into her neat white Renault, without asking for permission, he had immediately lit up a cigarette. Even though he had trailed the hand which held it out of the open window, Carole still regarded this as a serious breach of good manners. Nor was she taken by his black leather jacket and matching uniform, or his general air of amused ennui. She saw only the exterior of a languid poseur and, having never been in love with him, could not see any of the better, interior qualities that Jude appreciated.

But he certainly knew his stuff about Esmond Chadleigh and, rather grudgingly, Carole recognized she had to be grateful for that. If Jude had enrolled him on this one particular mission because of his special knowledge of Bracketts’ literary background, no problem. He could be a consultant, but not a participant. Jude suggesting any other role for Laurence would sound warning bells.

Carole couldn’t work out what the relationship between the two of them was, and that annoyed her. She liked to have things cut and dried in her mind. Jude and Laurence evidently knew each other well, and had known each other for quite a while. But whether they ever had been lovers or – an even more incongruous idea – still were lovers, Carole had no idea. She had never possessed those antennae built into many women, which could instantly identify and analyse the sexual content of any relationship. The instinct was not one she actively wished for, though the lack of it did sometimes cause her aggravation.

Because she couldn’t define their level of closeness, Carole was awkward in Jude and Laurence’s company. Though there was no overt manifestation of affection like hand-holding or an arm around a shoulder, she still didn’t want to crowd them. Going from room to room through the narrow corridors of Bracketts, Carole felt obliged to walk ahead or behind, leaving them the option of walking side by side, should they so wish.

Her discomfort was increased by the fact that she knew she was being stupid, allowing yet another of the infuriating traits of her character to hobble her behaviour. Being Carole Seddon was sometimes a very tiresome business, overreacting to imagined slights, and tightening social Gordian knots which cried out to be sliced quickly through.

On this visit to Bracketts they didn’t bother with the gardens. Though very beautiful and punctiliously maintained by teams of Volunteers, there was nothing in them of literary relevance. The only part of the grounds which Carole and Jude might have wished to inspect, the kitchen garden, was firmly locked off by its substantial gates. Whether behind those gates police forensic teams still beavered away, sifting the ground for clues about a long-dead body, they had no means of knowing.

The interior of the house, however, still breathed the personality of Esmond Chadleigh. His image was hard to escape. The walls were covered with paintings, photographs and cartoons of the writer at various stages of his life. From his twenties on he had affected one of those big moustaches with pointed ends which were quite acceptable until Stalin gave them a bad name. Esmond Chadleigh’s short, compacted figure thickened out considerably as he got older; the floppy hair and moustache turned white, but there was always a look of ease. There was nothing of the tortured artist about him. He was photographed with his wife, with his two daughters, Sonia and Belinda, enjoying the idyllic surrounding of Bracketts, and they looked like a genuinely happy family. If there had been any disappointments in Esmond Chadleigh’s professional or personal life, they were not evident in the mood of the pictures selected for display.

In spite of her resentment of Laurence Hawker, Carole could not deny that he was an extremely valuable person to have around on such a trip. The official tour was conducted by one of the Bracketts Volunteers, though not dressed in logo-marked overalls or waterproofs like the outside workers. The team who worked inside the house were all of a type, doughty white-haired women in their sixties, unwavering in their devotion to Catholicism and to the blessed memory of Esmond Chadleigh. They didn’t have an official uniform, but since they all dressed in white blouses, navy jackets and dark-coloured kilts, they might as well have done. They knew their set routine very well, and were up to answering basic supplementary questions about Esmond Chadleigh’s life and work, but they couldn’t provide the kind of detailed glosses that Laurence Hawker could.

Without Laurence, Carole and Jude wouldn’t have heard about the rift with Chesterton and Belloc during the early nineteen-thirties. Though soon patched up, it was something that in later life Esmond Chadleigh blamed for his relative lack of recognition compared to the other two; they, he said – though with no justification – had poisoned the literary establishment against him. Laurence too told them of the loss of faith that temporarily affected the writer in 1939, in disbelief that any God could allow the repeat atrocity of another World War. And it was from Laurence that Carole and Jude heard of the rumour that in the 1950s Esmond Chadleigh had a mistress in London who worked for one of his publishers.

None of this – or anything like it – was mentioned by the kilted white-haired lady who led them round the house. Bracketts was a shrine to the extent that its acolytes spoke only words of hagiography. And Carole got the feeling that their version of events would be very similar to the one which appeared in Graham Chadleigh-Bewes’ book . . . if it was ever completed.

There was one exhibit which she had been looking forward to pointing out to Laurence Hawker, perhaps to gain a moment of one-upmanship from her prior knowledge of the building. But when they reached the dining room, she was disappointed. The glass-topped display-case, the mini-shrine to the tragic Graham Chadleigh, was empty. In the space, a handwritten note read: ‘Contents removed for cleaning and restoration.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Carole murmured. ‘I was hoping to be able to show you the inspiration for “Threnody for the Lost”.’

‘Never mind,’ drawled Laurence Hawker. ‘Never my favourite work. Rather too overt and simplistic a plucking of the heartstrings for my taste.’

Carole Seddon, for whom it was a favourite poem, said nothing.

Laurence looked around with hopeless irritation. ‘Do you think anyone’d notice if I lit up in here?’

Jude giggled. ‘You’ll only find out if you try.’

Which annoyed Carole further. It was, apart from anything else, a very irresponsible thing to say. A smoking ban in a house like Bracketts wasn’t just authoritarianism; it was to avoid a genuine fire risk. As a Trustee, it would be her duty to make that point very firmly, if Laurence Hawker started to take out his impedimenta of cigarettes and lighter.

But he didn’t. Instead, he gave in to another of his deep coughs, which rattled through his body, and which Carole was beginning to find extremely irritating.

One of the highlights of the Bracketts Guided Tour was the Priest’s Hole. The white-haired kilted lady conducting them around stopped in front of the section of panelling with practised awe. She was dauntingly well-spoken, but contrived to impart to her commentary no dramatic impact at all.

‘And here we have one of the most unusual features of the house. It was incorporated into the original design by the Doughtscombe family, because by the time the building was completed in 1589, the celebration of Catholic Mass had been made illegal, in the wake of the Ridolfo Plot, the Babington Plot and the execution of Mary Queen of Scots in 1587. Since they couldn’t go to Mass in a church, wealthy and devout Catholic families would invite priests to celebrate the rite in their homes. And the very real danger of raids by the Protestant authorities led to the construction of hideouts for those Catholic priests. The one here at Bracketts is one of the best-preserved in the country. Also one of the best-concealed, and there is anecdotal evidence that some of the owners of the house after the Doughtscombe family died out in the early eighteenth century were completely unaware of the Priest’s Hole’s existence.

‘From the outside of the house no windows are visible, but comparisons of the exterior dimensions and the measurements of this landing demonstrate that there is a space within the walls unaccounted for. And this is what has always been inside that space.’

She drew back a segment of the wall panelling, with all the impact of a wet paper bag bursting. But even her flat delivery could not prevent a gasp from the assembled tour party. Revealed by the sliding panel was a room some twelve foot by eight. It was on a higher level than the landing, and anyone entering would have needed to step up about a foot. Cunningly concealed lighting in the carved ceiling and the lack of windows gave the space an eerie, cell-like quality, which was accentuated by a low table covered by a white cloth. On this stood two lighted candles in tall brass candlesticks, and a large open leather-bound book. The impression of an altar was for the benefit of the tourists – Mass would never actually have been celebrated in this room – but the image was undeniably impressive.

‘Kind of place you’d keep an electricity meter,’ Laurence Hawker murmured. ‘Wasn’t there a
Monty Python
sketch in which someone came to read the Priest?’

‘I think they came to read the Poet,’ Jude replied, with a suppressed giggle.

Laurence too let out a laugh, which quickly transformed into another of his racking coughs.

It was Carole’s view that the revelation of the Priest’s Hole should have been greeted by rather more reverence.

Arrival at the gift shop signalled the end of the tour, and Laurence Hawker reckoned this also gave him permission to smoke. So, while the two women inspected Esmond Chadleigh postcards, mugs and other memorabilia, he lit up a cigarette. Two new white-haired kilted ladies immediately materialized and offered him the option of stubbing out the cigarette or leaving the building. With an amiable shrug, he went outside. Jude grinned. Carole couldn’t see anything funny about it.