England Expects (11 page)

‘Captain Henshaw’s a decent man,’ said Tupps.

‘That’s why I came back,’ explained Vesta. ‘For Elsie. People shouldn’t just be cast to one side and forgotten.’

‘I cared about her all right, but everyone’s gotta die, don’t they? Sometimes these things just happen. It’s someone’s time.’ Mr Tupps’s tone was earnest.

‘Well, I wanted to find out more about her because I care.’ Vesta was surprised that she felt so passionate. Tears pricked her eyes. ‘And my boss cares, too. I wanted you to know. I wanted someone to tell you. So, if there’s anything you can think of, anything that might help, then please say so. Mirabelle thinks Mrs Chapman’s death is tied up with Joey Gillingham’s murder, somehow.’

Mr Tupps considered this.

‘I can’t see it, love. I’d like to help. But if Elsie knew the fella, she never said so. You’re getting all het up, and that isn’t going to help no one. Not Joey Gillingham nor Elsie either. It seems like a different kind of thing, doesn’t it? The two of them dying.’

‘Did Mr Gillingham ever come here, to the lodge? Do you know if he was a freemason? It’s just that that could be the connection, couldn’t it?’

Mr Tupps sat bolt upright. His expression hardened. Vesta felt a tingle in her spine. The old man was eyeing her like she was prey.

‘I’m a mason myself. That’s how I got this job,’ he said. ‘They’ve been good to me here. If you’re looking to smear the brethren you won’t get any help from me. You got to be loyal, aintcha? Elsie didn’t know that Gillingham fella – how could she? None of us knew him – not really. You leave the masons out of it, you hear me?’

‘I don’t understand the big secret.’ Vesta couldn’t back down now. ‘What do you do here? All this brotherhood stuff. Why’s it so . . . closed?’

Mr Tupps looked like he might spit at her. ‘The masons don’t owe you an explanation. We do a bit of work for charity. There’s meetings. You don’t need to know any more than that. It’s private.’

‘Why?’ Vesta insisted. She couldn’t help thinking that Mirabelle would do this differently. It wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped. Mirabelle would have told her to stop asking questions and just listen but she couldn’t. She had to press him. ‘Are you sure Joey Gillingham didn’t come along?’

‘I never seen him.’

‘So, as far as you’re concerned, the deaths aren’t connected?’

‘You’re looking for a conspiracy, girlie, and you won’t find one here. There’s no point in getting hysterical.’

‘But the police think it’s murder. That’s two murders in two days. And if Joey Gillingham was a freemason and Mrs Chapman worked here, and they both bet on the horses, then there’s a connection. More than one. Something’s going on, Mr Tupps. There has to be. I’m just trying to join the dots, that’s all.’

‘I can’t say what the police think. I know what I think though,’ he said sternly.

‘What?’ Vesta felt breathless.

‘I think it’s time for you to go. You don’t know what you’re doing, girlie. A fella’s likely to get hit by friendly fire dealing with you. That’s what I think. You got no right. No right at all.’

The old man got to his feet. He left his Jelly Baby headless on the table and half his tea untouched.

Vesta’s cheeks burned. ‘Mirabelle and I have solved several murders,’ she squeaked.

Mr Tupps remained unimpressed. He gestured to the girl to get up, and made his way back to the dim hallway, not even looking to check she was following. ‘Come on. It’s chucking out time. Don’t worry about Elsie Chapman. She’s in the arms of heaven now. Whatever happened, the police will figure it
out. They’re doing a post mortem. That’ll put your mind at rest, you’ll see. There’s no value in letting your imagination run riot.’

He held open the front door. Outside a church bell was striking eleven.

Feeling sheepish, Vesta stepped into the doorway and turned to face him. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I just wanted to help. And the police don’t always . . .’

Mr Tupps put up his hand and ushered her outside. ‘Good night, Miss,’ he said with finality. ‘You stop looking for trouble and you’ll sleep sounder. As if Elsie would be mixed up with some cheap hack.’ He closed the door with a bang.

Vesta stepped backwards as the white light above her was extinguished and she was left in the amber gloom. ‘Well!’ she exclaimed.

Mr Tupps was more imposing than expected. Quite brutal. Mind you, the poor old thing didn’t have anything else but his lodge and his church. Perhaps she’d just pushed him too far. In the distance she could hear a gull screeching. They didn’t usually make a sound once it was dark and the high-pitched wail hung in the air. Vesta turned back along Queen’s Road with her handbag over her arm, arms folded, deep in thought. Home was only ten minutes away on the other side of Old Steine. She wondered if Mrs Agora might still be up. Then, momentarily, she wondered if Mirabelle had figured out any more of the puzzle. Well, she wasn’t giving up. Mr Tupps was wrong. She wasn’t looking for trouble; she was looking for a solution. She hadn’t let her imagination run riot. Instead she’d used her eyes and her ears. Now she just needed to figure out exactly what had happened over that kitchen table tonight. Everything people said was important. Every detail. There had to be something. Perhaps sleeping on it would help.

Chapter 14

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day
.

M
irabelle had forgotten to close the curtains, and the bright, early morning light had woken her early. If the night before there had been ghosts lurking in the shadows, there was no place for them now in the sun-drenched bedroom. She watched two boats crossing the horizon like tiny toys.

As she turned away from the long windows she saw, on her bedside table, a tiny drop of malt left in the bottom of her glass. Behind it sat the bottle she had procured from Fred last night. It was almost full. He had not been joking about the strength of the spirit. Mirabelle had choked on her first sip before she added the water. Then the whisky had opened into a smoky, barley-infused delight. She’d sat sniffing it for five minutes before she tasted it. Two glasses had taken almost an hour and had bought her a deep all-encompassing sleep. Now her tongue felt furred and her eyes dry.

She picked up her watch and groaned. It was ten to six. Still clinging to the hinterland of sleep, she thought about the faded splendour of the Royal Pavilion, the secrets of the lodge and the spectre of poor Mrs Chapman’s body. She found herself wondering whether the woman had looked older or younger when she was alive than when she lay lifeless on the meeting-room floor. Then she ran through what Fred had said about Joey’s notebook and Bill’s assessment of the journalist’s murder, the involvement of the masons and Ida’s motives. Slowly she pulled on the green silk robe that was the only item
she had of Jack’s wardrobe and padded through to the bathroom where she ran a basin of lukewarm water.

As she bent over, she realised her stomach was growling. She cast her mind over the day before and remembered she hadn’t eaten a thing. Back in the bedroom she quickly pulled on a silk summer dress the same colour as the sky and fixed her hair in place with a single pin. She discounted cooking the egg Fred had given her and instead set out briskly into the morning. She turned in the direction of the bus stop. There was somewhere she needed to go.

Mirabelle liked the early buses. For the most part, the passengers climbed aboard alone and sat in silence. She could gaze out of the window in a daze, watching the city before it was properly awake as if she was catching the landmarks unawares, fresh before the day could claim them. As the bus turned away from the front towards Freshfield she checked the view down the hillside behind her. Brighton sparkled in the sunshine, the sea – a precious sapphire – its greatest treasure. As the journey continued she watched housewives scrubbing their doorsteps, and delivery vans and heavily loaded drays unloading at corner shops. A paperboy whistled as he made his rounds. When Mirabelle finally disembarked she headed not only towards breakfast but also in search of information. She felt focused.

The cafeteria at Brighton racecourse was open early whether there was a race that day or not. There were always people who needed sustenance: bookmakers, trainers, jockeys and, occasionally, even owners, who would pop in and out regardless of the season. The bar remained closed unless the public were admitted, but Mrs Fellowes, who ran the café, kept a supply of rum and brandy under the counter and made an excellent bacon roll whether you had coupons or not. There was little money couldn’t buy at Brighton racecourse if you had enough of it. I wouldn’t be surprised, Mirabelle thought, if Fred and Mrs Fellowes were acquainted.

By the time she had crossed the doorway it was quarter to seven. Two cleaners were mopping the linoleum hallway that ran the length of one of the viewing galleries. She picked her way across the wet floor and opened the swing door. Inside, at a Formica table, three jockeys smoked and drank coffee sharpened with spirits rather than risk not weighing in on the money for the weekend’s races. They each had an eye on the table next to them where the notorious Frank Wooldridge, who manned the scales on race day, was eating egg rolls with his grandson Dickie. ‘That’s my boy,’ he said proudly as the kid wiped away the yolk dribbling down his chin.

At three other tables men sat on their own, bookmakers by the look of them, engrossed in their notebooks. Lastly there was a party of four blokes who had clearly been up all night. Unshaven and still drunk, they laughed uproariously while stuffing sausages encased in white bread into their mouths. Mirabelle thought she heard one of them say he’d been at the jazz till the sun rose.

Mirabelle tried not to think of how unhelpful Vesta might be at the office if she’d stayed up till dawn with Charlie. It would do the young couple more good to sit round their kitchen table and discuss Vesta’s marital concerns. That was far more important than staying out jamming till all hours. No sooner had the thought formed, than she bit her lip. Honestly, she was turning into a narrow-minded old spinster. It hadn’t been that long since she’d stayed up all night dancing with Jack. Not that long at all. Vesta would get round to talking to Charlie in her own sweet time. For now, at least there was breakfast to be had. The smell of frying bacon was undeniably promising. Mirabelle headed towards the gantry where Mrs Fellowes eyed her carefully over the counter.

‘There’s no racing today, Madam,’ said the woman, noisily clearing teacups and avoiding Mirabelle’s eye. Mrs Fellowes’ hands were like spades and the rest of her was no less
industrial. The woman swept the counter surface with a cloth, which she then shoved into the pocket of her blue nylon housecoat. ‘The public are not admitted.’

‘I’m meeting a friend who works here.’ Mirabelle let the lie slip off her tongue. ‘I’d like a cup of tea, please, and a bacon roll.’ She laid three shillings on the counter. ‘Keep the change.’

Mrs Fellowes silently altered her position. Her lips tightened as she picked up the coins. ‘I’ll bring it over.’

Mirabelle chose a table by the window that overlooked the racetrack. Two horses were thundering round, and a man in a sheepskin coat and a felt hat was timing them with a stopwatch. The jockeys in the cafeteria, she noted, were keeping an eye on this activity, letting out an exasperated sigh or whoop of excitement depending on the performance. She couldn’t help thinking that the man in the sheepskin coat must feel rather warm.

At length, Mrs Fellowes padded across the linoleum and delivered Mirabelle’s breakfast. Mirabelle sipped the tea and nibbled the bacon roll. It felt good to eat something. She was considering buying a newspaper when one of the men who had been sitting by himself appeared beside the table. He was middle-aged, overweight and his skin was blotchy, a result, Mirabelle guessed, of heavy drinking. He had that look about him. There was a stain on the lapel of his jacket.

‘You worked for Ben McGuigan, didn’t you?’ He tipped his hat.

Mirabelle nodded. Ben had died almost two years before though the firm still bore his name. He’d been well known and popular in Brighton. It was a testament to his character – not every debt collector managed to retain the goodwill of his clients.

‘I thought I recognised your face. I heard it was a woman who took over the agency. That’s ballsy. It was a terrible business, what happened to poor Ben. Gives the trade a bad name
when there’s scams. Every fella’s got to make his money but there’s no need to be greedy, is there?’

‘How did you know Ben?’ Mirabelle asked.

‘I’m Mr Terry,’ the man introduced himself, sitting down unbidden and motioning towards Mrs Fellowes for another cup of tea. ‘A nice cuppa – can’t get going without one,’ he said cheerily. ‘Sometimes it takes half a dozen.’

Mirabelle crossed her legs and drank her tea. ‘It sounds as if you’re at home here, Mr Terry.’

The man chuckled. ‘Well, yes, you could say that. Mrs F. does a nice breakfast and I like to get going early. I’m a bookmaker, see. But you knew that. Any bird that takes over Ben McGuigan’s debt collection agency is going to be able to read people, or she isn’t going to last five minutes. And it must be a couple of years now. How’s tricks?’

‘Good, thank you. I’m here on business, in fact. I wonder if you knew Mr Gillingham, the sports writer? Since we’re discussing things.’

Terry slurped the tea from his cup and eyed Mirabelle carefully. ‘The dead bloke? Well, you get straight to the point. I can’t blame you, love. There’s a lot of interest in him at present. That’s a shocker even for Brighton, that is.’ Terry drew his finger across his throat. ‘I mean, a slasher – you just don’t expect it. They say the grit always settles at the bottom and Brighton’s a tough city, but still.’

‘At first I thought Mr Gillingham must’ve owed someone money.’ Mirabelle laid down her cup.

Terry laughed. ‘The sod never lost. Hardly never. Luckily he didn’t bet with me.’

‘Do you only cover the racing?’

Terry pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. ‘Nah, I’m not fussy. I’ll give odds on anything. Sport, that is.’

‘The boxing, too?’

‘Now you’re on the money. That junior team from the church youth club – they’re wiping the floor with all comers. It’s nice to see that, I have to say. I almost don’t mind paying out.’

‘I saw two of them the other night at the Crown and Anchor,’ said Mirabelle. ‘They were really good bouts. Extraordinary.’

Terry stared open-mouthed. He held the smoking cigarette in his hand without taking a draw. ‘You seen much boxing, then?’

‘I used to. In London. Before the war. Only occasionally. There was a ring near Waterloo but it got blitzed.’

‘You didn’t go in that get-up,’ Terry remarked, looking at Mirabelle’s dress. The ring had been a working-class venue. Everyone knew that. Mirabelle looked nonchalant. ‘It was a jape. I used to sneak over. I liked the crowd. The excitement. It’s a different thing in Brighton. Still, I enjoyed the match the other night. I wonder what will happen to the team as they turn of age. Do you think they’ll go professional?’

‘Yeah. What with them being
extraordinary
.’ Terry eyed her. ‘So, you was at the Crown and Anchor? Well, well. My trouble is I can’t get anyone to bet against the buggers, so we end up closing the book. If you ever want to lay odds against the Brighton junior team, then I’m your man.’ He grinned. ‘Not that I’d recommend it. Still, everyone comes crashing down sometime. Everyone.’

Mirabelle waited. Terry sat back confidently. He looked dispassionately at the track for a minute and then turned his attention back to the table.

‘What is it you want, Mr Terry?’ Mirabelle leaned forward. ‘Why did you come to sit with me?’

Terry might have blushed had he been twenty years younger but with his ruddy complexion it was hard to tell. As it was, he looked down shyly. ‘I came over for Ben’s sake, Miss. See, a
lady shouldn’t be in here on her own. You spot any ladies dining out?’

‘I see.’ Mirabelle put down her cup. ‘So, you’re rescuing me? A knight in shining armour?’

‘Yeah. I said to myself, that lady’s come here for Gillingham. You have, aintcha?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s obvious. Apart from it being the first thing you mentioned. I got to be honest, I figured who you was and I liked Ben McGuigan. So I came to offer my assistance.’

‘And do you have anything to tell me about Mr Gillingham?’

‘Like what?’

‘Who did Joey lay his bets with, Mr Terry?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because Mr Gillingham’s sister, Ida, is very upset. Joey laid bets on several races this week and the police have mislaid the slips that she says were on his person when he was killed. As her brother’s heir, she’s entitled to claim the winnings. She’s engaged McGuigan & McGuigan to find the slips and claim the money on her behalf. So, do you know who Joey laid his bets with?’

‘I can see what Ben liked in you, Miss. I can see why he took you on.’

Mirabelle sat up. ‘Mr Terry, I can ask you anything, can’t I?’

‘You go ahead, love.’

‘And whatever I ask you, you aren’t going to answer.’

Terry smiled broadly. ‘All right. All right.’ He paused for effect. ‘Joey laid bets with different fellas. He’ll have had a couple of bookies up in London, I’m sure, but down here it was Tony Grillo, the Italian, and Victor Everett. They’re both solid blokes. They’re both experienced. Tough guys, but then they’re bookies, ain’t they? It’s a tough profession. People try to take the mick so you gotta be solid.’

‘And if you’re a bookmaker, Mr Terry, and you have a client who never loses, what do you do?’

‘Well, you don’t cut his throat, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Look, you might stop taking the bugger’s bets – pardon my French – but you don’t cut his throat. A good bookie always makes money and Joey Gillingham always bet with the best. It’s simple arithmetic. The world’s got us down as crooks. A good bookie’ll never back down from an argument over money but really he’s a mathematician. If someone lays a quid on one thing, then you cover it by taking bets on another. Me, I’d shorten the odds I offered him and give better odds on the horses he doesn’t want to bet on. Then either the guy goes somewhere else where he can get three to one rather than two to one, or at least it’s easier to cover the back end. And no one wins all the time. Even Joey Gillingham lost now and then.’

‘And Tony Grillo and Victor Everett . . .’

Terry stubbed out his cigarette, which had burned down without him taking a single puff. ‘Well, they’re not early birds. But you’ll catch them later, if you’re interested. I wouldn’t go so far as to guarantee that neither of them are murderers, but cutting a guy’s throat in a barber’s chair to avoid a payout? I doubt it.’

Mirabelle patted her lips with a napkin. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I suppose that’s what I wanted to know.’