England Expects

by Sara Sheridan

  Bill nodded. ‘Queen’s Road.’

  ‘Strange. I’ve never noticed it.’ She got up to fetch her coat.

  ‘They don’t let in women,’ Bill objected. ‘You don’t want to go getting involved, Miss Bevan.’

  Vesta’s eyes flicked from Bill to Mirabelle and without hesitation the girl sprang to her feet. There was no question where her best prospects lay for a more interesting Tuesday. Abandoning the day’s administrative tasks, she pulled on her bright red coat and reached for her hat, her hand hovering over the office umbrella before she decided the weather was set enough to leave it behind.

  ‘Come on!’ she said in reply to the flash of Mirabelle’s eyes.

  ‘I’m not going to the lodge,’ said Mirabelle. ‘I thought I’d call in to Bartholomew Square to see Superintendent McGregor.’

  ‘And then have a look at the lodge?’ Vesta called her bluff.

  Mirabelle conceded with the tiniest slump of her shoulders.

  ‘Well, then,’ Vesta smiled, ‘I’ll wait while you speak to Lover Boy.’

  Mirabelle’s cheeks flared. ‘Lover Boy? Really, Vesta!’

  ‘Oh, Mirabelle, the lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

  In reply Mirabelle flicked her eyes to inspect Vesta’s bare fourth finger.

  ‘I like living in sin. Turns out I’m the type.’ The girl frowned as she pushed her boss out of the office.

  As they emerged into the sunshine on East Street, Mirabelle put on her dark glasses. Crates of fresh cod had just been delivered to the fish and chip shop and crushed ice dripped down the sides of the stack, pooling on the paving stones. A warm breeze fetched up the street off the open water.

  ‘You think there’s a case here, don’t you?’ Vesta ventured.

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘And you want to get involved?’

  Mirabelle didn’t respond. Sometimes Vesta wondered how Mirabelle’s mind worked. Potential cases presented themselves on a weekly basis at McGuigan & McGuigan – and plenty of them might have proved profitable – but Mirabelle wouldn’t touch a single one. She had a horror of divorce settlements and family intrigues. Yet something like this – something grisly and dangerous – and she homed in like a missile. Vesta admired her boss’s sense of justice but at the same time it mystified her. As they turned left towards the police station Superintendent McGregor was just leaving. His tall frame ducked into a car at the entrance. Mirabelle waved and he raised his arm as he clambered inside with his hat pulled low over his eyes. She reached out, motioning him to wait, but the Superintendent didn’t notice, the door thudded shut and the car drove away.

  The women hovered on the pavement.

  ‘Well,’ Vesta sighed, ‘perhaps you’ll catch him later. What were you going to ask him anyway?’

  ‘I want to know if he’s a freemason.’

  ‘How would you figure that out?’ Vesta watched the vehicle receding down East Street. ‘Do you know the secret code? Is it a handshake? Or a special word? There’s a code word, isn’t there, that you can work into the conversation?’

  Vesta had a dramatic bent that in the past had occasionally proved useful. Still, Mirabelle did not approve of it. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m sure there are masonic handshakes – different for different lodges – but it’s only between masons, and I’m obviously not one of those. No, I was simply going to ask him.’

  Vesta looked unimpressed. ‘He’d hardly just tell you, would he? Bill said it’s a secret society.’

  ‘Freemasons don’t confirm they’re freemasons, or at least they don’t have to, but they aren’t allowed to deny it either. They have a whole Judas complex. If I ask him and he says he’s not a freemason, then he isn’t one. There’s nothing dramatic about it.’

  Vesta’s eyes narrowed.‘What’s going on between you two, Mirabelle? Have you been seeing Superintendent McGregor?’

  Mirabelle looked startled. ‘Only last night.’

  ‘Dinner, you mean?’ Vesta pushed her. Not that Mirabelle ate.

  ‘No. I bumped into him. I went to the boxing and he was there. That’s all.’

  Vesta took a breath. It gave her a moment to think. There was no point in quizzing Mirabelle more closely. If there was a medal for dodging questions, rather than dodging bullets, then Her Majesty would definitely award it to Miss Bevan. In the two years Vesta had known Mirabelle she still hadn’t scratched very far beneath the surface. When anything personal came up, Mirabelle iced over. It vexed Vesta that, to her boss, the whole world was a crime scene. It was as if she was always on the lookout for something out of place to latch on to – a knot to unravel that took attention away from her tightly coiled emotions. Still, at least it meant she’d always talk about a case.

  ‘What on earth do you think this is all about, then? I mean, if McGregor is a mason, why is it important? It’s only a bit of dressing up. A funny handshake and a secret meeting. Unless you think Bill’s conspiracy theory is right.’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Mirabelle admitted, ‘but it’s intriguing, isn’t it?’

  Vesta considered this. ‘Queen’s Road, then?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The walk only took a few minutes from Bartholomew Square. As they climbed the hilly streets Mirabelle looked at the shining new aerials mounted on the roofs. She rarely ventured very far up the roads that led away from the front. Up here, the Georgian horizon was punctuated with a forest of thin metal branches sticking up from elegant buildings in various stages of disrepair.

  ‘Televisions,’ Vesta nodded. ‘Everyone and his mum got one for the Coronation.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Mirabelle had listened to the ceremony on the wireless as the summer rain beat on the window. It would have felt intrusive to have a screen with a moving picture at home.

  ‘We saw it on Mrs Agora’s new set,’ Vesta enthused. ‘Charlie baked biscuits – Coronation cookies he called them – and Mrs Agora had us in. It’s like having another auntie. A white one.’ Hot from the exertion of walking up the steep incline, the girl fanned herself with a piece of paper she had folded for the purpose. ‘Is it much farther?’

  Mirabelle pointed at the street sign. ‘No, just up here,’ she said, emerging onto the main street past the church. She looked left and right along Queen’s Road. There were pubs as you got closer to the station, and some offices and private accommodation. When she thought about it, there weren’t that many buildings that might house a freemasons’ lodge. ‘Do you think that’s the place, over there?’

  ‘I can’t believe we never noticed it before. It’s really not much of a secret society, is it?’ Vesta laughed. ‘I mean, if we can find it just like that.’

  The lodge was a wide, three-storey stucco building in good repair. Corinthian columns framed the doorway, making it look rather grand, which was odd on Queen’s Road – a street tainted by traffic fumes and rubbish from the station. To one side, a small brass plate announced the building’s function, and the front door was fitted with a large pane of glass through which a shadowy hallway could just be seen.

  ‘I always assumed it was a church building,’ said Mirabelle.

  Vesta eyed the door suspiciously. ‘You said they wear something like a uniform?’

  ‘I think it’s only an apron. And they have badges of office. I saw a suitcase packed with bits and pieces once when I used to work in London – little plaques and tassels. One of the senior fellows had it in his office. But I expect it’s a different drill in different places. If you want to keep things secret you need to let each group have its own way, you see. That’s how guerrilla organisations work. In isolated cells.’

  ‘Aprons! Bill’s right. Seems silly to me,’ Vesta snorted.

  There were no lights on in the building. Mirabelle rang the bell and waited. The tinny sound echoed inside. Nothing. Then she knocked. Vesta looked at her high-heeled shoes with concern, clearly expecting Mirabelle to encourage her, in due course, to break in. It had happened before
. The lodge was not an easy target. It looked solid and impregnable. The girl squinted into the bright sunshine and fanned herself more quickly. She was visibly relieved when the door opened and a stocky, elderly man dressed in a brown caretaker’s coat peered into the sunshine.

  ‘Yes, ladies?’

  ‘Is this the freemasons’ lodge?’

  ‘We don’t allow women . . .’

  Mirabelle held up her hand. ‘We have come about Joey Gillingham.’

  The caretaker looked blank.

  ‘He’s the journalist who was killed yesterday,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘Is there anybody who might be able to speak to us about him?’

  The man’s hair was so white it seemed to glow. He fingered the collar of his brown coat. ‘Are you from the Express or the Argus or something?’

  ‘Debt recovery,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘McGuigan & McGuigan, Brills Lane.’

  The man stood straighter. ‘No one here will help you with that,’ he said. ‘The fella was murdered, weren’t he? He’ll hardly be cold yet. It doesn’t seem fitting.’

  ‘Still,’ Mirabelle pushed him, ‘I’d very much like to speak to somebody.’

  The caretaker paused. He looked Vesta up and down. ‘Debt recovery,’ he mumbled. ‘Wait here.’

  The door closed.

  ‘Well, he’s not coming back.’ Vesta grinned.

  ‘He will. They’re men of their word, the masons. Their first priority is loyalty to the lodge, over everything else, but they take honesty very seriously.’

  ‘And what are you going to ask if we get inside?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get a feel for things.’ Mirabelle propped her sunglasses onto the top of her head. ‘I always do.’

  Chapter 5

  The little grey cells, it’s up to them.

  Five minutes later the door clicked open again.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ the caretaker said, standing back to let the women enter. ‘He’ll see you.’

  Inside, the building was cool. There was a pervading smell of dusty books. The hallway was paved with black-and-white tiles. An ornate cornice skirted the ceiling and there were plaster reliefs on the walls that depicted a field ready for harvest and figures in Egyptian dress. Inside, the building seemed on too small a scale to house such finery.

  The caretaker pointed towards a closed door – the first on the right. ‘In there,’ he directed and retreated into the darkness.

  Mirabelle knocked and entered. The room was large and it was unoccupied. The walls were painted yellow and hung with three enormous oil landscapes and a portrait of Sir Isaac Newton. Vast navy-blue curtains framed the long windows. Two crystal chandeliers dropped from ceiling roses, their vague shadows cast over the full height of the back wall. The room must face due east, Mirabelle thought. The morning sunlight streamed in on a set of comfortable sofas and generously proportioned armchairs that looked as if they had been in place for years. Dust motes whirled in the sunbeams. On a table there was a jug of water and some glasses.

  ‘Do you think they’d mind?’ Vesta asked, and without waiting for Mirabelle’s reply she poured a glass and gulped down the water. ‘Would you like some?’

  Mirabelle shook her head.

  Vesta perched on the edge of one of the sofas. She could feel the warm chintz along the back of her calves. ‘It’s very nice. It doesn’t feel secretive or sinister at all. I can’t see anything dangerous happening round here. Do you reckon Bill’s just jealous? Perhaps this crowd never asked him to join – maybe that’s his real problem.’

  Before Mirabelle could fully consider this idea, the door opened on a balding man in his sixties. He was a rotund fellow, wearing a navy suit and a tie that sported an embossed military insignia that Mirabelle recognised as that of the IX Corps. Thin red veins were visible on his cheeks and he was limping heavily. He raised a hand, half in greeting, half to encourage the women to have patience.

  ‘I say,’ he said, ‘we don’t often have lady visitors. I’m John Henshaw, the chap in charge today. Don’t mind this.’ He indicated his leg as he settled himself in an armchair. ‘Gallipoli. Got promoted to captain for it before they pensioned me off. Takes me a little longer to move around.’

  Mirabelle joined Vesta on the sofa. ‘The Dardanelles campaign,’ she said. ‘An honest foe. You must have been quite young, Captain Henshaw.’

  This made the fellow grin and lean forward conspiratorially. ‘Quite. I was straight out of school. Keen as mustard. By now I’ve had one leg for longer than I ever had two. I try to walk normally but sometimes I require a wheelchair. My wife says I am the resistance in that regard but I prefer to be on legs than wheels, and that’s that. Thank you for waiting. Well now,’ he regarded the women carefully before continuing, ‘seeing we’re playing a guessing game, if I didn’t know better, from the look of you two ladies, I’d hazard that you were soliciting for charity. We hand out a good deal over the year – we like good causes here at the lodge. I’m informed, however, that you’re debt collectors.’

  ‘Yes. McGuigan & McGuigan.’

  ‘Well, I never. And what can I do for you?’

  ‘Joey Gillingham. The incident in Oxford Street yesterday. The fellow who was murdered. As I understand it, he was a freemason.’

  ‘And the poor chap owed a client of yours money, Miss? Is that it?’

  Mirabelle let the unanswered question settle into being a fact. Vesta looked away. She didn’t like it when Mirabelle stretched the truth.

  ‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan, and this is Vesta Churchill, my partner in the firm,’ Mirabelle continued.

  Captain Henshaw rubbed his chin. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give out details about our membership but what I can say is that Mr Gillingham was not personally known to me and I’ve been a member here for some years. How about that?’

  ‘So he wasn’t in Brighton on masonic business when he died?’

  Captain Henshaw sat back. ‘I couldn’t possibly say what the chap was up to. How would I know?’

  Mirabelle wondered what Captain Henshaw might do if she pushed him. She decided to try. ‘As you can imagine, in our profession we have close connections with the police force, many of whom, as I understand it, have close connections here.’

  ‘That’s hardly a secret.’ An edge crept into Henshaw’s voice though he was still smiling. ‘What specifically is it you want, Miss Bevan?’

  ‘Mr Gillingham, or, at least, his body, appears to have meant something to the officers who first arrived at the scene of his murder. They removed his corpse without waiting for the senior officer to examine it. That concerned me.’

  ‘Some members of this lodge are police officers, Miss Bevan. But it does not follow that everyone here has intimate knowledge of police affairs in Brighton. I myself, for example, was an accountant before I retired. There are always dark stories of conspiracy about the freemasons but we’re a simple bunch. Perhaps you ought to ask the policemen who attended the scene of the murder, if they were familiar with Mr Gillingham. I only read about the affair in the evening paper. I’d say I know a good deal less than you do.’

  ‘But if it’s a matter that pertains to the lodge, they won’t tell me any more than you will. That, as I understand it, is one of the first rules of freemasonry.’

  Captain Henshaw ignored this comment. ‘Tell me, to whom did the chap owe money?’

  Mirabelle played with her sunglasses. ‘Captain Henshaw, if you think freemasons have a stringent code of secrecy, it has nothing on the code of honour between a debt collector and her clients.’

  A shadow of a smile played on Vesta’s face. Mirabelle really was something.

  Captain Henshaw sucked his bottom lip and contemplated his next move. There was a flash of steely anger in his gaze – but only a flash. He took a deep breath. ‘Well, that being the case, it seems to me you require Mr Gillingham’s solicitor to register his debt for probate,’ he parried. ‘The poor chap came from London, I understand, so perhaps you should direct your enquiries there. As far a
s I’m aware he was not legally represented in Brighton. I’m sorry – there’s nothing more I can do. It might have been better if you had been collecting for charity. I should have liked to have been able to help.’

  Captain Henshaw hauled his leg into position and eased himself up in order to bring the meeting to a close. He grimaced as if this caused him some discomfort. Vesta wondered if it was painful, but then how could the leg be painful if it wasn’t there?

  ‘Takes a minute to get my balance,’ he said.

  She was about to form a question, to ask about his injury in a roundabout way, when there was a thump from beyond the room – as if something heavy had fallen elsewhere in the building.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ Henshaw was becoming annoyed. First these women arrived asking questions and now there appeared to be a disturbance. ‘I don’t know what’s happening today. Giles! Giles!’

  ‘Giles would be?’ Mirabelle enquired.

  ‘The caretaker,’ Henshaw snapped as he struggled to keep his leg from buckling.

  ‘I’ll go and look for him if you like,’ Vesta offered.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ Henshaw objected. ‘Visitors are only allowed in the hallway and in this room . . .’

  Here he was interrupted by another thump, this time followed by a much louder crash. It was clear that the noise was coming from the room next door.

  Mirabelle held out her arm. ‘Let me help. We’d better go and take a look.’

  Captain Henshaw reluctantly put his hand on Mirabelle’s sleeve and found his balance. They made their way into the hallway while Vesta went ahead to open the door of the adjoining room, but before she could turn the handle Captain Henshaw withdrew his hand from Mirabelle’s arm and motioned for the women to stay at a distance.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  Mirabelle and Vesta remained behind him as he turned the handle.

  At first none of them noticed anything odd – or at least nothing that might have caused the noise. The room was in shade, but they could discern ceremonial chairs laid in rows around a central square. The walls were decorated with murals – the night sky in one corner and the sun in the other with a wheatfield just like the one in the hallway. The windows were small and set high on the wall. The modern chandelier edged with brass lilies was not lit and neither were the large candles on Corinthian columns that skirted the main meeting area. Everything seemed in order, almost church-like, Mirabelle thought. Then a low moan grabbed her attention. The noise had a ghostly quality because it was diffcult to tell where it came from. Vesta felt the skin on her arms prickle.