Henshaw didn’t object. Instead he hoisted himself to his feet and limped in the direction of the door. ‘All right, I’ll get him,’ he said. ‘I might as well do something useful.’
Chapter 7
Patience and tenacity are worth twice
their weight in cleverness.
‘What are you two doing here?’ demanded McGregor. He had bundled the women into the sunny reception room at the front of the building, which now seemed rather eerie. Mirabelle cast her eyes over the intricate carved wooden feet on the sofas and armchairs and wondered if Mrs Chapman had polished them with her white gloves earlier that day. She did not want to sit down.
‘It’s a free country,’ Vesta managed to get out.
McGregor cast her a stern look that quashed all hope that that kind of reply would be adequate. ‘A woman has died,’ he said flatly. ‘And they don’t allow lady members in the masons, so how do you explain your presence?’
‘We were interested, Superintendent.’ Mirabelle’s voice was smooth. ‘That’s all.’
‘Interested? Interested in what? Next time you’re interested, let me know and I’ll send a uniformed officer to avert the homicide.’
‘Well, if you’re going to be like that . . .’ Mirabelle took her sunglasses from her handbag, arming herself for the sunshine as she turned towards the door in a perfumed swish. She’d had quite enough of aggressive men for one day.
‘No,’ McGregor caught her by the wrist, ‘I didn’t mean to be unreasonable. It’s only, what were you interested in exactly? I don’t understand. First you were at the boxing last night and now this.’
Mirabelle looked pointedly at his hand, which was still grasping her arm. The Superintendent quickly removed it. ‘You’re not a freemason, are you?’ she said.
McGregor shook his head. ‘My father didn’t hold with it.’ His voice was solemn.
‘I thought not. I hoped not, actually, given how things stand. Well, I’m sure this won’t come as a shock to you. You might not hold with the tenets of freemasonry, but most of the Brighton police force does.’
McGregor laughed. ‘Some of them, probably. Everyone’s allowed a hobby. It’s the same at home. What’s that got to do with anything? It’s only a few police officers in a gentlemen’s club.’
‘It’s rather more than a few, Superintendent. If my information is correct, which I believe it is, it’s by far the majority of the Brighton force.’
‘Even so, there’s no law against it. The old duffer in there is pretty unfriendly but he’s upset. The masons are harmless, Mirabelle. What is it you think you’re on to?’
‘Joey Gillingham’s death, of course. And now Mrs Chapman. She’s your second corpse with a link to this place, or at least a link to freemasonry.’
‘There’s no link between Gillingham and the masons.’
Mirabelle sighed as if her patience was being tried. ‘I beg to differ. My guess is that’s why your men removed Joey Gillingham’s body yesterday and Bill Turpin thinks so, too. It’s a logical explanation. Something about the body struck a chord with them because they were freemasons. I don’t know what it was and I don’t know why they felt they had to act, but I think it’s why they whisked Joey Gillingham away.’
‘Robinson?’ McGregor sounded incredulous, but his eyes were thoughtful, as if he was working through the idea. ‘Well, it would certainly explain how he’s managed to hold onto his position all these years. He’s a terrible detective, if I’m honest. Are you sure?’
‘I’m more sure now. I don’t believe in coincidences, and if some poor woman dies in suspicious circumstances the day after Joey Gillingham’s body is removed for what I believe are masonic reasons, and that woman dies in a masonic lodge, then my money is on there being a connection between the two deaths, or rather murders. It’s something to do with the masons.’
‘But Joey Gillingham can’t have known Mrs Chapman. She’s just a charwoman. These are two completely different crimes, Mirabelle, if that’s what Mrs Chapman’s death even turns out to be. One murderer’s a slasher. The other’s a poisoner, and that’s only if the poor woman didn’t do it herself. I can’t see any concrete connection between the two victims and certainly not anything masonic. I mean, a cleaning lady from Brighton and a sports journalist? How would a cleaning lady even meet Joey Gillingham? Why would he be interested in her? I think you’ve got it wrong.’
Vesta stepped forward, furious. ‘Because she’s a cleaner? Or because she’s old? My mum’s had jobs as a cleaner and for that matter she’s probably about the same age as the woman in there. They’re people, you know – cleaners and old ladies.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said McGregor. This was all going wrong. It seemed he always sounded like a fool in front of Mirabelle Bevan. ‘What I meant was that Joey Gillingham was a single chap in his late twenties and he lived on the other side of London, in Gravesend. Mrs Chapman was, what, in her fifties? She was a cleaning lady from Brighton. I doubt the two of them knew each other socially. I doubt they had a romance. I doubt . . .’
‘Where did he stay?’ Mirabelle cut in.
‘What?’
‘When Joey Gillingham came to Brighton where did he stay? Did he ever board somewhere?’
McGregor conceded it wasn’t a bad idea. ‘All right. I’ll have someone look into it. But I’m not convinced, Mirabelle. And, in the meantime, you two need to let me do my job. If you could just remain in Brills Lane and collect a few outstanding debts it would be tremendous. You stick to your patch and I’ll stick to mine.’
‘Will you keep me informed?’
‘This is police business,’ McGregor objected. ‘You can’t go poking your nose in. It’s not for busybodies or amateurs. Sorry, but it isn’t.’
Mirabelle flashed her most charming smile. He remembered her using this technique the night before at the Crown and Anchor when she wanted information from unsuspecting men. Well, if that was how she wanted it, he’d play along. He might as well get something out of this apart from a half-baked conspiracy theory. A vision of Mirabelle dressed for dinner flitted across his mind’s eye.
‘All right,’ the Superintendent changed tack, ‘I can’t say you’re not helpful. Thanks for tipping me the wink. How about I keep you informed and you promise to keep out of the investigation? Why don’t you let me take you for a drink this weekend? I can fill you in over a whisky or two and perhaps dinner?’
Vesta looked on incredulous as Mirabelle paused and then unexpectedly succumbed to the request. ‘You know where I am,’ she said. ‘May we go now?’
Five minutes later the women were heading back towards the seashore. The sun was at its height and the hot dusty air from the traffic made the heat almost unbearable.
Vesta fanned herself furiously. ‘You know where I am,’ she mimicked Mirabelle’s simper. ‘That man is creepy, Belle. Busybody, indeed, and amateur. Hardly! Where would he be without you? He hasn’t got a clue. Next thing you know, he’ll want you to look after him. You’ll see, he’ll get his legs under the table and that’ll be it. You’ll be cooking him breakfast, lunch and dinner, and ironing his shirts, too.’
Mirabelle wished fervently that Vesta would sort out her diffculties with Charlie. It would make life, if not less complicated, then certainly less accusatory.
The girl continued, scarcely drawing breath. ‘He tells you to go back to the office and you act like a puppy that’s been told off. Do you remember when Panther first arrived and Bill used to give him a row? That’s you – creeping back to Brills Lane. What’s wrong with you, woman?’
Mirabelle pushed her sunglasses to the end of her nose and scrutinised Vesta. ‘Who says we’re going back to the office?’
A smile spread across Vesta’s face. ‘You don’t fancy him then?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Mirabelle scolded. ‘I feel terribly sorry for the chap. Poor Superintendent McGregor had a dreadful time during the war. He’ll probably never get over what happened to him.’
Vesta fr
oze. ‘Gosh. What was it?’
Mirabelle’s wartime tales left Vesta breathless. Occasionally over tea and a biscuit they would get on to the subject of wartime heroism – the men who broke out of Nazi internment camps to join their compatriots or the bravery of those fighting in the field. Mirabelle looked on it as an education for the girl. Vesta had been too young during the fighting to realise what her hodge-podge of childhood memories actually meant.
‘This is your history. Your generation’s freedom is what we were defending,’ she would say. Vesta had cried over some of the stories Mirabelle told her about women who had won posthumous medals. She seemed to have an endless supply of heroic tales of extraordinary derring-do, though none detailed her own wartime experience, over which she continued to draw an impenetrable veil. Vesta had given up asking anything personal. Mirabelle had signed the Official Secrets Act and that was that. She wouldn’t talk about it.
‘Even if I told you, you’d find it very boring. Really. I only worked in an office,’ she always said. ‘We all did our bit.’
Now Vesta’s curiosity about the Superintendent was aroused. ‘So, what happened to McGregor? I mean in wartime.’
‘It’s really none of our business,’ said Mirabelle coolly.
Vesta did not give up. ‘Did he go into enemy territory? Was he a spy? Did he kill people?’
‘No, no. Much worse than that. He stayed at home, you silly girl. Don’t you see? He had to stay at home while everyone else fought for their country. There’s something wrong with the poor man. His chest. His feet. His eyes. Who knows? Maybe it’s his heart. We should feel very sorry for Superintendent McGregor, Vesta. He’ll never get over it. He didn’t get to feel useful. And if I’m not mistaken he’s also been recently bereaved. Poor fellow has had a dreadful time.’
‘How do you know that? Has he taken you out for dinner already, Mirabelle? Really, you can tell me.’
‘Honestly, Vesta.’ Mirabelle turned up Old Steine. ‘Will you stop using your imagination and use your eyes. Since January he has been wearing a plain gold ring on his pinkie. Most men wear a signet ring, but McGregor’s looks more like a wedding ring – one slim enough to have belonged to a woman. My guess is that he’s lost his mother. Can’t you see the change? He seems sad, or sadder than usual.’
Mirabelle had a nose for bereavement. It was as if she was a bloodhound for heartache. The girl cursed her inattention – she hadn’t even noticed the ring. ‘What do you think is wrong with him, then? Why didn’t they let him fight?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Mirabelle as she cut off the main road. ‘And I have to admit I’m relieved we’re here, so we don’t have to pry into the poor man’s business any longer.’
Vesta looked up. ‘Here?’
In front of her was a wrought-iron gate, behind which an overgrown pathway led to the entrance of the Royal Pavilion. The building seemed to grow out of the jumble of plants that crowded its foundations. The curved white onion domes of the roof were like those of a fairytale castle. The fretwork that decorated the outline was like lace edged in soot and there were holes in the plasterwork. Sure enough, looking down, small lumps of dusty white stucco littered the ground. An illegible shred of paper pinned to the front door by a single nail was the last vestige of instructions to callers. Vesta squinted at it from a distance through the railings.
‘Of course we came here,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Mrs Chapman worked at the Pavilion. That’s what Captain Henshaw said.’
‘But it’s closed.’ Vesta gestured expansively. ‘The place has been closed for years. The gate’s locked.’
‘It’s a former royal residence,’ Mirabelle calmly repeated Captain Henshaw’s words as she drew a lock pick from her handbag and grasped the gate’s mechanism. She had been given an SOE set of picks as a gift from an old colleague the year before. Now she inserted the file and expertly flicked it inside the lock, as she continued to explain her reasoning. ‘Someone has to clean this old place. Well, that was Mrs Chapman, I suppose. But it has to be looked after. It’s not open to the public, but someone must be here at least part of the time.’
There was a click as the bolt inside the lock drew back and then a long creak as Mirabelle opened the gate.
‘Come along,’ she said, ‘let’s see if we can find them.’
Chapter 8
Happiness is an inside job.
Charlie decided to deliver a plate of choux buns to McGuigan & McGuigan on his way home. Often on a Tuesday he’d pop in with a few treats that he managed to smuggle out of the Grand at the end of his shift. Some days it was slivers of cheese pastry or delicate strips of sponge cake. Today it was perfect little choux buns, filled with whipped cream and glazed with caramel icing.
‘You fancy a cuppa, son?’ Bill offered, getting up. He was glad of the interruption. It had been a slow day. Panther looked up sleepily and, not interested in Charlie, let his head drop back onto his paws.
‘Where are the ladies?’ Charlie asked.
‘Couldn’t rightly say,’ said Bill, plugging in the kettle. ‘They went out a while ago.’ He checked his watch. ‘Is that the time? They’ve taken it easy, I expect, in the sun.’
‘Well, if they aren’t here, perhaps we can have a special cuppa.’ Charlie drew his hip flask from his pocket. He always had a slug of decent brandy to hand. ‘Chef’s privilege,’ he said.
‘Good idea, son.’ Bill smacked his lips.
Charlie settled in the chair on the other side of the desk. He drummed a rhythm on the edge of the wood with his fingers.
‘Tuesday’s always quiet,’ said Bill, letting the pot brew before he poured two cups and held them out for Charlie to add a generous tot with one hand while he offered Bill the plate of buns with the other.
‘Is that real cream inside?’ Bill asked, putting down the tea.
Charlie grinned. ‘We’ve got a lot we shouldn’t have in the kitchens at the Grand. We get away with plain rations in the restaurant, but room-service people want black market. If we make too many buns, then someone’s got to have them. I always make too many buns,’ he admitted. ‘Matter of principle.’
‘My Julie would kill for these. She’s a baker – lovely scones – but we ain’t had cream in a long time. So, are these on the turn?’ Bill sank his teeth into the pastry nonetheless.
‘No, man.’ Charlie slurped his tea. ‘They’re just right. But my boss thinks they’re on the turn. That’s the main thing.’
The men were so occupied with their gastronomic break that they didn’t hear the steps on the stairs. When the visitor reached the office landing, a vague outline hovered in the hallway, just visible through the frosted glass. The shape disappeared towards Halley Insurance and then reappeared. A few seconds later there was a tentative rap.
Bill looked up guiltily and placed the illicit plate of buns out of sight on Mirabelle’s chair. ‘Come in,’ he called, wiping his mouth.
The girl who opened the door was slim, blonde and in her early twenties. She wore a short grey summer jacket and a small straw hat decorated with silk daisies and a trail of lace. She appeared uncomfortable in her clothes, as if this wasn’t her everyday wear and she had dressed up especially. Under her arm she held an ochre clutch bag, so that her elbow was jammed uncomfortably into her side. Her lipstick was slightly smudged.
‘Oh,’ she said, unable to take her eyes off Charlie, ‘I didn’t think . . . that is to say . . . I heard there was a lady in charge. A police constable put me onto this place, up at the station.’
‘Don’t mind Charlie, Miss.’ Bill’s voice was as smooth as toffee as both men got to their feet. ‘He’s only visiting. Can I help you?’
The girl’s eyes fell on the two empty desks. She didn’t move beyond the frame of the door.
‘Miss Bevan and Miss Churchill are out,’ Bill explained. ‘Is it a debt to be collected?’
‘Are you Mr McGuigan?’ the girl enquired, glancing back at the sign painted on the door.
‘No. I’m Turpin. Bill Turpin.’ He held out his hand.
The girl hesitated before coming into the room to shake it. She was wearing lace gloves. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It concerns a debt. But I don’t know who owes me the money.’
Charlie brought forward a chair and Bill took a pencil from his top pocket as she sat down.
‘That’s unusual. So, if you don’t know who the debtor is, Miss, at least tell me how much money we’re talking about?’
The girl looked as if she might cry. She shifted in the chair. ‘That’s the problem. I’m not sure. I don’t know what he’d put on and what he hadn’t got round to yet.’
‘Put on what?’
‘The horses, of course. And I don’t know all the odds neither.’
Bill smiled patiently. He sipped his tea. ‘Would you like a cup?’ he offered. ‘There’s a hot drop in the pot. It’s fresh.’
The girl shook her head.
‘Well,’ he tried again, ‘it sounds complicated. I think we’d better start at the beginning. What’s your name?’
‘Ida. Ida Gillingham.’
Bill felt relieved that at least the girl could answer one of his questions. So far she had spoken entirely in riddles. ‘Gillingham,’ he spelled it out as realisation dawned. ‘Ain’t that the name of the fellow . . .’
‘My brother,’ Ida interrupted. ‘Yes. He’s the man that got murdered yesterday. I just confirmed his identity for the police. They’ve got him laid out, you see.’ She reached into her clutch bag for her now crumpled yellow handkerchief. ‘I’m all right,’ she sniffed, smearing the last of her lipstick onto the linen as she blew her nose, ‘but Joey’s notebook’s been nicked. He had all his betting slips in it. Joey picked winners and I’m his only living relation. That book is my legacy. The police tried to send me home. They ain’t bothered about Joey’s slips or the money he was going to lay. But I ain’t going till I’ve found out what happened. Joey’s winnings belong to me. He would have wanted me to have them. The bookie’ll have to pay out. He’ll have to.’
England Expects Page 6