Mirabelle held her breath as the men passed the doorway to the professor’s rooms and instead entered the next stairwell. Inside, a moment later, the first-floor curtains were drawn and a dim light seeped over the potato plants.
Vesta sighed with frustration. ‘I’m exhausted. You think of stairwells as places you move through,’ she said. ‘Not for dossing down. I feel like an old tramp.’
Still, she slipped back to the step, leaned her head on the wall and closed her eyes. Back in Brighton Charlie would have got her message by now. He’d sit up with Mrs Agora and then go to bed early, she thought. He was always tired on Wednesdays after the gig on Tuesday night and the long day in the kitchens that followed. Now Vesta imagined she was curled up next to him on their thick soft mattress. They had taken to sleeping naked in the heat, their winter nightwear abandoned and only a thin blue sheet over the top. She liked slipping out of consciousness with Charlie’s arms wrapped round her, his smooth skin warm along her back. Some nights she woke up to find she had puckered her lips onto his forearm and was sucking his skin like a hungry baby.
‘Sorry,’ she’d murmur drowsily. But Charlie didn’t mind. He didn’t mind anything. Not her flashes of temper, her independent streak or her inability to keep things tidy. With a rush she realised how much she missed him.
‘I love Charlie, you know,’ she whispered sleepily. ‘You mustn’t think that I don’t.’
‘Of course you do,’ Mirabelle soothed. ‘Perhaps you should say yes to him and stop fretting all the time. Being Mrs Lewis wouldn’t be half as horrifying as you’re imagining – it might be lovely.’
‘Mr Tupps said that institutions are all that matter – all that endures. The masons. The church. Marriage, too, I guess.’
‘He might be right,’ Mirabelle whispered. She was about to say more – something about how important marriage was and how lucky Vesta and Charlie were to have found each other – when Vesta let out a little snore and she realised the girl had fallen asleep. Mirabelle envied her. Vesta always seemed so relaxed at the heart of her whirlwind. Underneath the disarray and excitable thinking the girl had a great capacity for happiness. Vesta was an alien creature sometimes. She wondered if the girl’s mother, a loving but strict woman from South London, might be the reason that domestic life held such terrors for her. The Churchills had been shocked enough at Vesta’s behaviour when she took the job at McGuigan & McGuigan, never mind how they’d feel if they knew Vesta and Charlie were sharing digs. So many people seemed to live their lives in reaction to their parents, Mirabelle pondered. If she hadn’t been orphaned while she was still at college, perhaps she’d have done the same. It must be difficult for Daphne, she realised, with a father who was so uncaring. Girls needed their fathers and, given she’d gone into restoration, Daphne must feel a connection with her old man, even if it wasn’t reciprocated. Perhaps in getting involved with the Trust she had been trying to please him or at the very least show him that she was worthwhile. In return, the professor was almost unbelievably cruel.
Vesta’s breathing was even. An owl hooted, far off, the sound carrying on the still night air. At long last, just before midnight Mirabelle noticed someone on the path. She stood up and pressed herself against the wall. She couldn’t make out if the figure was male or female but then it passed beneath a light and it was clear that not only was it female, it was Daphne. She was wearing a cream, belted mackintosh with the green silk scarf tied jauntily at her throat. A pair of patent pumps flashed in the lamplight. Mirabelle allowed herself a smile. She’d been right. Persistence always paid off. Daphne turned into her father’s stairwell.
Mirabelle was about to lay a hand on Vesta’s arm to wake her when something made her hold off. There wasn’t any time to explain and Vesta would be dozy. She’d make too much noise. This wouldn’t take long.
She intended to sneak up the stairs and listen at the keyhole. Any conversation between Daphne and her father must surely be illuminating. She tiptoed between the plants to avoid sinking into the soil. She was halfway over, at the most exposed point, when she caught sight of a man walking down the main path. Instinctively Mirabelle flung herself to the ground, squashing several plants but hiding herself in the centre of the vegetable patch. She could just see the man loitering in the light from Marsden’s windows, staring upwards as if something was on his mind. This close, she recognised him as the porter who had let her in. Eventually the man shrugged his shoulders and continued on his round. Mirabelle pulled herself up. The earth smelled musty and the sap of the plants let out a fresh perfume. The dirt was dry and it would brush off easily. Thank goodness this was all happening in a warm June, she thought, rather than a soggy November.
With her eyes on the receding figure of the porter, Mirabelle stole to the foot of the stairs and crept upwards. During the war, she told herself, men had visited bars frequented by Nazis all over occupied France and had calmly sat listening to loose talk from SS officers. The best intelligence had come from people who risked their lives. What she was doing was mild by comparison. She tried to calm herself. Still, her heart was pounding and her fingers felt weak as she lingered, leaving in to listen outside the door.
‘Of course I haven’t brought it with me,’ the girl was saying. ‘Do you think I’m a complete fool? You’re only the broker, Daddy – that’s all. They need to pay before they’ll get a sniff at it. Those are my terms.’
Mirabelle couldn’t hear Marsden’s response but she could tell that he was furious. What had he expected Daphne to bring to his rooms in the middle of the night, she wondered. She crouched down, placing herself behind the hinge of the door. If it opened suddenly she could dash up to the next flight and be round the corner in seconds.
‘You aren’t seriously expecting me to boo-hoo and just give up?’ Daphne taunted her father. ‘You can shout all you like. Honestly, Daddy. Not such clever old men now, are you – you and your “brothers”? Don’t you wish you’d been nicer to me?’ The girl sounded as if she was enjoying herself.
‘It’s a lot of money, Daphne.’ The professor’s voice was rising, which made it easier to make out. ‘Thousands of pounds. You’re being far too greedy. It’s more than your brother’s inheritance, for God’s sake.’
Daphne dismissed the objection. ‘It’s worth every penny and you know it. If Danny isn’t clever enough to make his own money, that’s his lookout. And it isn’t only the cash. Those bastards killed poor Mrs Chapman. You owe me justice as well as money. You’re paying the market price, that’s all. I’m not looking for any favours. You’re used to hiding criminals in your ranks. Well, I won’t have a cover-up. Not this time.’
‘From what I understand, the woman who died was a criminal.’
Daphne laughed. ‘Elsie Chapman? She was no angel, but you killed her, Daddy. Who on earth deserves that?’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘You know exactly what I mean. You killed her. You people.’
‘She wanted five hundred pounds, I heard. She was a blackmailer.’
‘She underpriced herself.’
‘She threatened to expose the very man she wanted to pay her.’
‘So what? I’ll bring down the whole organisation if I don’t get what I want. I’m only telling the truth, after all.’
‘Sometimes, I could strangle you, girl,’ spat Marsden.
Daphne laughed again. ‘You’ll never get what you want that way. I’ve well and truly covered my back. Your brothers won’t like it if you finish me off. I’ve got it hidden, Daddy, and it’ll all come to light if anything happens to me.’
Marsden made a furious huffing noise. ‘You’re going too far, Daphne.’
‘On the contrary. I’m going just far enough,’ she insisted. ‘You’re only annoyed because you thought I’d come home with my tail between my legs and just hand it over. Either that or you thought I wouldn’t realise its significance. Well, you’re wrong. You’ve treated me disgracefully for years. This will draw a line under everything. Stic
k to your end of the deal and I’ll stick to mine.’
Through the keyhole Mirabelle saw Daphne adjust her scarf in front of a small mirror by the door. She was fixing her hair when, from behind her in a rush, Professor Marsden caught the girl unawares. He grabbed her roughly and shoved her against a bookshelf.
‘You don’t know what you’re getting into. They’re dangerous people, you little fool,’ he growled.
Daphne pulled away. ‘Me, too,’ she said, turning with a steady gaze. ‘I could bring the whole lot into the open. All it would take is a little donation to the British Museum. Or the Royal Scottish Academy. Any institution would do. Or perhaps I’ll deliver it straight to a newspaper – one that isn’t run by a freemason, of course. And bam! There’d be headlines all over the world. But luckily for you, I’d rather have the money and some justice for Elsie. You know how to get in touch with me when you’re ready, and you’d better not be a penny short, old man, or I might change my mind.’
Mirabelle sprang to her feet as the door handle moved. She got out of the way just in time. The girl burst into the hall slamming the door shut behind her. Her patent shoes flashed down the steps and onto the paving stones. With one eye on the closed door, Mirabelle followed. Outside, she realised that Daphne must have broken into a run as she rounded the corner. Up ahead, she was already almost at the porter’s lodge. She had stood up to her father but it had terrified her. It was admirable really that she held her nerve and that she was set on bringing Mrs Chapman’s murderer to justice. As admirable, Mirabelle told herself, as a blackmailer could ever be. So, the masons killed Mrs Chapman over whatever it was that Daphne had got her hands on. That made sense. Mirabelle kept her eyes on the figure of the girl up ahead but she was moving too quickly. Daphne disappeared through the unlocked gate.
Mirabelle stopped suddenly. Over her shoulder she noticed the professor’s light was now the only one switched on in the quad. Like a vague pulse from above, she heard the low tenor of male voices in discussion. The noise was coming from Marsden’s rooms. With Daphne gone, Mirabelle turned and crept back upstairs. It was odd. She had watched the entrance all night. No one else had gone in. She’d seen no telephone in the rooms. Was the drunken old sot talking to himself in a rage?
Back at the keyhole, she caught a flash of tweed, brown with a stripe of red through it, as the man with the moustache who had crossed the quad earlier took a seat by the fire. The men’s voices were low and she had to strain to make out what they were saying. Daphne had shouted at her father and he had shouted back, but the tenor of a more normal conversation was difficult to make out. The fellow in black followed his friend silently across the room and sat down. Mirabelle put two and two together. There must be a connecting door with the rooms in the next stair.
Mirabelle shifted her position against the door, ready to listen, but her ankle turned and her gasp of pain echoed up the stairwell. Inside, the man in the tweed suit sprang to his feet. She hurriedly backed up the stairs and round the corner, ignoring the pain, with her heart pounding as the door opened below her.
‘I didn’t hear anything.’ Marsden’s voice was muted.
The man in tweed sniffed. ‘Perfume,’ he commented. ‘Though I can hardly make it out over your damn pipe smoke, Marsden.’
His accent was Scottish, Mirabelle noted, deep and gravelly, the vowels more drawn out than those of Superintendent McGregor’s soft Edinburgh accent.
‘It’ll be Daphne’s,’ said Marsden.
The man in tweed hovered. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I don’t make a habit of sniffing my daughter, but as she just left it would seem logical.’
Marsden and the man in black resumed their conversation. Mirabelle heard the man in tweed go down a few stairs. He must be checking outside.
‘She’s determined on justice for her friend.’ The professor’s voice sailed up the hallway. ‘That ghastly cleaning lady who was killed. Poisoned.’
‘Who did it?’ The man in black was also Scottish, but his accent was softer.
‘Damned if I know,’ Marsden replied. ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it? Daphne appears to have been fond of her. She’s convinced it was us.’
‘Poison? That’s a woman’s way to murder,’ said the man in black, his voice dripping with contempt.
‘Who knows what the Brighton lodge has been up to?’ Marsden said.
The pair fell silent. The man in tweed returned to the landing. Mirabelle couldn’t tell exactly where he was but she held her breath. She glanced upwards. There was another floor but now he was in the hallway he’d hear her if she climbed the stairs.
From inside the room Marsden’s guest continued speaking. ‘Well, the money’s the easy part. If the girl understood what she had or, indeed, who she was really dealing with, she’d realise we’d have paid more. As for the rest of it, Laidlaw, you’ll need to find out what the hell has been going on. They’re a bunch of amateurs down there. Killing off old ladies.’
‘Aye,’ the man paused in the doorway, ‘I’ll get to the bottom of it, and once I’m at the bottom I’ll dig us out. Someone’s got to do the dirty work.’
‘Good man.’ The fellow in the chair sounded enthusiastic. ‘Laidlaw here is good at doing whatever it takes. Never afraid of a stramash, eh, Laidlaw?’
‘No.’
‘And afterwards . . .’ said Marsden.
‘You’ll write us a history, Peter. The history we want,’ the second man said firmly. ‘And you’ll be paid handsomely for it. You’re a respected academic after all, as well as a respected brother. Don’t worry.’
‘I don’t want money,’ the professor insisted. ‘I want further in. Further up.’
‘That’s all anyone ever wants,’ the man in tweed said from the hallway, his voice sarcastic.
‘You’ll have earned it.’ The voice from inside the room was clearly in charge. ‘Come back in and close the door, Laidlaw,’ he instructed. ‘There’s no one out there.’
The footsteps sounded and the door closed. Mirabelle edged back down the stairs but as she bent towards the keyhole the men were preparing to leave. She scarcely managed to catch a glimpse of Professor Marsden. He wore a sober look that appeared quite uncharacteristic. The man in tweed was making for the door with his friend close behind him.
Mirabelle backed out of sight again just in time. The men emerged into the stairwell and said their gruff goodnights. Then the door swung closed and she crept downwards, following the Scotsmen at a distance as they walked in silence towards the front gate. The air outside smelled clean by comparison to the hallway, which was drenched in Marsden’s pipe tobacco. The man in tweed moved with a jaunty gait but the other one – the master – was as gangly as a teenager, though his hair was grey. Ahead of her, they passed through the gate and disappeared onto the shadowy road beyond. Mirabelle heard an engine pulling up. A car had been waiting. She’d like to get the number plate, she thought, but as she made it to the porter’s lodge the now familiar red face of the man on duty dodged out of the doorway and blocked her way.
‘Evening, Miss.’
Mirabelle nodded, trying to move round the man’s figure so as not to lose sight of her mark.
‘Would you like me to find you a cab? It’s very late.’
Outside, the two men were getting into a black vehicle a little way along the street. She couldn’t see the driver or make out the number plate. She needed Vesta – the girl knew more about cars. The vehicle pulled off, its engine echoing in the silence.
‘Those gentlemen . . .’
‘Visitors,’ said the porter.
‘When did they arrive?’
‘Before I was on duty.’
That was a lie. ‘Have they come here before?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, Miss. College business is considered private at Downing. Some might find that kind of enquiry rude.’
Mirabelle didn’t back down. She tried to move around the porter but he dodged her.
‘I can call a tax
i but it’ll take a while,’ he offered.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She turned back. The car was gone now and she’d best fetch Vesta.
‘Oh no, you don’t.’ The porter nipped round and blocked her path in the other direction. ‘I’m afraid there are no ladies allowed on campus at this time of night.’ The man took her arm firmly and led her into his office. ‘You’ll have to wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you a car. Come this way, please.’
‘I don’t want a car,’ Mirabelle insisted, but before she could free herself from his grip she found she had been steered efficiently into a room beyond the reception desk. The porter talked all the while – blustering on about history and tradition and rules. Cambridge was as curious a place as Oxford, she thought, as she turned towards the threshold to push her way back out, but the man was too quick. The door slammed shut in her face. Mirabelle reached for the handle but she couldn’t move it.
There was an eerie silence. Then the porter spoke. ‘We don’t like snoops at Downing. Those fellows have a right to their privacy.’
‘They’re on the square, you mean,’ snapped Mirabelle. ‘And so are you.’
‘You’d best cool off, Miss. Stop fretting. I’ll let you out at the end of my shift.’
‘But you can’t lock me in here . . . that’s kidnapping,’ Mirabelle shouted.
There was no reply. She tried once more to turn the handle but he’d locked it. She realised there was no keyhole on the inside. The only light came from a lamp that cast a low glow, but the room stretched well beyond it. In front of her there was a grille and further on a small flight of stone stairs and a line of racks – the college wine cellar, she realised, with a chill running up the back of her neck. There wasn’t a window in sight and the cellar itself must cover an acre, Mirabelle thought. She could be here for a very long time.
Chapter 20
Escape is freedom – even from the frying pan into the fire.
England Expects Page 16