Murder in the Museum (Fethering Mysteries) (35 page)

But she reassured herself that they had not collapsed under Mervyn Hunter, and climbed on up.

It was the rose in the corner, and felt reassuringly smooth to the touch, as if it had been handled many times over the centuries. The book had said it should be turned in a clockwise direction.

Carole tried to twist, but the wood felt rigid and unyielding in her hand.

It wasn’t going to work.

Jude got back to Woodside Cottage before nine. Her mobile had been silent all evening, and there was nothing on the answering machine at home.

Nothing from the hospital.

Nothing from Jude either.

Jude felt a little flicker of anxiety.

‘Gard, what the hell’re you doing up there?’ whined Marla Teischbaum. ‘I can’t hold on to this for ever.’

‘You can bloody hold on a bit longer!’

Her anger gave her strength. This time as she strained against the wooden rose, Carole felt a little give, a hint that it wasn’t fixed, that it could be moved.

She released her grip, shook her hand to restore circulation, then once again cupped it around the wooden rose.

This time there was a definite, if reluctant, turn. The pommel moved a little like the head of an old, embedded screw.

Unsteady on top of her bookcase, feeling the strain through her entire body, Carole continued to push the rose around.

Suddenly she felt it ease. And at the same moment she heard a welcome sound from above, a slight rumble as the locking doorstep eased from its mountings and started its long arc across the floor above.

‘I’m going to have to let go. I’m—’

Carole bellowed through the thin voice from below. ‘You stay exactly where you are, Marla! And just watch out you don’t get hit when the boards come down.’

A final turn, the blissful sound of a click from above as the floorboards became free. And then, so finely weighted that they moved almost in slow motion, the seesaw tipped to the vertical, and they could climb out of their prison.

Though Carole knew how long they had been incarcerated, she was still surprised to find near-darkness when they emerged from the front door of Bracketts.

There was enough light for her to look up towards the car park and see that her car was gone. That brought home the reality of the threat to her and Marla. Had the car still been there, the American’s suggestion of a practical joke was just about feasible. The fact that it had been driven away confirmed that their enemy – or enemies – had not intended them to emerge from the Priest’s Hole alive.

‘I’m not quite sure what we do now . . .’ Carole whispered.

‘Just call a cab and get the hell out of here.’ Marla Teischbaum had her mobile out of her bag and was once again stabbing at it. ‘Damn. No signal here either.’

‘I think we’re still in danger, Marla. There’s someone round this place who wants us dead.’

‘Another good reason to get the hell out.’

Carole was tempted. Part of her wanted only to get back to the comfort of High Tor, to give a big hug to Gulliver, who, though he would have no idea why he was being hugged, wouldn’t mind, anyway.

But the part of her that wanted to get at the truth was stronger. ‘I’m just going to have a look around.’

‘Hell, you’re crazy.’

But Marla Teischbaum didn’t want to be left alone, and she followed as Carole Seddon moved cautiously towards the Administrative Office. There were no lights anywhere in the stable block, no sign of life. Whoever had been working there had presumably gone home for the day.

But there were lights coming from the cottage Graham Chadleigh-Bewes shared with his aunt. Carole stepped towards them.

‘We don’t want to mess with those two any more. Get the hell out, go to the police and—’

‘I want to know what’s been going on here.’ Carole spoke softly, but in a voice that would brook no argument. Finally, she was the dominant woman at Bracketts.

The door of the cottage was, as ever, open. Carole pushed it gently inwards, a reluctant Marla in her wake.

The door to Graham Chadleigh-Bewes’ study was also ajar and through it very distinctly they could hear a woman’s voice.

Carole moved soundlessly forward and put her eye to the crack between the door-hinges. She saw a familiar service revolver in a woman’s hand. It was pointing directly at Graham Chadleigh-Bewes, who cowered behind the untidy desk which was crowned by a plate containing a half-eaten slice of ginger cake.

‘Why did you bring those papers from Esmond’s archive, Graham?’ the woman asked evenly.

‘I just picked them up. That Seddon woman had got her hands on them. I took them away from her.’

‘Nothing’s meant to leave the archive, Graham.’

‘I know that.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t been having second thoughts?’

‘About what?’

‘About the kind of biography you’re going to write? Now that dreadful American woman is permanently silenced, the opposition’s gone, hasn’t it? But maybe she’s given you ideas . . . Maybe you think you could have a go at a biography of Esmond that includes all the details that are never going to be revealed.’

‘No, I don’t think that.’

‘Then why did you bring these sheets of paper over here?’

Her voice was hard and fierce, and it frightened him. ‘I told you,’ he gibbered. ‘It was just a mistake. I was never going to use them.’

‘No? If I for a moment thought you would, Graham . . . You know the tradition of this family. Felix Chadleigh told his son Esmond how to behave, and Esmond passed that down to his daughters, to me and your mother. She, I’m sure, passed it on to you.’

‘Yes, she did, Auntie, she did!’

‘It’s a matter of good faith, Graham, telling the story right. Justifying, glorifying Esmond’s memory. And the memory of his brother, whose name you bear.’

‘I know that.’

‘The Seddon woman and that American got too close, too close to telling the story wrong. That’s why they had to die.’

‘And why Sheila Cartwright had to die too?’

‘You know that was a mistake.’ Belinda Chadleigh spoke of the murder as casually as if it had been a misdelivered letter. ‘Anyway, you can’t complain. Sheila is no longer around to commission an authorized biography of Esmond from someone else. I’ve conveniently put both your rivals out of the way.’

‘Oh, Auntie . . .’ His voice was deep with despair. ‘I just wonder whether it’s worth doing the biography.’

‘
Worth
doing it? That is your role in life. That is what you have to do. To preserve the memories of Esmond and Graham.’

‘But suppose I did something more truthful . . .? Suppose I did use some of the stuff from Esmond’s archive . . .? After all, it’s not him who comes out of it badly. If there is a villain in the piece, then his father Felix—’

‘Don’t you dare talk about villains in the Chadleigh family . . . you . . . you traitor!’

The gunshot was so unexpected, and so loud, echoing through the enclosed space. In the moment of shock that followed its impact, Carole and Marla rushed into the room. They easily managed to disarm and immobilize the old lady.

Belinda Chadleigh gave them a look of undisguised, cold-blooded fury. They threatened what she held dearest in the world, the reputation of the Chadleigh family, a reputation for whose protection she had been prepared to commit murder.

It was too late for Graham Chadleigh-Bewes, though. He lay slumped back in his chair, redness spreading over his shirtfront. His eyes were wide with surprise, and there was a crumb of ginger cake on the corner of his mouth. In death, as he always had done in life, he looked slightly ridiculous.

Laurence Hawker survived his latest health scare and left hospital, his ears ringing with the dire prognostications of the staff. Unless he seriously amended his lifestyle, they could no longer be responsible for him. The very slender chance of his condition improving lay entirely in his own hands.

As soon as he got back to Woodside Cottage, he lit up a cigarette and reached for the whisky bottle.

But not for long. After a few weeks, he did start to moderate both his smoking and his drinking. The reason was that he had been given a project, an academic project which so intrigued him that he became determined to live long enough to see it finished.

The idea came from Carole. Now that the Esmond Chadleigh archive had been found beneath the Priest’s Hole at Bracketts, it could not be unfound. While only the family was aware of its existence, the secret might be preserved, but with Marla Teischbaum knowing it was there, there was no way she was going to keep quiet about the subject.

Carole therefore suggested to Gina Locke that a report on the archive should be prepared for presentation to the Trustees, so that they could take a decision on what should be done with it, and to whom access to the material should be granted. She said that the ideal person to make the report would be an academic of her acquaintance, an expert on twentieth-century Catholic literature by the name of Laurence Hawker.

Gina thought this was an excellent idea and, with the new confidence she now brought to her role as Director, announced that the decision to commission the report should not be referred to the Trustees; she would make it herself. (It may have been a harsh experience in many ways, but she’d learnt a trick or two from working in close proximity to Sheila Cartwright.) Besides, as she pointed out, the Bracketts Board of Trustees was somewhat diminished. Sheila, who acted like a Trustee though she wasn’t one, was dead. So was Graham Chadleigh-Bewes. And Belinda Chadleigh was under arrest, being investigated for the murder of at least one of them. There was nothing to be gained from consulting such a depleted body.

So Laurence Hawker was given the job of checking through Esmond Chadleigh’s hidden archive and, where appropriate, Miss Hidebourne’s collection of Lieutenant Strider’s letters to his brother. The assignment gave him a reason to live for a little longer.

Jude would always have happy memories of the weeks during which he prepared his report. She nursed him unobtrusively, loved him, cuddled him, and watched with pleasure as his mind engaged with its final challenge. At first he would have letters and files and boxes scattered all over her sitting room table, while he sat with his laptop, keying in the relevant data. Later he would operate from her bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows, frequently working through the night, snatching his odd minutes of sleep amidst the chaos of research.

The security at Lewes Prison made clear to Jude why there were so few escapees from Austen. She almost lost count of the number of doors that were opened and locked behind her on the way to the Visiting Room. The Prison Officers also seemed more brusque and watchful; there was no comfort in this regime. The customary prison smells of sweat and disinfectant were more concentrated in the enclosed space.

Jude had felt oppressed before she even entered the place. Lewes always had that effect on her. There was something gloomy and introverted about the town, a feeling of hidden evil that had lasted through many centuries. Jude never arrived in Lewes without a psychic shudder.

The atmosphere of the Visiting Room was also in stark contrast to that of Austen. She didn’t know whether children were forbidden, but there were certainly none in evidence that afternoon. And the process of checking Visiting Orders was stringent and unsmiling, compared to the laid-back attitude she’d encountered on her last visit to Mervyn Hunter.

He looked paler, but sat with the same defensive body language. The tables were all boxed-in rectangles, so that no drugs could be passed beneath them. The Prison Officers who sat behind the visitors did not relax their vigilance.

‘How’re you doing?’ asked Jude.

Mervyn shrugged. ‘OK. I’m more used to this kind of nick than I was to Austen.’

‘Yes. You heard they found who murdered Sheila Cartwright?’

He nodded. ‘You get the news in here. Radio. Television news, too, except most of the time people want to watch something else.’

‘Sandy Fairbarns sends her best wishes.’ He didn’t seem that interested. ‘Mervyn, I’ve come to see you because I want to ask about your escape.’

‘Why?’

It wasn’t a question for which she’d prepared an answer, so, characteristically, she told the truth. ‘A friend and I got interested in Sheila’s murder. There are a few details we wanted to fill in, and we thought you might know.’

‘I didn’t have anything to do with it.’

‘I know that, Mervyn. I never thought you did.’

‘The police did. You’ve got one conviction, that’s it – obviously you’ve committed every other crime they haven’t stitched someone else for.’ He sounded almost too weary for bitterness. ‘Which doesn’t offer me much hope for when I’m back out in what they laughingly call “the real world”. Better off in here.’

Jude disagreed, but didn’t pursue it. ‘Sheila Cartwright visited you the day you escaped, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. That was another reason the police thought I’d topped her. I ended up shouting at her during the visit.’