Murder in the Museum (Fethering Mysteries) (18 page)

‘I think not.’ The words were spoken calmly, and the accompanying scuff of gravel suggested they had provided Professor Teischbaum with a satisfactory exit line.

Rather than being caught obviously hanging around listening, Carole moved forwards, making loud footsteps, as if she had just arrived from her car.

As she rounded the corner, she saw the two strong-minded women taking one last look at each other. Though almost exactly the same height, they couldn’t have been more different in style. Sheila Cartwright, her white hair sensibly short, looked what she was, an upper-middle-class Englishwoman in white blouse, navy suit and sensible black shoes. Marla Teischbaum, the copper-beech of her hair gleaming in the sunlight, was wearing a symphony of autumn tints in linen and Indian cotton.

Suddenly it started to rain. Big heavy drops thudded down on to the gravel. Marla Teischbaum lifted the briefcase she was carrying to hold it over the perfectly coiffed chestnut hair and, with a nod of acknowledgement to Carole, stalked off towards the car park.

Sheila Cartwright managed a curt ‘Good evening’, and then she too strode away towards the main house, no doubt to prepare for the Emergency Trustees’ Meeting she had summoned.

Carole Seddon went into the Administrative Office to speak to the person who should have called the Emergency Trustees’ Meeting.

But she couldn’t forget the scene she had just witnessed between Sheila Cartwright and Marla Teischbaum. Or the flame of intense hatred that had burned in the eyes of both women.

It had been a bad day for Jude. She had been woken at half past four by Laurence’s coughing, which sounded worse than ever. It was. There was blood all over the sheets, and still dribbling from his mouth.

She had called an ambulance immediately. Though a great believer in the efficacy of alternative therapies, Jude knew when conventional medical intervention was required.

They had left Woodside Cottage before anyone else in the road was awake, and Jude had had a day of intense anxiety at the hospital, while Laurence was subjected to a series of X-rays and tests, building up to a late afternoon interview with the consultant. Even though she had no official relationship with him, Jude reckoned she would have been allowed to sit in on that meeting, but Laurence didn’t want her to, and she respected his wishes.

Even though the day, like most in hospitals, involved a lot of sitting around waiting, Jude was too preoccupied with Laurence’s health to think of anything else. She’d meant to ring Carole to discuss the previous night’s news bulletin about the Bracketts skeleton, and to tell her about Mervyn Hunter’s escape from Austen, but such intentions were swamped by worry about Laurence.

He was silent in the cab back from the hospital. Except for the occasional coughs, coughs which had taken on a new and ominous significance for Jude.

But as soon as he got back inside Woodside Cottage, he found his black leather jacket, took out a cigarette packet and lit one up. Jude said nothing as she watched him gratefully drink in the smoke.

‘Would you like a whisky?’ she asked.

‘God, would I like a whisky? I’ve spent this entire day only thinking how much I would like a cigarette and a whisky.’ His voice was dry and cracked after his ordeal. He looked paler and thinner than ever.

Jude waited till they both had drinks and were sitting in two of her shawl-draped armchairs. Then she said, ‘So?’

‘So . . . what?’ he echoed with a dusty giggle.

‘Presumably the consultant didn’t give you a clean bill of health?’

‘I think, Jude, that would have been too much to hope for.’

‘Cancer?’

‘He came up with a lot of longer words first, but then he made a concession to my ignorance and used that one. Always a problem for us academics. If it’s not our speciality, we just don’t know the jargon.’

‘And what treatment did he recommend?’

‘Oh, there was chemo-this and radio-that. It all sounded distinctly unpleasant.’

‘Don’t you think the alternative might be even more unpleasant?’

He shrugged languidly, tapped out the ash of his cigarette and returned it to his mouth. ‘It all seems rather a fag,’ he said, ambiguous as to whether the pun was deliberate.

‘Are you saying you’re not going to have any treatment?’

‘I’m saying that I’ve spent nearly sixty years of being me. That me is not a particularly admirable being. It certainly smokes and drinks too much. Its morals don’t accord to the prescribed norms. It has probably caused unnecessary hurt to people – mostly women – who didn’t deserve it. But that me has suited me surprisingly well. Having got this far through life, jogging along with myself amiably enough, I don’t want to have a personality transplant at this late stage.’

‘So you think treatment for the cancer would change your personality?’

‘I’m damned sure it’d change my lifestyle. There seems to be some rather tedious conventional wisdom in the medical world that chemotherapy and chainsmoking don’t mix.’

Jude couldn’t help smiling. Laurence Hawker had always been a poseur, a lot of what he said was purely for effect, but its mischievous knowingness still made her laugh.

‘So you’re saying you’re not going to have any treatment? You’ll let the cancer run its course?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did the consultant say how long that course might be?’

Laurence Hawker shook his head, exhaling dubiously through pursed lips. ‘An inexact science, the prediction of longevity. But I get the impression that I should think in terms of short stories rather than novels. Certainly O. Henry rather than Proust.’

There was a long, peaceful silence between them. Each took a substantial sip from their glass. Laurence reached across and affectionately took hold of Jude’s hand.

‘One of the things I like about you,’ he said, ‘is your lack of knee-jerk reactions. Very few of the human species, after what I’ve just told you, could have resisted saying, “But you must have the treatment, you must!” Whether they meant it or not. It’s just one of those things people say instinctively, like “Bless you” after a sneeze. Thank you, Jude, for not saying it.’

She shrugged. ‘Not my place to say it. Your life. You’re grown-up. You make your own decisions.’

‘Thank you.’

The peaceful silence descended again. When Laurence next spoke, it was with greater briskness. ‘I’ll be off tomorrow. This has been an extraordinarily pleasant interlude. I’m very grateful.’

‘Where are you going?’ He shrugged. ‘To another of your women?’

‘I don’t think that’d be very fair. No, I’ll find a base somewhere, and meet them on a daily basis, for nice, long, self-indulgent lunches.’

‘There is an alternative,’ said Jude.

‘Sorry. I’m not going to sweat in a tepee, or only eat pulses, or have ginseng enemas. All those sound at least as undignified as the chemotherapy.’

‘That is not what I meant, Laurence. And you know full well that is not what I meant.’ He smiled acknowledgement of her percipience. ‘I meant you don’t have to go. You can stay here.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Jude, I know you never make offers you don’t mean, but I think that’s too much for you to take on.’

‘My decision, I’d have thought.’

Another silence. ‘It’s tempting.’

‘You’ve never had any qualms about giving in to temptation before. Why suddenly get picky now?’

‘Hm.’ An even longer silence. ‘One thing . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘If I do accept your very generous offer . . .’

‘Hm?’

‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

‘Won’t tell anyone you’re here? That’s going to be tricky. I’m afraid, amongst its many conveniences and amenities, Woodside Cottage doesn’t feature a Priest’s Hole.’

‘I meant don’t tell anyone why I’m here. Don’t tell anyone I’m ill.’

‘Oh,’ said Jude. ‘Not even Carole?’

‘Particularly not Carole.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, if ever I saw one of the “But you must have the treatment, you must!” brigade, Carole Seddon is it.’

Jude wasn’t sure that he was right about her neighbour, and foresaw problems ahead. She visualized a lot of misunderstandings, when she would have to spend time caring for Laurence, and Carole would regard her preoccupation as a personal slight. But it was his illness and his decision, so she just said, ‘All right. Any other terms and conditions?’

‘Just one other thing I’d like to clarify.’ A sardonic smile twitched his full lips. ‘If I am living here . . .’

‘Mm?’

‘ . . . will I still be able to go out and meet my other women for nice, long, self-indulgent lunches?’

‘Oh yes, Laurence. I wouldn’t dare try to change your personality. Don’t worry, I’m way beyond that kind of jealousy,’ Jude replied, with a grin.

‘Good. Both being grown-ups, eh? Two people who have been lovers and can still enjoy each other’s company.’

‘And bodies.’

‘Yes. And bodies.’ He mimicked a prim smile of political correctness. ‘But only, of course, by mutual agreement.’

‘Of course.’

‘No pretence, though, that we’re the great loves of each other’s life.’

Jude nodded firmly. ‘Fine by me.’

‘I think I need some more whisky,’ said Laurence Hawker.

After their talk, Jude rang Carole and got the answering machine. She didn’t leave a message. She’d go round to High Tor the following morning.

Then she rang Sandy Fairbarns’ number.

‘Just wondered if there was any more news about Mervyn.’

‘Well, they haven’t found him yet, if that’s what you mean.’

‘How hard are they looking?’

‘As hard as they would for any other escapee from an open prison.’

‘But not as hard as they would for a dangerous woman-killer who might strike again at any moment?’

‘No, Jude. As you know and I know, that stuff was all in his head.’

‘I wonder what made him suddenly jump now? The police know he had nothing to do with the skeleton at Bracketts.’

‘I thought you said he’d talked of reoffending so that he gets another prison sentence, so that he doesn’t have to face the real world so soon?’

‘He did.’

‘An escape could achieve that quite neatly, couldn’t it?’

‘Yes. Except that an escape takes him out into the very real world that he’s so scared of.’

‘Where he might be in danger of being alone with a woman, and the consequences he fears from that situation?’

‘Exactly, Sandy. Anything else you’ve found out about him?’

‘Only that he had another visitor.’

‘Oh? After me?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he said he never had visitors.’

‘Then his luck’s changed. He’s had two in a week. Second one the day before he absconded.’

‘Who was it, Sandy? Who came to see him?’

‘Someone from Bracketts . . . you know, the place where he was working.’

‘I know.’

‘It was a woman called Sheila Cartwright.’

Having had the Emergency Trustees’ Meeting set up around his commitments, when it came to the event Lord Beniston couldn’t make it. A six-forty call to the Administrative Office from his secretary regretted that he’d been unavoidably delayed in London ‘by a business meeting that had overrun’. In fact, though no one at Bracketts ever knew, the meeting had been a lunch at the Garrick (where the rules of the club do not permit the discussion of business), which had run on through the afternoon into an evening drinking session. (In fact, Lord Beniston was beginning to have doubts about his involvement with Bracketts. The doubts had nothing to do with recent events at the house, but arose from the question he constantly posed to himself: ‘What am I actually getting out of this?’ Bracketts was a relatively obscure set-up, so few people were aware of the brownie points he should have been earning for his charity work. Also he did have to go there in person to chair the meetings. He felt sure he could lend his name to the letterheads of other organizations, which would raise his philanthropic profile higher and make less demands on him.)

Gina Locke, who had taken the call while Carole Seddon was in the office with her, immediately took the decision that, in the absence of Lord Beniston, she would chair the meeting herself. Though not a Trustee, as Director of Bracketts she would be the senior responsible person present, and she should be in charge.

Carole had no problem reading the subtext of this announcement. Sheila Cartwright had once again wrong-footed Gina by calling the meeting; she wasn’t going to be allowed to reinforce her dominance by chairing it too.

‘Have you had many calls from the press?’ asked Carole, remembering her interrogation by the intrepid boy reporter.

‘Quite a few. Referred them all to the police. That’s the official line, incidentally. We have no information here. When there is anything to say, the police will be the ones to say it.’