by Brett, Simon
‘Good. Both being grown-ups, eh? Two people who have been lovers and can still enjoy each other’s company.’
‘And bodies.’
‘Yes. And bodies.’ He mimicked a prim smile of political correctness. ‘But only, of course, by mutual agreement.’
‘Of course.’
‘No pretence, though, that we’re the great loves of each other’s life.’
Jude nodded firmly. ‘Fine by me.’
‘I think I need some more whisky,’ said Laurence Hawker.
After their talk, Jude rang Carole and got the answering machine. She didn’t leave a message. She’d go round to High Tor the following morning.
Then she rang Sandy Fairbarns’ number.
‘Just wondered if there was any more news about Mervyn.’
‘Well, they haven’t found him yet, if that’s what you mean.’
‘How hard are they looking?’
‘As hard as they would for any other escapee from an open prison.’
‘But not as hard as they would for a dangerous woman-killer who might strike again at any moment?’
‘No, Jude. As you know and I know, that stuff was all in his head.’
‘I wonder what made him suddenly jump now? The police know he had nothing to do with the skeleton at Bracketts.’
‘I thought you said he’d talked of reoffending so that he gets another prison sentence, so that he doesn’t have to face the real world so soon?’
‘He did.’
‘An escape could achieve that quite neatly, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes. Except that an escape takes him out into the very real world that he’s so scared of.’
‘Where he might be in danger of being alone with a woman, and the consequences he fears from that situation?’
‘Exactly, Sandy. Anything else you’ve found out about him?’
‘Only that he had another visitor.’
‘Oh? After me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he said he never had visitors.’
‘Then his luck’s changed. He’s had two in a week. Second one the day before he absconded.’
‘Who was it, Sandy? Who came to see him?’
‘Someone from Bracketts . . . you know, the place where he was working.’
‘I know.’
‘It was a woman called Sheila Cartwright.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Having had the Emergency Trustees’ Meeting set up around his commitments, when it came to the event Lord Beniston couldn’t make it. A six-forty call to the Administrative Office from his secretary regretted that he’d been unavoidably delayed in London ‘by a business meeting that had overrun’. In fact, though no one at Bracketts ever knew, the meeting had been a lunch at the Garrick (where the rules of the club do not permit the discussion of business), which had run on through the afternoon into an evening drinking session. (In fact, Lord Beniston was beginning to have doubts about his involvement with Bracketts. The doubts had nothing to do with recent events at the house, but arose from the question he constantly posed to himself: ‘What am I actually getting out of this?’ Bracketts was a relatively obscure set-up, so few people were aware of the brownie points he should have been earning for his charity work. Also he did have to go there in person to chair the meetings. He felt sure he could lend his name to the letterheads of other organizations, which would raise his philanthropic profile higher and make less demands on him.)
Gina Locke, who had taken the call while Carole Seddon was in the office with her, immediately took the decision that, in the absence of Lord Beniston, she would chair the meeting herself. Though not a Trustee, as Director of Bracketts she would be the senior responsible person present, and she should be in charge.
Carole had no problem reading the subtext of this announcement. Sheila Cartwright had once again wrong-footed Gina by calling the meeting; she wasn’t going to be allowed to reinforce her dominance by chairing it too.
‘Have you had many calls from the press?’ asked Carole, remembering her interrogation by the intrepid boy reporter.
‘Quite a few. Referred them all to the police. That’s the official line, incidentally. We have no information here. When there is anything to say, the police will be the ones to say it.’
‘Any press actually turned up here?’
‘One or two. All firmly turned away. As you know, the house and gardens have been closed to the public. And we’ve kept the gate from the car park locked right through the day. Only just had it opened, so that you Trustees can get in.’
‘Have you seen Professor Marla Teischbaum?’
‘No.’ Gina Locke looked surprise. ‘Should I have done?’
‘She was here. I just saw her talking to Sheila.’
The surprise in Gina’s face turned to white-lipped anger. ‘She should have come to see me. If Marla Teischbaum comes to Bracketts, it should be to see the person in charge!’
Carole Seddon made no comment.
Attendance at the Emergency Trustees’ Meeting in the dining room at Bracketts was depleted. No Lord Beniston, and Josie Freeman’s social calendar was far too rigidly set in stone to be altered for anything less than a family funeral – and even then her appearance would have depended on whether it was her own or her husband’s side of the family. (In fact, that Friday evening had been long booked for a visit with her husband to a production of Parsifal at the Royal Opera House. He would be bored rigid throughout, and wouldn’t understand the story – nothing to do with car-parts – but it was the kind of place where his wife told him he should be seen, and he knew she knew about that kind of thing.)
George Ferris was at the meeting in ginger tweeds, more than ever like a smug inhabitant of Middle Earth. Graham and his aunt also attended, she as ever vague and quite possibly on a different planet, while he looked tense and fragile. Carole found herself wondering how real his suicide threat had been. There was an unnerving lack of stability about the man.
But of course the main adversaries at the table were the current Director of Bracketts and the woman who still thought she was in charge of the place. They must have done some deal before the meeting started, though, because Sheila Cartwright meekly allowed Gina Locke to welcome the Trustees and outline the main business on their agenda.
‘I’m sure you all know by now that the discovery of the corpse in the kitchen garden is public knowledge. The skeleton is, literally, out of the cupboard, and some of you have no doubt already had approaches from the press about it . . .’
Graham Chadleigh-Bewes nodded agreement at this, showing in his pained face what a hardship and intrusion this had been for someone as sensitive as he was.
‘Well, it was bound to happen at some point. And,’ she went on, in a conciliatory tone, ‘we all owe a great debt of gratitude to Sheila for using her influence to keep the story out of the press for nearly a week.’
Gina’s rival gave a magnanimous nod of acknowledgement.
‘So the main purpose of this meeting – and once again may I say how much I appreciate your making time in your busy schedules to be with us tonight – the main purpose is to talk through how we’re going to answer press enquiries . . . to see that we’re all on-message and, as it were, singing from the same hymn-sheet.
‘What we’re aiming to achieve is a uniform approach that will keep the press off our backs, but – very importantly – not antagonize them. There’s already a degree of resentment from the media about the way the story’s been kept from them and, whatever we do, we don’t want to make that feeling any worse than it currently is.’
Sheila Cartwright was unused to being silent so long, and the Director’s taking a breath gave her an opportunity to butt in. ‘I think what Gina’s trying to say—’
‘I know exactly what I’m trying to say, thank you very much.’
The look that accompanied this would have frozen a fire-hose at a hundred metres, but it didn’t stop Sheila Cartwright. ‘The important thing is that no rumours g
et around. Any dead body discovered in these circumstances is going to prompt speculation. It’s up to us to ensure that such speculation is kept to a minimum.’
‘Thank you, Sheila,’ said Gina with commendable coolness. ‘Everyone at the meeting will get their opportunity to speak at the appropriate time.’ The edge in this line did momentarily take the wind out of her opponent’s sails, and Gina took the opportunity to press on. ‘Now I have today spoken to the Detective Inspector in charge of the investigation, and at this time there is no further information the police wish to disclose about the body. Forensic tests are still continuing, and when there is something substantial to report, another statement will be made by the police.’
‘We know all that,’ said Sheila Cartwright unceremoniously. ‘The important thing is not what the police say, it’s what we say. The casual use of a word like “murder” by someone actually involved in the Bracketts set-up could cause untold damage.’
‘We’re all aware of that,’ said Carole frostily. Sheila was annoying her, and she reckoned Gina needed some support. ‘There’s no need to talk to us as if we are schoolchildren.’
Support came from an unexpected quarter. ‘I agree,’ said Graham Chadleigh-Bewes. ‘And, anyway, the danger from the press is considerably less than that posed to everything Bracketts stands for by the presence very near to us of one Professor Marla Teischbaum. The Teischbaum Claimant.’ The half-joke got no acknowledgement from the assembled meeting. ‘That woman’s biography is going to be a complete hatchet job on the reputation of Esmond Chadleigh.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said George Ferris. Then, with a snidely sideways look at Graham, he went on, ‘Professor Teischbaum is at least a serious academic with a record of successful publication. I think she has considerable insight into Esmond. I was discussing him with her only this afternoon.’
Sheila Cartwright flared up at that. ‘You shouldn’t have been speaking to her. We’ve agreed that, as Trustees—’
‘I wasn’t speaking to her as a Trustee of Bracketts,’ he countered complacently. ‘I do have other hats, you know. One of which is advising the County Library and Records Office about research enquiries from visiting academics. I’ve even written a book on the subject, entitled How To Get The Best From The Facilities Of The County Records Office.’ (This reminder was now so familiar that it prompted no reaction at all.) ‘Without in any way compromising my position at Bracketts, it falls within the domain of my responsibility to direct Professor Teischbaum towards available research sources, and I would be failing in my duty if I did not fulfil that function. I also—’
This Local-Government-Speak looked set fair to continue for some time, had it not been cut short by a petulant outburst from Graham Chadleigh-Bewes.
‘Professor Teischbaum’s biography will be a travesty of the truth, and an offence to everything that we at Bracketts hold dear. And it must not be allowed to appear in print!’
George Ferris sniggered. ‘If your biography had been delivered when it was meant to be, we wouldn’t have this problem. You’d have got in first and garnered all the available publicity for Esmond. Marla’s coming out so soon after would have vanished without trace.’
Carole just had time to register the ex-librarian’s use of the Professor’s first name before Graham began his predictable tirade. ‘Oh yes, it’s all my fault, isn’t it? You have no idea how much work is involved in just looking after Esmond’s literary estate. I have to go out and do talks in schools, I’m editing an edition of the letters, I have to try and persuade publishers to reissue the books. If there’s any reason why the biography is late—’
‘It’s because,’ George Ferris cut in, ‘the job has been put in the hands of an idle dilettante!’
‘How dare you call me a—!’
‘Gentlemen! Squabbling is not going to help anyone. Can we please be quiet!’
Gina Locke sounded surprisingly masterful. A grudging stillness fell. ‘Well done, girl,’ murmured Belinda Chadleigh.
But Gina wasn’t allowed to take advantage of the silence she had won. It was immediately hijacked by Sheila Cartwright. ‘You’re absolutely right, George,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘Previously the delay on Graham’s biography didn’t matter. Keeping it back to coincide with the centenary of Esmond’s death made sense. But that was before we’d got the odious Professor Teischbaum snapping round our heels. Now it’s of paramount importance that the authorized biography is published before hers.’
‘It won’t be easy for me,’ whinged Graham Chadleigh-Bewes. ‘There’s still lots of research to do and—’
‘I know it won’t be easy for you,’ said Sheila. ‘In fact, I don’t think there’s a chance of your delivering a manuscript in the timescale that is now essential to us.’
‘Well, I could try, but—’
‘Which is why,’ she steamrollered over him, ‘you are no longer writing the biography, Graham.’
‘What?’ The word came from more mouths than just his.
‘We should have made the change a long time ago,’ said Sheila coolly, ‘but it’s not too late. I spoke today to Jonathan Venables.’
Graham Chadleigh-Bewes was appalled. ‘You mean the one who did that tatty scissors-and-paste job on George Orwell, and Hilaire Belloc. His research never goes beyond the clippings file.’
‘It will in this case,’ Sheila Cartwright continued relentlessly, ‘because you are going to hand over all your research to him.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.’
‘You will do it, Graham!’ The would-be biographer quailed under her implacable eye. ‘I’ve talked to Jonathan Venables’ agent, and he’s drawing up a contract. The book will be delivered by the end of the year.’
Now George Ferris joined the protest. ‘But he can’t do a decent book in two months.’
‘He can, and will. More importantly, Jonathan Ven-ables’ book will be published long before Marla Teischbaum’s.’
Graham Chadleigh-Bewes had risen from the table. Tears were pouring unchecked down his baby face. ‘You can’t do this to me, Sheila.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s done. This is an emergency. Someone had to take the initiative.’
‘Maybe,’ Gina intervened. ‘But if anyone should have taken the initiative, it should have been—’
‘Be quiet,’ Sheila Cartwright commanded. ‘This is important. Bracketts is under threat, and I’m the only person who can save it.’
The messianic light burning in her eyes made everyone round the table uncomfortable. After a moment’s silence, Graham Chadleigh-Bewes pushed his chair back so fiercely that it crashed down on the wooden floor.
‘You won’t get away with this, Sheila,’ he muttered through his tears, as he stumbled out of the room.
Belinda Chadleigh looked up in bemused surprise. ‘Well, that was a short meeting,’ she said, and tottered off after her nephew.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Emergency Trustees’ Meeting rather ran out of steam after that. The announcement that Sheila Cartwright had taken the decision to commission a new biography of Esmond Chadleigh without even the illusion of consultation had knocked the stuffing out of Gina Locke. She had the look of a woman who’d contemplated throwing in the towel many times before, and had now been floored by the final body-blow. On her small dark face was an expression of resignation, and it looked as though a matching letter would soon follow.
She no longer maintained even the pretence that she was chairing the meeting, and listened while Sheila outlined her orders to the others for dealing with the press. The Old Guard had won. Sheila Cartwright was as much in charge of Bracketts as she had ever been.
The only resistance she encountered was from George Ferris, who echoed the doubts Graham Chadleigh-Bewes had expressed about the likely quality of a biography written by Jonathan Venables.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sheila responded tersely. ‘The important thing is that it’s published as soon as possible, and spikes the guns of
Professor Marla Teischbaum.’
‘We can’t be sure it’ll even do that,’ said the ex-librarian slyly. ‘I heard a rumour that the good Professor is pretty well advanced in her researches. It could be a race to the line.’
Carole would have put money on the fact that the rumour came from Marla Teischbaum herself.
‘She can’t complete it before the end of the year,’ said Sheila, countenancing no possible argument. ‘She’s still got requests in to the Estate for permission to quote from Esmond’s works. We can spend a good while toing and froing over that.’
‘Before finally saying no.’
‘Exactly.’ The word was accompanied by a thin, complacent smile. ‘Don’t worry. We can delay Professor Teischbaum for quite a long time.’
There was a flash of lightning from outside. The rain that had been threatening on and off all afternoon came down with sudden force. Recalcitrant thunder groaned distantly.
Gina Locke and George Ferris had left the house as soon as Sheila Cartwright pronounced the meeting closed, hurrying out in a break between the thunderstorms. Gina looked pale, in shock, and walked like an automaton towards the Administrative Office. George turned towards the car park. Carole felt sure he would be seeing or telephoning Marla Teischbaum before the night was out.
She found herself lingering with Sheila at the open front door by the gift shop. Outside the darkness was now total, heavy with the threat of another inundation. Remembering the suicide masquerade she had witnessed, she asked, ‘Do you think Graham will be all right?’
‘Yes,’ came the curt reply. ‘His pride’s hurt, that’s all. He’s no one but himself to blame. He’s been promising that biography for years, and there’s no sign of it.’
‘How near do you think he is to completion?’
Sheila Cartwright snorted. ‘No idea. Not very far advanced, I imagine. He’s just gone round in circles doing research. I should think the amount of actual writing he’s done could be measured in tens of pages.’