The Murder Room (13 page)

He waited while Marcus, unhurried, opened his briefcase, took out his papers and adjusted his spectacles. He said, “Thank you for coming. I've prepared three folders with the documents we need. I haven't included copies of the trust deed—the terms, after all, are well known to the three of us—although I have it in my briefcase if either of you wish to refer to it. The relevant paragraph for the present discussion is clause three. This provides that all major decisions regarding the museum, including the negotiation of a new lease, the appointment of senior staff and all acquisitions with a value of over £500 are to be agreed by the signature of all trustees. The present lease expires on fifteenth November of this year and its renewal accordingly requires our three signatures. In the event of the museum being sold or closed the trust provides that all pictures valued at more than £500 and all first editions shall be offered to named museums. The Tate has first refusal of the pictures and the British Library of the books and manuscripts. All remaining items are to be sold and the proceeds shared between the trustees then in office and all direct descendents of our father. That means the proceeds will be divided between we three, my son and his two children, and Neville's daughter. The clear intention of our father in establishing the family trust is, therefore, that the museum should continue in being.”

Caroline said, “Of course it must continue in being. As a matter purely of interest, how much would we receive if it doesn't?”

“If we don't have our three signatures on the lease? I haven't commissioned a valuation so the figures are entirely my own estimate. Most of the exhibits left after the gifts are of considerable historic or sociological interest but probably not valuable on the open market. My estimate is that we would receive about £25,000 each.”

“Oh well, a useful sum, but hardly worth selling one's birthright for.”

Marcus turned a page in his dossier. “I have provided a copy of the new lease as Appendix B. The terms except for the annual rent are unchanged in any significant respect. The term is for thirty years, the rent to be renegotiated every five. You'll see that the cost is still reasonable, indeed highly advantageous and far more favourable than we could hope to obtain for such a property on the open market. This, as you know, is because the landlord is prohibited from granting the lease except to an organization concerned with literature or the arts.”

Neville said, “We know all this.”

“I realize that. I thought it would be helpful to reiterate the facts before we begin decision-making.”

Neville fixed his eyes on the works of H. G. Wells on the shelf opposite. Did anyone, he wondered, read them now? He said, “What we have to decide is how we deal with closure. I ought to say now that I have no intention of signing a new lease. It's time for the Dupayne Museum to close. I thought it right to make my position clear at the outset.”

There was a few seconds' silence. Neville willed himself to look into their faces. Neither Marcus nor Caroline was giving anything away, neither showing any surprise. This salvo was the beginning of a battle they had expected and were prepared for. They had little doubt of the outcome, only of the most effective strategy.

Marcus's voice, when it came, was calm. “I think that decision is premature. None of us can reasonably decide on the future of the museum until we have considered whether, financially, we can continue. How, for example, the cost of the new lease can be met and what changes are necessary to bring this museum into the twenty-first century.”

Neville said, “As long as you realize that further discussion is a waste of time. I'm not acting impulsively. I've been thinking this over since Father died. It's time for the museum to close and the exhibits to be distributed elsewhere.”

Neither Marcus nor Caroline replied. Neville made no further protest. Reiteration would only weaken his case. Better let them talk and then simply and quickly restate his decision.

As if Neville hadn't spoken, Marcus went on, “Appendix C sets out my proposals for the reorganizing and more effective funding of the museum. I have provided the accounts for last year, the figures for attendances and projected costing. You will see that I have proposed financing a new lease by the selling of a single picture, perhaps a Nash. This will be within the terms of the trust if the proceeds are totally committed to the more effective running of the museum. We can let one picture go without too great harm. After all, the Dupayne is not primarily a picture gallery. As long as we have a representative work of the major artists of the period, we can justify the gallery. We need then to look at staffing. James Calder-Hale is doing an efficient and useful job and may as well continue for the present, but I suggest that we shall eventually need a qualified curator if the museum is to develop. At present our staffing consists of James, Muriel Godby the secretary–receptionist, Tallulah Clutton in the cottage who does all except the heavy cleaning, and the boy Ryan Archer, part-time gardener and handyman. Then there are the two volunteers, Mrs. Faraday who gives advice on the garden and grounds, and Mrs. Strickland the calligrapher. Both are giving useful services.”

Caroline said, “You might reasonably have included me on the list. I'm here at least twice a week. I'm virtually running the place since Father died. If there's any overall control it comes from me.”

Marcus said evenly, “There's no effective overall control, that's the problem. I'm not underestimating what you do, Caroline, but the whole setup is essentially amateur. We have to start thinking professionally if we're going to make the fundamental changes we need to survive.”

Caroline frowned. “We don't need fundamental changes. What we've got is unique. All right, it's small. It's never going to attract the public like a more comprehensive museum, but it was set up for a purpose and it fulfils it. From the figures you've produced here it looks as if you're hoping to attract official funds. Forget it. The Lottery won't give us a pound, why should it? And if it did we would have to supplement the grant, which would be impossible. The local authority is already hard pressed—all LAs are—and central government can't fund adequately even the great national museums, the V and A and the British Museum. I agree we've got to increase our income, but not by selling our independence.”

Marcus said, “We're not going for public money. Not to the government, not to the local authority, not to the Lottery. We wouldn't get it anyway. And we'd regret it if we did. Think of the British Museum: some five million in the red. The government insists on a free admissions policy, funds them inadequately, they get into trouble and have to go back to the government cap in hand. Why don't they sell off their immense surplus stock, charge reasonable admission fees for all except vulnerable groups and make themselves properly independent?”

Caroline said, “They can't legally dispose of charitable gifts and they can't exist without support. I agree that we can. And I don't see why museums and galleries have to be free. Other cultural provision isn't—classical concerts, the theatre, dance, the BBC—assuming you think the Beeb still produces culture. And don't think of letting the flat, by the way. That's been mine since Father died and I need it. I can't live in a bed-sit at Swathling's.”

Marcus said calmly, “I wasn't thinking of depriving you of the flat. It's unsuitable for exhibits and the access by one lift or through the Murder Room would be inconvenient. We're not short of space.”

“And don't think, either, of getting rid of Muriel or Tally. They both more than earn their inadequate salaries.”

“I wasn't thinking of getting rid of them. Godby in particular is too efficient to lose. I'm giving thought to some extended responsibilities for her—without, of course, interfering with what she does for you. But we need someone more sympathetic and welcoming on the front desk. I thought of recruiting a graduate as secretary–receptionist. One with the necessary skills, naturally.”

“Oh, come off it, Marcus! What sort of graduate? One from a basket-weaving university? You'd better be sure she's literate. Muriel deals with the computer, the Internet and the accounts. Find a graduate who can do all that on her wages and you'll be bloody lucky.”

Neville had said nothing during this exchange. The adversaries might be turning on each other but essentially they had the same aim: to keep the museum going. He would wait his chance. He was surprised, not for the first time, how little he knew his siblings. He had never believed that being a psychiatrist gave him a passkey to the human mind, but no two minds were more closely barred to him than the two which shared with him the spurious intimacy of consanguinity. Marcus was surely more complicated than his carefully controlled bureaucratic exterior would suggest. He played the violin to near professional standard; that must mean something. And then there was his embroidery. Those pale, carefully tended hands had peculiar skills. Watching his brother's hands, Neville could picture the long manicured fingers in a ceaseless montage of activity; penning elegant minutes on official files, stopping the violin strings, threading his needles with silk, or moving as they did now over the methodically prepared papers. Brother Marcus with his boring conventional suburban house, his ultra-respectable wife who had probably never given him an hour's anxiety, his successful surgeon son now carving out a lucrative career in Australia. And Caroline. When, he wondered, had he ever begun to know what lay at the core of her life? He had never visited the school. He despised what he thought it stood for—a privileged preparation for a life of indulgence and idleness. Her life there was a mystery to him. He suspected that her marriage had disappointed her, but for eleven years it had endured. What now was her sexual life? It was difficult to believe that she was celibate as well as solitary. He was aware of weariness. His legs began a spasmodic juddering of tiredness and it was difficult to keep his eyes open. He willed himself into wakefulness and heard Marcus's even and unhurried voice.

“The investigations I have carried out during the last month led me to one inescapable conclusion. If it is to survive, the Dupayne Museum must change, and change fundamentally. We can no longer continue as a small, specialized repository of the past for a few scholars, researchers or historians. We have to be open to the public and see ourselves as educators and facilitators, not merely guardians of the long-dead decades. Above all, we must become inclusive. The policy has been set out by the government, in May 2000, in its publication
Centres for Social Change: Museums, Galleries and Archives for All.
It sees mainstreaming social improvement as a priority and states that museums should—and here I quote—
identify the people who are socially excluded . . . engage them and establish their needs . . . develop projects which aim to improve the lives of people at risk of social exclusion
. We have to be seen as an agent of social change.”

And now Caroline's laughter was both sardonic and genuinely full-throated. “My God, Marcus, I'm astonished you never became head of a major Department of State! You've got all it takes. You've swallowed the whole contemporary jargon in one glorious gulp. What are we supposed to do? Go down to Highgate and Hampstead and find out what groups of people are not flattering us with their attendance? Conclude that we have too few unmarried mothers with two children, gays, lesbians, small shopkeepers, ethnic minorities? And then what do we do? Entice them in with a roundabout on the lawn for the kids, free cups of tea and a balloon to take away? If a museum does its job properly the people who are interested will come, and they won't only be one class. I was at the British Museum last week with a group from school. At five-thirty people of every possible kind were pouring out—young, old, prosperous-looking, shabby, black, white. They visit because the museum is free and it's magnificent. We can't be either, but we can go on doing what we have been doing well since Father founded us. For God's sake let's continue to do just that. It will be difficult enough.”

Neville said, “If the pictures go to other galleries, nothing will be lost. They'll still be on public display. People will still be able to see them, probably far more people.”

Caroline was dismissive. “Not necessarily. Highly unlikely, I should think. The Tate has thousands of pictures they haven't the space to show. I doubt whether either the National Gallery or the Tate will be much interested in what we have to offer. It may be different for the smaller provincial galleries but there's no guarantee they'll want them. The pictures belong here. They're part of a planned and coherent history of the inter-war decades.”

Marcus closed his dossier and rested his clasped hands on the cover. “There are two points I want to make before Neville has his say. The first is this. The terms of the trust are intended to ensure that the Dupayne Museum continues in being. We can take that as agreed. A majority of us wish it to continue. This means, Neville, that we don't have to convince you of our case. The onus is on you to convince us. The second point is this. Are you sure of your own motives? Shouldn't you face the possibility that what is behind this disagreement has nothing to do with rational doubts about whether the museum is financially viable or fulfils a useful purpose? Isn't it possible that you're motivated by revenge—revenge against Father—paying him back because the museum meant more to him than his family, more to him than you? If I'm right, then isn't that rather childish, some might think ignoble?”

The words, delivered across the table in Marcus's unemphatic monotone, apparently without rancour, a reasonable man propounding a reasonable theory, struck Neville with the force of a physical blow. He felt that he recoiled in his chair. He knew that his face must betray the strength and confusion of his reaction, an uncontrolled upsurge of shock, anger and surprise that could only confirm Marcus's allegation. He had expected a fight, but not that his brother would venture on this perilous battleground. He was aware that Caroline was leaning forward, her eyes intent on his face. They waited for him to reply. He was tempted to say that one psychiatrist in the family was enough, but desisted; it wasn't a moment for cheap irony. Instead, after a silence which seemed to last for half a minute, he found his voice and was able to speak calmly.