Miss Fletcher frowned but said nothing.
The little carriage arrived at the entrance to the Extra Mural Cemetery on the Lewes Road, which was distinguished by a little lodge and castellated gateway topped with a round tower, all in flint and stone. The name of the cemetery was engraved on a scroll above the entrance arch, with the humbling motto, mors omnibus communis, as if anyone needed to be reminded that death comes to all. The general effect was both practical and dignified, but it was also inviting to the visitor.
The carriage passed through the gateway. Stretching before them was an avenue bordered by young elms in full leaf, between which were planted young oaks, yews and well-tended flower beds. Mr Bishop’s guide told Mina that the cemetery had conducted its first burial in the year it opened, 1851, and offered a pleasant retreat from the bustle of town life and an open space far superior to that of crowded churchyards.
As they descended from the carriage Mina glanced at Miss Fletcher, but her features betrayed nothing. Mina wondered if anyone she knew was interred there. If so, that person could not be recently departed or mourned with any great sense of loss.
‘I promised Mother that I would place something colourful on Father’s grave for her and also see that the plot was tidy,’ said Mina. ‘She has heard rumours about thefts of shrubs from the cemetery and it threw her into a panic. I took this decoration from the table at our luncheon today. I thought that if Father could not be at Edward’s celebration, then in this way, the celebration could come to him. But I also wish to take some of the strolls recommended by Mr Bishop in his book. Dr Hamid has specially recommended that I do so for my health. He says they are very calming.’
‘He is so very careful of you,’ said Nellie.
‘He is a good doctor and a good friend,’ said Mina.
Nellie nodded agreement. She appeared to be about to say something else, but then smiled as if thinking better of it and was silent. She opened the parasol, which was a good size, and was able to ensure that Mina could enjoy some of the shade.
Unknown to her companions, Mina had already devised a route for her walk. Once she had tended to her father’s grave, she could wend her way apparently at whim, but with Mr Bishop’s volume in hand it would appear only that she was following one of his recommended strolls. Her intention was to follow a course that would allow her to examine the graves that Richard had been tasked with sketching. If Miss Fletcher had not been present, she would have spoken openly to Nellie of what she was seeking and also her concerns for Richard, but she did not feel it wise to confide secrets in front of Mr Jordan’s appointed spy, and even the most casual mention of Richard was dangerous in the extreme.
Mina was pleased to find her father’s resting place perfectly tidy and untouched by flower thieves and placed her little potted decoration in front of the headstone. Nellie was silent as Mina stood deep in thought. In those moments of contemplation, she mourned that beloved parent, remembering the mischievous twinkle in his eye as he regaled her and her siblings with stories. He lived on in her memory and she felt sure they would see each other again, but she could not help wondering if the possibility that her mother might marry the odious Mr Beckler would rouse his angry ghost.
‘I bought a little treat for us,’ said Mina, opening her reticule. ‘I hope you like Veale’s vanilla creams.’
‘Why yes, how thoughtful,’ said Nellie, selecting a chocolate and popping it into her mouth, while Mina ate hers in small bites.
‘Perhaps, Miss Fletcher, you might care for one?’
Miss Fletcher’s mouth pursed as if she had eaten a slice of lemon. She peered into the little bag with a suspicious look, and Mina realised that she was searching for hidden slips of paper. Satisfied, the dragon withdrew its head. ‘No thank you,’ she said.
Mina made a great play of consulting her book. ‘I would like to visit the grave of the first Mrs Honeyacre,’ she said. ‘I know Mr Honeyacre frets about it when he is not able to visit, and I would like to write to him and reassure him that all is well.’
No one dissented, and they walked on, along well-trimmed pathways where leafy fragments fluttered prettily in the sunshine. The monument they reached was a tasteful plinth of white marble on which stood a cross carved with an angel. It was inscribed ‘Sacred to the memory of Eleanor Honeyacre, a devoted wife, 1810-1865, asleep with God’.
‘That is an unusually large construction up ahead,’ said Mina, indicating a mausoleum the size of a small cottage. ‘I should like to take a look at that.’ She did not wait for agreement but moved on.
This grand affair, as Mina knew perfectly well from her research, was the vault of the Phipps family, purchased by them when the cemetery opened. ‘Oh, this is the Phipps mausoleum,’ she exclaimed, pausing to read the inscriptions, noting that the first burial was that of Aloysius Phipps ‘esteemed by all who knew him’ 1768-1856. In subsequent years he had been joined by his wife, a son, an unmarried daughter, and two brothers.
As they walked on, consuming the occasional chocolate, Mina took care to divert any suspicion of her interest by remarking on other burial sites, those not on Richard’s list but which were marvels of the stonemason’s art, or commemorated notable persons. At the same time, she carefully threaded her way to the grave of Charles Peasgood 1800-1862, whose headstone, carved with the caduceus, the symbol of his profession, bore abundant tributes to his qualifications and prowess as a medical man. In this case, her family’s acquaintance with Mrs Peasgood was excuse enough for her interest.
The Samprey gravesite was next. This was one of the larger monuments, a small tower, square in section with a series of steps leading up to its four faces and a carved stone canopy on top with an ornamental spire. One face of the column commemorated Hector Samprey, 1804-1867, and the other his wife, Amelia, 1809-1859. One face was blank in the expectation of future Sampreys, but the other commemorated Hector Samprey junior, 1834-1867, presumably the eldest son who had come to a bad end. When Dr Hamid had mentioned this, Mina had entertained the possibility that due to his criminal associations young Hector had committed a murder and been hanged. Had that been the case, however, he would not have been buried in a public graveyard, but in the prison where he had suffered the penalty for his crime.
Mina was about make a comment, but then a gentleman walked up the path and approached the monument. Sombrely dressed, he wore round lensed spectacles that gave his eyes an unusual staring quality, probably due more to the thickness of the glass than the organs themselves. He mounted the steps and touched the inscription on the senior Hector’s side, then stood for a while with bowed head. It was obviously a very personal moment, and they decided to move on.
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Mina, a few minutes later, ‘what a strange coincidence, since we are eating Veale’s chocolates; this is the grave of Mr Veale.’ Mr Bertram Veale, confectioner, ‘sadly missed’, had a monument resembling a classical column twined about with ivy. He had died in 1868 aged only forty-three.
‘I hope he did not die from eating his own chocolates,’ said Nellie with a smile. Miss Fletcher gave a surly look but said nothing. Nellie glanced at her. ‘Were you acquainted with the family?’
‘Not as such,’ said Miss Fletcher. ‘But I know that the gentleman’s excesses were not in the nature of confectionary. His unfortunate wife had much to tolerate.’ She set her mouth in a firm line to draw a very determined end to the conversation. Mina recalled the temperance notice in the shop and drew her own conclusions.
It was fortunate that it was such a fine day, or there might have been objections to the lengthy winding walk, but Mina persevered, dipping her nose into Mr Bishop’s book, and commenting brightly on the fine weather and fresh air, doing her best to conceal her own increasing weariness.
The next grave she observed was that of Frederick Soules, chemist, 1808-1866, deeply mourned by his devoted wife and loving sons. A sorrowful angel was a nicely carved tribute, but, thought Mina, nothing out of the ordinary.
The grave
of Mr Robert Mulgrew (1785-1863) was an even simpler affair, a plain cross on a plinth. The inscription read: ‘Humble in his perfect scholarship. Charitable and pious’. It was so unremarkable, Mina had to wonder why this one had been chosen for Mr Beckler’s list.
One of the gravesites proved much harder than the others to find. Mina was obliged to wander as if at random when she actually had her little sketch map folded up in the pages of her book. She didn’t like to be too obvious in consulting it. At one point Nellie even asked her if there was something she was especially hoping to find, and Mina had to assure her that this was not the case, she was just enjoying the quiet and the pretty flowers. But then she saw it and it was something of a surprise. The headstone was small, the standard rectangle with a bowed top found in abundance in older, humbler burials in Brighton churchyards. The plot was not even ringed with stones; it was a simple raised area of grass. There were neither urns, nor flowers, nor shrubs. It was tidy enough, but whether that was because it had been tended by a relative or made neat by a cemetery official, unable to bear the appearance of neglect, it was impossible to say. This was the grave of one of the wealthiest women of Brighton, Miss Edith Porterson-White, 1780-1862.
‘Oh, my word,’ said Mina. ‘How sad that this grave of all the ones here should be so mean and little cared for. Does the lady have no one to honour her memory?’
‘I don’t know the name,’ said Nellie.
There was a brief growl, something that might from the throat of Miss Fletcher have served as a derisive laugh, but her face was not smiling.
‘Did you know her, Miss Fletcher?’ asked Mina.
‘I knew of her,’ said the maid. ‘She was said to have all the wealth a person might wish for, and yet she lived like a pauper. But she died without leaving a will.’
‘Were there no living relatives?’ asked Mina, hoping to learn more.
‘It would have been simpler if there had not been.’ Once again, Miss Fletcher’s mouth clamped into a tight line.
Dr Hamid had told Mina of an old dispute over the inheritance which had taken place so long ago he felt certain it must by now have been settled, but Mina, looking at the dismal tombstone, felt sure that it was not.
As they walked back to the carriage, Mina reflected on the visit. As far as she could see, there was nothing the eight families on Mr Beckler’s list had in common apart from having burial plots in the Extra Mural Cemetery, and she saw no special reason why those particular graves should have been chosen for photographs. Was she simply imagining some subtle device? Was there some obvious reason right in front of her eyes which she had missed? Or was there something hidden from her knowledge which she had yet to discover?
CHAPTER NINE
Breakfast at the Scarletti house next morning was unusually cheerful. It was Mrs Scarletti’s mood that generally prevailed at the family table, and she had been keeping herself amused with the twins, who liked to chatter to each other in their own language. It was unintelligible to anyone else, although the proud grandmother pretended to understand every word.
‘Do you know,’ she said, attacking a plate piled with scrambled eggs and kidneys, ‘I think I might invite Mr Beckler to tea. As he is Richard’s employer, I really ought to. Richard, I am most surprised that you have not already done so.’
Richard said nothing but glanced at Mina. He had not made any such invitation at her express instructions, as she had informed him without a hint of ambiguity that she did not want Mr Beckler to come to the house.
Edward drummed his fingertips impatiently on the table, then consulted his pocket diary. ‘I cannot remain in Brighton much longer. Our appointment to see the photographs is two p.m., I believe. If it could be managed a little earlier, then it would be all the better. Then I really must return to London. My dear Agatha and Mrs Gostelow are also departing this afternoon, and we intend to travel by the same train.’
‘I shall invite him for next Sunday, as I assume that he is not able to be away from his business before then,’ said Mrs Scarletti, as if Edward had not spoken.
Mina now faced a dilemma. She could not object to the idea without venturing into subjects she had no intention of discussing, neither did she see any real future in opposing her mother’s wishes. Her first instinct was to accept the inevitable and devise some way of being absent for the occasion, but at the same time, she felt that someone who was both in possession of common sense and alert to the dangers ought to be with her mother. Looking around the table, she realised that with Edward back in London the only family member meeting that description was herself.
‘In fact, I shall extend the invitation this afternoon,’ Mrs Scarletti went on. ‘We are very nearly friends, after all. Mina, you must make the arrangements with cook. Perhaps you can make some enquiries as to what he might like to eat.’
Mina did not need to enquire as to what Mr Beckler liked to eat since she had observed him at Hollow House and seen him savage anything that lay within his reach. If her mother imagined she might fatten him into a suitable husband, she would be disappointed in that endeavour.
‘I will make the arrangements, of course, Mother,’ she said. ‘Tea for six.’ She glanced at Mr Inskip and Enid, who did not object.
‘Unless Mr Beckler has a sweetheart, in which case —’ said Mrs Scarletti hesitantly.
‘He does not,’ said Richard. ‘At least —’ he glanced at Mina — ‘if there is a lady he admires, she does not return his feelings.’
‘Isn’t it time you were at work, Richard? You don’t want to be late,’ said Mina.
‘Yes, my dear, we know how much Mr Beckler relies on you,’ said his mother.
Richard sighed, gulped his tea, forked hot bacon in between two slices of toast and went away, munching.
‘He is such a good boy,’ said Mrs Scarletti. ‘Edward, you must have been so upset when he chose to make his fortune in Brighton.’
Edward said nothing.
‘We would like to stay a few days longer if that is convenient,’ said Mr Inskip. ‘There is so much to enjoy in Brighton. I saw an advertisement in the Gazette for Harrison’s Velocipede School in Queen’s Road. They are sole agents for the new Coventry machine, and I really must pay them a visit.’
‘But you already have a velocipede, my dear,’ said Enid. ‘Why do you need another? You cannot ride them both at once.’
Mr Inskip was momentarily speechless.
‘I am only sorry that my dear Henry is not here to see how well the family thrives,’ said Mrs Scarletti. She put down her knife and fork and dabbed the edge of a handkerchief to one moistening eye. She did not say it, but Mina knew that in such moments her mother’s thoughts were also of her daughter Marianne, lost to consumption ten years ago, a tragedy that she could hardly bear to speak of.
‘We must pay our respects at his grave while we are here,’ said Mr Inskip. ‘I am told it is a very fine location.’
‘The cemetery is like a garden of sculpture,’ said Mina. ‘A place of peace and beauty. It is also an education about the notable families of Brighton. I took a walk there only yesterday. In fact, I can lend you my book of recommended strolls for the visitor. There was one grave, however, which surprised me. It lay hidden amongst all the noble statues and fine monuments. It was a low, mean sort of grave, almost like that of a pauper, a mound of grass with just a small headstone to mark the spot, and yet I understand that the lady buried there was one of the richest women in town.’
‘Oh, who might that be?’ exclaimed Mrs Scarletti. ‘I might have known her.’
‘She passed away before we lived here,’ said Mina. ‘A Miss Porterson-White.’
Mina’s mother gave the little frown that always appeared when she did not like to admit that she did not know something. It was clear that she did not recognise the name of the prominent person. Mr Inskip, however, whose head had been bent over his breakfast plate with a loaded fork, looked up, and it was clear that Mina had his earnest attention. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the Port
erson-White case, a veritable Jarndyce affair.’
‘Jarndyce?’ queried Mrs Scarletti, who was regrettably unfamiliar with the works of Mr Dickens and was plunging rapidly out of her depth. ‘Is he a Brighton man?’
‘That is the name we give to a law case which is unlikely to be settled soon,’ said Mr Inskip, kindly.
‘This is very interesting; do tell me more,’ said Mina.
He smiled. ‘My firm is not involved in the case and that is a matter for which we can only be grateful, as it is more trouble than it is worth, but it is widely spoken of amongst legal men. Miss Porterson-White was a spinster, the only child of a gentleman who possessed a substantial fortune in rented properties, mainly in London. When he died, he left all his fortune to her. Many men sought her hand, but she refused them all. I think she suspected their motives.
‘When she was very aged, she came to live in Brighton for her health. She passed away a good many years ago, and it was then discovered that she had left no will. The nearest heirs were two distant cousins; I forget their names. But the two gentlemen disliked each other. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that they hated each other. One of them was believed to have been a favourite of the deceased and it was claimed that she had intended to leave all her fortune to him, whereas the other one she is supposed to have disliked and had threatened to cut him off with a shilling.
‘But that is all rumour and supposition. There is no proof that either man can bring. Since there is no will, the fortune was destined to be divided between the two.’
‘If it was so large, there ought to have been enough to satisfy both of them, surely?’ said Mina.
‘That is very true, but I am afraid that enmity can overcome reason. One of the cousins actually accused the other of finding and destroying the will, and they came to blows. Then they went to law.’
‘And it is still not settled?’
The Cyanide Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 6) Page 9