Vesta clutched Mirabelle’s arm. ‘I’ve never been anywhere like this before,’ she whispered. When Mirabelle had said they were going to a college, Vesta had expected a single building, not this immaculate place that was more like a little town.
At the doorway of the accommodation block the nameplate for the first floor indicated Professor Marsden’s rooms.
Mirabelle patted Vesta’s hand. ‘Keep your eyes open,’ she said. ‘We need to find out about his daughter, and I expect he’ll be smooth as silk.’
Vesta grinned. The college might be intimidating but she was well able to deal with a gentleman’s advances. A year with Charlie hadn’t dulled her skills with the opposite sex.
‘Ready?’ Mirabelle checked.
Vesta nodded and Mirabelle knocked. When the door opened, a fug of pipe smoke assailed their senses.
‘Professor Marsden?’ Mirabelle enquired.
The man who stood on the threshold was portly, grey-haired and wearing a thick brown cardigan despite the warm weather. He was not what either of the women was expecting as he peered towards them owlishly through a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles. Tufts of hair poked out of his ears and his hair was too long to be respectable. Rather than an anti-establishment style statement it seemed far more likely that the professor had simply neglected to trim it. He coughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Who on earth are you?’
Mirabelle hid her confusion. The porter’s comment had hinted at a ladies’ man. This individual looked as if someone had knitted him into being. Something about his sartorial disarray was reminiscent of Daphne and her crumpled linen trousers, though the girl’s fine features must come from her mother’s side.
‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan, pleased to meet you, and my friend Vesta Churchill. We’re looking for your daughter. Might we come in?’
Professor Marsden appeared bamboozled by this request but he stepped backwards nonetheless, albeit slightly unsteadily. The room was large, fitted with mahogany and packed with books, some of which teetered in piles on the floor. The tables and chairs were strewn with papers and bound manuscripts, many of which lay splayed, face down. Two drawing boards were covered with reams of paper held in place by a combination of paperweights and string. The walls were covered with prints of ancient buildings and black-and-white photographs of what looked like Greek ruins. The windows looked as if they hadn’t been opened in decades. The bedroom, which lay through an open door to one side, appeared not one iota more tidy or welcoming than the study.
The professor retreated towards the sideboard. ‘Lady visitors are not allowed after curfew,’ he said. ‘Not even in vacation time. The porter shouldn’t have admitted you.’
Mirabelle smiled and made no reply. The combination of the overwhelming smell of pipe smoke and the unexpected appearance of the professor had left her momentarily stunned.
Professor Marsden lifted a decanter in the direction of the women. ‘Brandy?’
Vesta shook her head.
‘No. Thank you.’ Mirabelle recovered herself. ‘I wondered if you had heard from Daphne lately?’
The professor poured a drink and took a gulp before he answered. He had been drinking for a while, Mirabelle realised. She told herself this might be a good thing. No matter what they thought, drunks invariably let their guard down. Whether they were angry or sad or uncooperative they always told you more than someone with their stone-cold wits about them.
‘Daphne? None of the women in my family speak to me unless they have to,’ he spat. ‘Not one of them. Daphne included.’
Mirabelle’s eyes fell to one of the drawing boards. She’d lead him a little dance, a wander around what she’d like to know. She pointed at the sketch that lay on top of the pile.
‘That’s the chapel we passed on the other side of the main path. Did you draw it?’
Marsden nodded.
‘It’s very good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I like the carvings on the masonry. I couldn’t quite make them out in the evening light. You’re a professor of architecture, aren’t you?’
Marsden lurched across the room to point out the features with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. ‘Symbolism is one of my specialist subjects.’ He started to reel off the details of laurel wreaths and snakes. He favoured Latin terms and architectural jargon, Mirabelle noted. Daphne’s father was not a man of the people. She nodded as he continued but Vesta’s head was cocked to one side – many of the images looked simple but the professor used such complicated terms to describe them and the tone of his voice was set in such a deathly drone that it was difficult to follow what he was saying.
‘These are masonic symbols, aren’t they?’ Vesta cut to the chase when he finally paused.
‘Well, what of it?’ He sounded angry.
‘Are you a brother mason, Professor?’ Mirabelle enquired gently.
Marsden crossed his arms. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘I was only curious.’
‘This is something to do with Hilary, isn’t it? She sent you.’
‘Hilary?’
‘My wife. You look as if you’ve something to do with her. Women’s Institute through and through. White knickers and crossed legs.’ He took a swig of his brandy. ‘She’s allowed her club but I’m not allowed mine. Isn’t that the way?’
Mirabelle shook her head and decided to ignore the implication. With anyone drunk, you had to guide them to where you wanted and then guide them back again when they rambled. And, of course, the comment meant he was a mason, so that was a start.
‘No. It’s Daphne we’re looking for. Your daughter.’
‘They’re all the same,’ he said bitterly.
‘I doubt that, Professor.’
‘Do you, indeed?’
Mirabelle felt her hackles rise. This man, after all, had left his daughter with an allowance so small it was impossible to live on it. Surely he must realise the girl’s job didn’t pay a living wage.
‘I’d have thought you’d be proud of Daphne,’ she said. ‘She’s following in your footsteps after a fashion. She seems to be doing good work for the National Trust. If it wasn’t for her efforts, the Royal Pavilion would be in a far worse state than it is. Surely you approve? She seems a thoroughly decent girl to me.’
Marsden spluttered. ‘Daphne? Well, she’s obviously pulled the wool over your eyes. My daughter doesn’t care about heritage. She doesn’t give a fig about our past. She hasn’t got the first idea about history and no discrimination about what’s really important. That girl is the only thing that Hilary and I agree upon. She’s nothing but trouble. My daughter is obsessed with money and possessions, Miss Bevan. A green silk scarf can turn her head. It suits her, of course – matches her eyes and so on – but that’s not the point. Money. That’s Daphne’s real interest in the people around her, and I’ve no doubt, in her precious Trust, too. It’s her only interest in anything. We should never have let the little gold-digger leave home.’
‘Gracious. I had no idea. Well, you can’t force them to stay, can you? And I can see it’s making you terribly cross.’ Mirabelle continued to lead him in and out of his argument.
Marsden’s demeanour softened at the sign of what he took to be her sympathy. He lit his pipe and sank into a chair beside the fireplace. Then he propped his head in his hand and took another swig of brandy. Mirabelle motioned towards the sofa and Marsden nodded. The women sat.
‘How did you meet Daphne?’ he asked.
‘We had a mutual acquaintance.’
‘Look, I haven’t seen the girl for months,’ the professor said. ‘We got together at Christmas for a dreadful week of family celebrations. A dozen people with the same surname, that’s all. I don’t understand why you’re looking for her. What has she done now?’
‘We met Daphne in Brighton,’ Mirabelle said slowly. ‘Both Vesta and I live there. Today we went to visit her and she had simply disappeared. Her digs had been cleared and the door left wide open. She didn’t turn up fo
r work at the Pavilion, and that isn’t like her. Naturally, we were concerned and when we rang the Trust they gave your name as Daphne’s only contact. We came to check she was all right – we thought you’d know where she was. We were worried something might have happened to her.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry,’ Professor Marsden said dismissively. ‘She’ll have met a man.’
Mirabelle’s eyes narrowed. It was disrespectful of him to talk about his daughter this way, drunk or not. Calling the girl a gold-digger was nasty enough, but throwing out the assumption that she’d left town with a man on a whim was quite another. Daphne was a good-looking girl but she hadn’t given any sign of being fast. It was the quickest way to discredit someone, she thought, to accuse them of loose living – especially a woman. On principle, Mirabelle never judged the private lives of others. She knew that’s what would have happened to her had people known about Jack. They’d have thought she was a home-wrecker. A scarlet woman. And they would have been wrong.
Marsden glanced at his wristwatch. Unlike the rest of his attire it was smart and expensive. A Longines, Mirabelle noticed. He checked it again as surreptitiously as he could. So, he wanted to get rid of them. It was time to press Professor Marsden’s buttons.
‘I noticed Daphne wasn’t keen on the masons when I spoke to her,’ she tried. ‘What was it she said, Vesta?’
Vesta was transfixed by the books and the pictures. She tore her eyes away from the walls as if she was startled. ‘She said they didn’t care much about equality.’
‘Yes, that was it. She seemed annoyed that the freemasons didn’t admit women.’
Marsden’s stare was uncompromising. Just for a moment, he looked as if he might erupt in rage, but he controlled himself. ‘She’s always been jealous of her brothers,’ he said. ‘Ever since she was little. And she resents me, of course. That goes without saying.’
‘So, Daphne’s the only girl apart from your wife?’
Marsden gave a half-nod. ‘Well, my wife has sisters. But that’s not the point. Women don’t belong in the masons. It’s not that kind of organisation. We don’t need women.’ He was slurring now. ‘We never have. There’s a female chapter in London. It was set up by a bunch of dykes. Ridiculous! They’re not affiliated at all. Freemasonry is a man’s business.’
He checked his watch again.
‘Well,’ said Mirabelle, getting to her feet, ‘it has been very interesting to meet you, Professor.’
Vesta glared. She clearly felt there was more mileage to be had.
‘Come along. We have to go,’ Mirabelle chivvied her.
‘Will you stay overnight in Cambridge, Miss Bevan?’ The professor’s manner became unexpectedly solicitous now that he knew they were leaving.
‘No. There’s a late train, I believe.’ Mirabelle shook the man’s hand. ‘If we leave now we’ll make it. I’m sure Daphne’s fine and she’ll be back in a few days. I had no idea about her behaviour. We’d never have come had we known.’
The professor looked relieved. ‘I’m sorry that she bothered you,’ he said. ‘It was kind of you to take the trouble, but, really, there’s no point in trying to help Daphne, Miss Bevan. She’s a lost cause.’ He got to his feet and ushered them to the door. Mirabelle noted that he remained there, making sure they walked down the staircase. As she glanced back, he raised an encouraging hand. The moment the women set foot outside, Mirabelle grasped Vesta’s arm.
‘Don’t look back,’ she whispered. She was convinced that the professor would be watching them from his window, checking that they were heading for the gate.
‘Well?’ said Vesta as they rounded the corner and ground to a halt. ‘What was that about?’
‘She’s obviously been here.’
‘Who?’
‘Daphne.’
‘Really?’ Vesta declared. ‘After all the I-hate-my-daughter and there’s-no-place-for-women-in-the-masons. And that weird stuff everywhere – creepy old pictures and books lying around. He can’t actually be reading them all. The old man’s mad.’
‘It’s the green scarf, don’t you see? Daphne said her uncle sent it with the television. But if Daphne hadn’t seen her father since Christmas, well, he couldn’t have known it suited her – he’d never have seen it. So she’s been with him in the last few weeks – since the Coronation. He won’t have gone to her, let’s face it. So, she must have been up here. And I tell you what, I’ll wager it was today.’
‘Why on earth would Daphne want to see him?’ Vesta sounded mystified. ‘If he was my father I’d avoid him like the plague.’
‘I don’t know. But no other woman’s going to want to go up there, is she? Think about what the porter said. Marsden’s a joke, don’t you see? He’s a charmless old misogynist. He’s had women visitors for the first time in the college’s history. Three of us in twenty-four hours. The porter thought it was hilarious, and no wonder.’
Vesta’s mouth spread into a grin.
‘When they made out he was a catch, I hoped he might be your type,’ she started to giggle.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘You’ve got to meet a man sometime, Mirabelle. A woman like you needs someone. I thought a brain-box professor might be your type. Though, having seen him, perhaps not that one. Look, maybe someone else told him about the silk scarf and he just knew it would suit Daphne’s eyes. If Marsden had a lady visitor today, it could be anyone. Maybe he’s cheating on Hilary already,’ Vesta whispered. ‘Maybe he got lucky. You never know.’
Mirabelle frowned. ‘Today? On the very day his daughter goes missing? By chance? A fine specimen like Peter Marsden? No. Daphne’s been here. And let’s face it, she wouldn’t have come if she hadn’t had to. The old fellow was watching the time the whole time we were there. He’s expecting visitors. Come on, we need to keep an eye on the entrance to his rooms without being spotted. We’ll have to swing round the long way. Thank goodness it’s almost dark.’
Chapter 19
There is no agony worse than tedium.
Trying to keep the click of their heels on the cobbles to a minimum, the women sneaked into the shadowy entranceway directly opposite Marsden’s rooms. The last of the light had faded. It was ten o’clock. All over Cambridge, church bells were striking. Two students parked their bikes and disappeared with a clatter into a building further along. The porter, now wearing an old-fashioned cape, set out on his rounds, checking the library door and making sure the gates in the railings that skirted the campus were locked and chained. Out of habit, Mirabelle timed him. The accommodation blocks, unlit for the most part, were completely silent. A fox stalked elegantly between the rows of potatoes and disappeared through the railings at the other end.
Vesta sighed and wriggled around on the bottom step of the stairway. She rested her chin in her palm. It had perhaps been half an hour but, Vesta thought, it seemed considerably longer.
‘This isn’t promising,’ she complained. ‘Nothing’s happening.’
‘Surveillance is always boring,’ Mirabelle replied.
She seemed entirely resigned to sitting here for however long it might take for something to happen. Vesta wondered if Professor Marsden had been simply checking his watch because it was almost time to go to bed.
‘What are you hoping for?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted without taking her eyes off the professor’s window. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
A further forty minutes later Vesta yawned heavily once more and wished she’d worn flat shoes. She cocked her head to read the time on the slim gold watch on Mirabelle’s wrist. The lights in Marsden’s room were still switched on. ‘He’s just up there drinking himself into a stupor,’ she said. ‘Sad old man. Don’t you think we should head for the B&B?’
‘You walk round if you like.’
‘Yeah. I won’t have any trouble booking in by myself.’
Mirabelle sat down next to her. Last year checking into a London hotel, the receptionist had assumed Vesta wa
s Mirabelle’s maid. The memory still made her cheeks burn. It wasn’t easy to be black. It wasn’t easy, Mirabelle told herself, to be different in any way.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Mind you, they’re a bit more open-minded here – Oxford and Cambridge are probably better than London. Colleges are accustomed to visitors from overseas.’
‘I’m English,’ Vesta said petulantly. ‘And there’s hardly any white people round here, never mind black ones. I’d prefer it if you’d come with me.’
It was a fair point. Whoever ran the B&B wouldn’t be a cosmopolitan university professor, and the provincial English landladies of Vesta’s experience had usually never seen a coloured person, let alone accommodated one.
Mirabelle stared across the quad. Jack always said information was vital – of course it was – and in this instance there was no other way to get it than to sit things out. There was a strong argument that surveillance had won Britain the war. On that basis alone, she told herself, there were ample reasons to stay. Daphne had been here. Professor Marsden had lied about it and where there was a lie, there was a reason for a lie.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘We’ve come all this way and he’s trying to hide Daphne. It only takes a second to miss something important. Hopefully it shouldn’t be too much longer. At least it isn’t cold tonight.’
That much was true. It was also silent, or near enough. You could almost believe you were in the countryside.
Then, on the evening air the women heard men’s voices, indistinct but in conversation some way off. They both perked up. Vesta sprang to her feet. Perhaps here was their evidence. They craned to see two figures, strolling along the path on the other side of the quad. The gentlemen looked like typical academics, Vesta decided. One fellow had a moustache and was wearing a well-tailored three-piece tweed suit. The tone of his voice was low and he gestured emphatically as he walked. Neither of the women could make out what he was saying. The other fellow was dressed in an old-fashioned black outfit that looked as if it might be clerical. Clean-shaven, he was tall and slim, and sported a bowler hat. A bit like Alastair Sim, thought Vesta.
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