England Expects (20 page)

‘I think you have chosen to play a game with highly dangerous men and you aren’t only asking for money, are you? That’s why I came. Quite enough people have ended up dead this week, Daphne. I’m worried about you and I expect you could use someone to watch your back.’

‘And you’re offering to do that, are you? And yet you aren’t in it for a cut?’

‘I have a gentleman friend who is missing.’

‘You thought I was missing.’

‘You were. And I found you.’

‘Who’s this friend of yours?’

‘A policeman.’

‘From round here?’

Mirabelle nodded.

‘A Brighton policeman?’ she said contemptuously. ‘You know what they’re like. He’s probably up at the lodge right this moment with his trouser leg rolled up.’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No. He’s not a mason, though I expect you might be right about his whereabouts. Is that where you’re meeting them to make the swap? Queen’s Road?’

Daphne hesitated for a moment, sizing up this impressive woman who seemed so very well informed. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ll tell you. They’ve taken a suite at the Grand. I insisted on meeting somewhere public and Daddy hates hotels. The old skinflint always says they’re a rip-off. So I insisted on the biggest hotel in town and the most expensive room. It’s a penthouse suite. It’s petty, I know, but it will annoy him. I wouldn’t step inside a lodge if they paid me. They can do whatever they want in there. I’m not an idiot, you know. So, that’s the plan. A swap at the hotel and afterwards I’ll get into the car, drive along the coast and pick up the boat train at Portsmouth to spend the summer in France. I thought it best to get out of the way while they did whatever they were going to do once they’d got what they wanted. I don’t want them focusing on me. Daddy is smart, of course, but he’s easily distracted. Out of sight, out of mind. By the time I get home the whole thing will be done and dusted. And I can get back to work and stop having to live here, with any luck. I’m going to take a flat somewhere down on the front.’

‘What is it that your father and his friends want so very badly? What did you find?’

Daphne pursed her lips.

‘If I’m going to help you, then I need to know,’ Mirabelle pushed.

‘It was under the floorboards.’ The girl curled her shoulders as if she didn’t like admitting the secret. ‘Here. Mrs Chapman rolled up the carpet and there was a loose board with a document case hidden underneath. It was in one of the downstairs rooms – the one George IV used as a bedroom when he got too fat to climb the stairs. He was a Grand Master, you know, at the Grand Lodge in London.’

‘What was in the box?’

‘Letters. The ink was faded and the writing was difficult to read. Thick parchment. Old. Mrs Chapman didn’t understand.
She just handed the papers to me. Honestly, she’d have used them to light a fire. Poor old thing.’

‘What did they say – these letters?’

‘They were about the history of the masons. Nothing too exciting for most people, though I got excited, of course. That was my mistake. If I hadn’t come clean and told her how important they were she’d still be alive. I was trying to be decent, if you can believe that. I wanted to cut her in. I said I could probably get her a couple of hundred pounds but she wanted more. I wish she’d come back to me and just said, but she went to one of the masons at the lodge, and when he refused to pay she got in touch with that journalist.’

‘Joey Gillingham?’

‘Yes.’

Mirabelle’s mind buzzed as the story fell into place. Of course. That was the connection between the two murder victims. Not the racecourse, or the masons, but this information that the old woman wanted to sell and the journalist wanted to buy. Some kind of scoop.

‘And Gillingham asked around,’ Mirabelle theorised. ‘The masons in Brighton might or might not have heard what he was up to, but these other fellows definitely did. You were already dealing with them and they didn’t want a journalist sniffing around. But he knew. So someone killed him.’

‘I think that was Daddy’s friends. Something he said to me on the telephone made me think it must have been. The masons down here are pretty provincial – and a murder like that . . .’

‘Oh no,’ Mirabelle interrupted, ‘I don’t agree. The masons in Brighton definitely aren’t averse to murder, though these friends of your father’s are more professional. If anything there’s more real violence here. The whole thing has been a terrible mix-up of circumstances. So what happened? After Gillingham was killed how did Elsie take it?’

Daphne looked at the floorboards as if she was a naughty child who had been berated by her nanny. ‘She was furious. It was as if someone had stolen money from her – money she already had. I tried to calm her down. She thought the killer was her contact at the Brighton lodge and she wanted to confront him. I told her she’d have to go away for a bit. I said that I’d pay her the sum she asked but that she had to let me deal with everything. I thought she was in danger. At the least she was a loose cannon. But I reckoned I could handle it.’

‘She didn’t want to go?’

‘No. She said not to be foolish. That she’d keep her man at Queen’s Road in check. She wasn’t scared of him. That was a mistake as it turned out.’

Mirabelle shook her head but she didn’t explain about Henshaw. She wanted to hear the story from Daphne’s point of view. ‘You must have been terrified when Vesta and I turned up on Tuesday and told you the old woman was dead.’

‘I was sick after you left,’ Daphne admitted. ‘I vomited in a chamber pot. Then I cleared away my things and left. I sent Daddy a telegram from London to say it was time to wind up the deal and that I was coming to see him. Then, well, you heard everything. I told him I want the money and I want justice. I mean, killing that journalist was one thing – awful – but poor Mrs Chapman. I’m determined to get them to hand over her killer. I mean, how dare they? Though that won’t be necessary now. I see the creep did himself in. Did you read the paper? Poor Elsie.’

‘No, no. Henshaw wasn’t the one who killed her. He’d never have done that. He loved Elsie. He’d loved her for years. She was quite right to trust him, even if he wouldn’t succumb to her blackmail attempt. Listen, Daphne, let me come with you to the hotel and I’ll make sure that Elsie’s killer is brought to justice – the real killer. Besides, you might need help. There’s
no harm in having someone in reserve – someone they don’t know about.’

The girl had a lot of guts, Mirabelle thought. She had taken on her father and his friends, and she hadn’t shown even a glimmer of fear when she’d heard about Elsie’s death the other day. Mind you, she was rather keen on the money. That was interesting. Most people, with this number of bodies piling up, would have fled by now. Instead, Daphne had simply demanded justice along with her menaces.

Daphne stubbed out her cigarette. ‘All right. You can come if you like, but I’m not giving you a penny.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m in it for the glory,’ said Mirabelle.

Chapter 26

Trust everybody but cut the cards
.

D
awn was only just breaking as the women crept out of the Pavilion and down the dewy garden path. High above them, seagulls circled in the brightening sky. It was going to be a scorcher. Mirabelle led Daphne across North Street and convinced her not to bring the old car to the hotel.

‘You can pick it up later,’ she promised. ‘It’s too conspicuous. The main thing is to attract as little attention as possible. To succeed we may need to disappear.’

Daphne agreed. Miss Bevan seemed remarkably competent. If the girl was honest, she found the older woman’s confident manner comforting. ‘Have you done this sort of thing before?’ she asked.

‘A blackmail attempt? Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It’s not exactly blackmail,’ Daphne objected. ‘I mean, it’s more theft, I expect, or money with menaces.’

Mirabelle shot the girl a look. Things, it seemed, were never ideal. She didn’t approve of what Daphne had done. If the girl had simply handed over the letters to the Trust (which, after all, was the rightful place for them) three murders would never have taken place. Still, Mirabelle wanted to look after the kid. Daphne hadn’t meant to get into this kind of mess. She had only been trying to lay claim to something she thought should have been hers – a decent inheritance and, Mirabelle supposed, a sense of revenge at having been excluded. Having a father like Professor Marsden must have been awful, and, besides, the
girl couldn’t have foreseen the murders. Whatever was in the letters was clearly so incendiary who knew what might have happened even if the Trust had become involved? History was paramount to organisations like the freemasons. Recriminations about Daphne’s behaviour now would be futile. Seller of secrets or not, of everyone involved the girl seemed by far the nicest. It was best to get on.

Silently Mirabelle turned down one street after another with Daphne following obediently until the women rounded the corner onto a tiny lane.

‘What on earth’s along here?’ Daphne stopped at the point where the pavement simply ran out.

‘There’s something I need to pick up.’

‘There’s nothing up there, is there?’

‘Wait here if you like,’ said Mirabelle.

Daphne decided to follow Mirabelle and put her hand on the older woman’s arm. A smile creased Mirabelle’s face.

At the green front door they stopped and Mirabelle knocked loudly. There was no reply. She knocked again. Then she rapped on the dusty windowpane. From inside there was a sound of furniture being moved. A corner of the filthy curtain twitched, and then a few seconds later the door was unbolted.

Fred had pulled a dressing gown around the white vest and shorts in which he had evidently slept. He was unshaven. ‘Miss Bevan,’ he said, ‘you’re up early. Everything all right?’ He stood back to allow the women to enter. ‘Something I can help you with?’

Mirabelle took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid my friend and I have found ourselves in a tricky situation.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Fred’s tone was absolutely sincere. ‘What can I do to help?’

Mirabelle paused. She didn’t really want to say the words. ‘I think I need a gun.’

Mirabelle felt Daphne tense.

‘Look,’ the girl said, ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Miss Bevan. It’s illegal, and I mean, Daddy . . .’

Mirabelle’s stare stopped the girl in her tracks.

‘The kid might have a point,’ said Fred. ‘Are you sure? A gun is a different kind of illegal from an extra egg here and there, Miss Bevan.’

Mirabelle considered the situation. She didn’t relish making the decision. Two years before, she had become embroiled in a fight that resulted in her shooting a young man dead with his own weapon. The court had cleared her of any wrongdoing and the man had almost certainly intended to kidnap and kill her, but it had been traumatic. Now she ran through the scenario that lay ahead at the Grand one more time. The two men she’d seen in Professor Marsden’s rooms, the cold-blooded nature of the three murders and the fact that both she and Daphne were of a slim build, neither of them much over eight stones in weight, made up her mind.

‘It’s only a precaution. I hope we won’t need to use the thing,’ she said. ‘It’s insurance.’

‘All right.’ Fred’s tone became businesslike. ‘If you’re sure, I can probably get something. It’ll cost you, mind. Come back in a couple of hours.’

‘I need it now, Fred.’ Mirabelle slipped her hand into her bag. She drew out the remaining bottle of 1914 malt that she had taken from the wine cellar.

Fred sucked air through his teeth, almost as if he was in pain. He took the bottle to the window and examined the label. ‘Is this on the level? Where did you get it?’ he asked.

‘You tell me where you pick up your supplies and I’ll tell you where I pick up mine.’

Fred grinned. ‘Fair enough. Will a service revolver do? I’ve got a Webley or an Enfield. If you want a Victory model I can probably get one before lunchtime.’

‘I’ll take the Enfield.’ Mirabelle sounded more decisive than she felt. Jack had an Enfield in his service days. The gun had a smaller calibre than the Webley but at least it was familiar.

‘Right.’ Fred put out his hand and Mirabelle shook it. ‘And you’ll want some ammunition, I expect.’ He disappeared into the back room. ‘That’ll be extra but I won’t charge you much.’

Mirabelle reached into her bag again and took out a ten-bob note. ‘This should cover it,’ she whispered to Daphne.

Daphne’s eyes fell to the counter where a small pile of American stockings were on display.

‘Those are excellent,’ Mirabelle said. ‘But I don’t think we should focus on them just now.’

Two minutes later, the women were back outside. Daphne didn’t speak, only eyed Mirabelle’s bag suspiciously as if wondering what else she might have in there. Fred had given them a small box of .38 calibre bullets. ‘That should be enough, shouldn’t it?’ he’d said cheerily and loaded a round for good measure. Daphne had felt like backing out of the door. But she’d held her ground. Now safely outside, she felt anxious. The sight of the gun had scared her. Carrying round a bundle of old letters was one thing, a loaded weapon was quite another.

‘Come along,’ said Mirabelle, taking Daphne by the arm as she turned left at the end of the lane and headed towards King’s Road.

Just before they came to the hotel Mirabelle guided them across to the other side of the street. The women leaned against the rail in front of the sea. No one was yet down on the shore. Off to the west, the pier was still closed, stretching over the still water. It was deserted, still too early for the hordes of candyfloss sellers, the click-click girls with their cameras, the bathers and picnickers. On the other side of the road, the hotel loomed upwards into the blue sky.

Daphne checked her watch. ‘I said I’d meet them at half past eight,’ she said. ‘We’re far too early. We could just stand here, I suppose. It’s a glorious day.’

Mirabelle pulled the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said as she led the way back across the road. ‘We’ve work to do.’

Daphne expected to walk up to the hotel’s grand front entrance and she was forced to swerve as Mirabelle strode confidently past it and up the side of the hotel. A semi-circular service road skirted the rear. The delivery bays were closed and locked. The smell of baking bread wafted across their path and a small chimney belched steam into the air.

‘This way,’ Mirabelle directed.

Two of the back doors were open – one to the laundry, by the smell of soap and lavender coming from it, and the other to the kitchens. Mirabelle stepped into the second and Daphne followed.

‘What are we doing?’ the girl whispered. ‘

Just what you did at the Pavilion,’ Mirabelle said. ‘You were quite right. No one looks at the servants’ area.’

Inside, the corridor split off into several directions. Mirabelle followed her nose towards the smell of baking and was only stopped when a young lad dressed in kitchen whites, with a huge basket of carrots in his arms, walked briskly out of a room.

‘Oi,’ he said, manoeuvring the basket onto his hip and removing a lit cigarette from his mouth. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Health and hygiene,’ Mirabelle said without flinching. ‘Sussex County Council. I’m looking for a fellow called Charles Lewis.’

‘Is that the nignog?’ the boy sneered.

‘The pastry chef,’ Mirabelle corrected him.

Unperturbed, the kid gestured down the corridor. ‘He’s in there,’ he said delightedly. ‘Is he in trouble then?’

‘On the contrary, we’re here to commend Mr Lewis,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He has by far the highest success rate in the county – hygienically speaking. We shall be awarding him the Sussex gold medal.’

Daphne cast Mirabelle a baffled look.

‘When we’ve done that, of course, we’ll undertake a full inspection. Sous chefs are a particular interest of mine. off you go.’

The boy put the cigarette back in his mouth and fled to scrub the carrots.

In the side kitchen, along the corridor the boy had pointed out, Charlie was piping pastry onto a tray. He didn’t look up as Mirabelle knocked on the door jamb.

‘Just put it there.’ He waved at a marble counter. ‘I’ll need them in a minute.’

‘Will here do?’ said Mirabelle.

Charlie raised his eyes. ‘Mirabelle! What are you doing here?’ Then his voice dropped. ‘Is it Vesta? I ain’t been home yet. A late night session and then an early shift, you know. Is she all right?’

‘She’s fine. It’s nothing like that. This is Miss Marsden. Daphne. We need your help, Charlie. We need to use the service stairs.’

‘Is this going to get me into trouble?’ Charlie grinned. ‘Give me a second. I just need to finish these éclairs and I’ll be all yours.’

The service areas of the Grand Hotel were not as extensive as those at the Pavilion but they included a service lift as well as back stairs. With his éclairs in the oven, Charlie obligingly checked the catering book and confirmed that three gentlemen were booked into one of the penthouse suites under the name of Smith and had ordered an alarm call and morning tea at quarter past eight.

‘Eight fifteen, eh? Lazy devils!’ Charlie laughed. ‘They’re the lucky ones, eh? I’ve been up since, well, yesterday morning.’

‘I don’t know how you manage,’ said Mirabelle with a smile.

‘It’s the music, Ma’am. Well, if you want to see these fellas you’ve got a while to wait. Come back down to the kitchen and let me make you some breakfast.’

This, it transpired, comprised strong coffee and warm pastries on a makeshift table in one of the pantries. There was even a small bowl of fresh strawberries. Mirabelle ate slowly, relishing the flavour.

‘England’s finest,’ Charlie declared. ‘We ain’t got berries like these back home.’

Left alone while Charlie went off to tend to his ovens, Mirabelle sipped the coffee and dabbed her lips with a thick white linen napkin while Daphne took the last strawberry from the bowl. The pastries were delicious. Once she had finished, Mirabelle turned her attention to the matters in hand. She folded her napkin and sat back in her seat, looking at Daphne curiously.

‘What do the letters say?’ she asked.

‘It’s so lame – that’s the ridiculous thing.’

‘It can’t be that lame if they’ve killed all these people to keep it secret.’

‘That’s the masons for you, isn’t it? Drama after drama over something symbolic.’

Mirabelle folded her hands in her lap. ‘Well?’

‘Do you know the Grand Lodge in London? In Holborn?’

‘Yes. Next to the Connaught Rooms.’ The building had been renovated between the wars. They’d hoped it would be a monument to peace before 1939 came along. ‘It’s the oldest lodge in the country, isn’t it? The one the king attended?’

Daphne leaned in. ‘That’s the thing,’ she whispered. ‘It’s ironic, really. I mean, it’s not the oldest. That’s what becomes clear in the letters and that’s what they’re interested in. The letters are from a nineteenth-century earl who wrote to George IV. He mentions the real lodge, the
first
lodge – another order that was up and running before the Grand
Lodge. Of course, it’s more ancient and more secret. More senior. More everything.’

‘And London doesn’t want the story to get out?’ Mirabelle picked up her cup and took a sip.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Daphne kept her voice low, ‘until you mentioned the men my father was meeting. It hadn’t occurred to me that the order might still be going. But now it looks as if it is. It’s in Scotland, you see. In Ayrshire somewhere. Somehow Daddy has got in touch with them – or them with him. Which is all to the good, really. As you said, they’ve got more money.’

Mirabelle put down her cup. ‘I understand you’re in this for the cash, Daphne, but the rule is to stay realistic in these situations. Greed only gets people hurt, and you’ve already set the terms of your deal. These men – if they are who you think they are – have killed people to defend their history. To keep their order’s provenance secret. I’d be wary of pressing them. They seem keen on guarding their ground. God knows why.’

Daphne’s face became earnest. ‘History is all we have left now. We won the war and lost India and Palestine, and, well, look at us, losing the peace. This country is in tatters. I can’t blame them for caring about the past.’

Mirabelle decided not to comment. Britain had fought its way through the war, and the country would get through the peace, too. People were resilient. Better days were already here and there would be more ahead. Her optimism momentarily surprised her. ‘So, what do you know about these men? About this Scottish lodge?’

Daphne finished her coffee. She cast her eyes around the pantry as if behind the sacks of potatoes someone might be listening. ‘It was pro-Stuart. George was a Hanoverian king. I assumed he’d rubbed out the order – got rid of it, I mean. I’d seen mentions of it here and there before, but no definite proof that it existed. The Hanoverians were not keen on
dissent and it was only a hundred years since James Stuart attempted the coup that scared George’s great-great-grandfather into reprisals. It was only a few decades since Bonnie Prince Charlie and his troops made it as far as Derby. A potent Jacobite force north of the border was a real threat. The monarchy was afraid of the Scots. When I found the letters I assumed King George had destroyed the order. It seems, though, they escaped George’s retribution and they’ve been keeping their heads down all this time. They’ve survived by being more secret than anyone else.’