England Expects

by Sara Sheridan

  Robinson nodded slowly.

  ‘Organisational skills?’

  Robinson nodded again.

  ‘A logical sort, who saw things through?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Not the kind of fellow then who might kill his lover in order to avoid exposure one day – presumably to save embarrassing his wife and his order – and then, less than twenty-four hours later, expose the whole damn affair anyway by jumping off his own roof?’

  There was a sharp rap on the office door and Sergeant Simmons’ face appeared.

  ‘They’ve turned up a suicide note,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

  Robinson looked smug.

  ‘What did it say?’ McGregor’s voice had an edge.

  Simmons shrugged.

  ‘It came in the first post to the Chief of Police over at Wellington Road. Turns out he and Henshaw were friends. Well, I suppose they were both in the brotherhood.’

  ‘I want to read it.’

  A glimmer of a smile passed across Robinson’s face. At Wellington Road there were no senior officers who didn’t regularly attend meetings at Queen’s Road. Simmons sucked in a long breath. His concerns were more organisational. The two police stations were separate jurisdictions.

  ‘It might be tricky. I don’t know if they’ll release you the evidence. You know the way things stand.’

  ‘If we’re looking into Mrs Chapman’s death, the two cases are contingent on each other. We’ll need to work with Wellington Road, or try to. It’s a bloody circus, this.’ McGregor snapped shut Joey Gillingham’s file and stood up. He reached for his hat.

  ‘Come on, Robinson,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s busy. The quickest way to cut through the red tape is to go over there.’

  Robinson looked round as if the Superintendent might have been speaking to someone else.

  ‘Well, look lively,’ McGregor chivvied him as he strode out of the office. He was enjoying baiting the poor man. ‘I need you to drive.’

  Motoring through the sun-dappled streets McGregor could hardly believe there had been three murders in two days here – or at least that’s what there had been if he was right. Brighton looked picture-postcard pretty. He wound down the window and took a deep breath.

  The station desk was manned by a young constable.

  ‘I’m looking for Sergeant Belton, son.’ McGregor flashed his warrant card. The lad could not have been much more than nineteen years of age and fresh out of National Service if his haircut was anything to go by.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  McGregor breezed past him with Robinson lagging behind. They were halfway up the hallway that led to the detectives’ offices before Belton caught up with him.

  ‘Morning, Sergeant. I think you’ve got something for me,’ said McGregor.

  Belton looked as if he had been caught off guard. ‘How on earth did you know?’ He sounded genuinely mystified.

  McGregor grinned. ‘Actually, I don’t know nearly enough yet. But if we’re going to get to the bottom of this we need to work together. I can’t be doing with all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, whatever the damned jurisdiction.’

  ‘We were going to ring you.’ Belton sounded wounded. ‘I just thought that giving them a fright would make a lesson of it. That woman rides roughshod over the rules. She’s only been here for three hours and she’s already tried everything. How did you find out?’ Belton let out a defeated sigh. ‘I’ll get one of the lads to take you down, Sir.’

  ‘Down?’

  ‘To the cells. Miss Bevan might be your lady friend, but that doesn’t put her beyond the law.’

  ‘Mirabelle?’ McGregor made an abrupt about-turn, his mind veering off all thought of Captain Henshaw’s suicide note. ‘What the blazes has she done now?’

  ‘I told her not to leave Brighton. Yesterday she was at the scene of a break-in. And between that and being up at the lodge when the second murder took place . . . She left town almost immediately after I told her not to. She’s a woman who needs a firm hand, Sir, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  McGregor laughed. ‘You’re a braver man than I am, Sergeant. She’s been asking for me?’

  Belton nodded.

  Downstairs the constable unlocked the door. Inside the cell there was the familiar oily smell of incarceration that the scent of the women hadn’t quite cancelled out. Vesta jumped to her feet. Mirabelle was standing underneath the small window. She looked particularly pale, he noticed. She nodded curtly. Robinson put his head round the door and grinned widely. McGregor waved him off.

  ‘We’ll talk down here,’ he said. ‘Robinson, see if you can turn up that note, will you? I’ll be up in a minute.’

  McGregor left the cell door half-open. He waited, listening to make sure they were alone. He motioned for the women to sit on the bench and took his place on the other side of the tiny room. It looked as if the graffiti on the wall behind Mirabelle was emanating from her head like a storm of angry thoughts.

  ‘We have to stop meeting like this.’ McGregor couldn’t help himself.

  Vesta grinned. She was relieved to see him. ‘The sergeant told us not to leave town,’ she said. ‘But we were onto something.’

  ‘Onto something?’

  ‘Yes.’ Vesta took a deep breath and was clearly about to tell McGregor everything.

  Mirabelle put up her hand to silence the girl. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said.

  McGregor shrugged. ‘Least I could do,’ he replied, his eyes in no way betraying that he was at Wellington Road on another matter entirely.

  ‘There are two things.’ Mirabelle got straight to the point.

  ‘First, Henshaw’s death. And second, what exactly did Mrs Chapman die of?’

  McGregor took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. She was quite a woman and, now he came to consider it, somewhat rude. ‘Normally I ask the questions,’ he said.

  Mirabelle stared. ‘It’s quicker this way,’ she said flatly.

  McGregor nodded curtly. In this, he had to admit, she was probably right.

  ‘All right, have it your way. But then you have to answer my questions.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Henshaw jumped some time in the early hours this morning, according to the pathologist. Eleven till one is the range they’re quoting. His body was found by his wife. She had been out playing cards. Of course, whether he jumped at all is another matter. I’ve sent Robinson to turn up the suicide note. It arrived this morning in the post. Current thinking is that Henshaw killed Mrs Chapman because she threatened to expose their love affair, but having done so he was consumed by guilt. I have my doubts. Henshaw, as I understand it, lost his leg at Gallipoli. During the recent war he worked in Armaments – costings and the like. He volunteered. My sense of him is that he was a resilient chap. Straightforward enough apart from this affair with Mrs Chapman. He may have loved the old dear, but if he was tough enough to kill her – if – then I guess he’d be tough enough to see it through. Which means I just don’t buy it as suicide. Quite apart from anything else, if he was to make the last post, he’d have to have put the letter in the box well before he topped himself. Hours before, in fact. That’s unusual. I’ve never heard the like.

  ‘Which brings me to Mrs Chapman . . . The coroner’s report is in. He rushed it through. A favour for the brethren, I expect. The old woman’s stomach contained a slice of toast with honey (no butter), three cups of tea (milk and a good deal of sugar) and the contents of several laburnum pods. The last of these, obviously, killed her. Laburnum’s readily available, so it’s not much of a clue. There must be at least a hundred trees scattered round Brighton and its environs, all in full bloom at the moment with plenty of pods ready for the picking.’

  ‘That’s the pretty tree at the Royal Pavilion, isn’t it?’ Vesta cut in. ‘The yellow one?’

  Mirabelle took in this information slowly. ‘There,’ she said. ‘That proves it. Elsie was definitely murdered. And I think Henshaw was, too.
’

  McGregor looked confused. ‘I don’t suppose you know who did it?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Not yet. I had a suspect in mind but the timing doesn’t make sense. Especially considering this suicide note. Whoever did it, though, my suspect will be delighted. Henshaw was troublesome for them and if he hadn’t been killed already he was definitely in their frame. There’s been a lot at stake, you see. More than we originally reckoned.’

  ‘Who’s your suspect?’

  ‘Well, there’s more than one. They’re not from Brighton. Masons. This whole freemasonry lark is strange. None of them seems to know what the others are doing. It’s another lodge – a different crowd entirely from the lot at Queen’s Road. I haven’t quite figured it out yet. But two of them, anyway, are definitely from Scotland.’

  McGregor crossed his arms. ‘Mirabelle, you know I’m going to have to warn you off. Three people are dead. None of us knows yet who did it, but whoever they are, they’re extremely dangerous. Look where you’ve ended up. If I get you out of here will you please go back to Brills Lane? Honestly, I’m half-tempted to leave you here. I don’t want anything to happen to you.’

  There was silence.

  Then Vesta piped up. ‘I’ll make sure Mirabelle doesn’t get involved. I’ve had enough. You’re right, Superintendent. We shouldn’t be poking our noses into this. We’re sorry. Aren’t we, Mirabelle? Really, we are.’

  McGregor glanced at Miss Bevan. Her demeanour was cool. She got to her feet, slipping her handbag over her forearm as if it was a shield.

  ‘I don’t want you to get hurt, Mirabelle. Or God forbid, end up dead.’

  Mirabelle looked McGregor straight in the eye before glancing at her watch. ‘We’re late for work,’ she said. ‘And, of course, I’d be obliged if you’d release us. Not that we’re under arrest, I hasten to add.’

  ‘And you’ll stay in your office?’ the Superintendent checked.

  Mirabelle nodded curtly. ‘I can’t wait to get there,’ she assured him.

  Chapter 23

  Look for truth and you may find comfort.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ Vesta insisted as the women left the station. ‘Anything could have happened to us.’

  Mirabelle didn’t respond.

  Vesta stopped to pick up a half-pint of milk for the office. ‘Bill won’t have remembered,’ she said with a smile, ‘and in this heat milk goes off so quickly that yesterday’s is bound to have turned by now.’

  Mirabelle cast her a stony glance that did not deter the girl from linking her arm through her friend’s as they continued down the hill.

  ‘“We shouldn’t be poking our noses into this.” Really, Vesta,’ Mirabelle scolded, mimicking the tone of the girl’s apology.

  ‘But he’s right,’ Vesta repeated. ‘You know he is. And we’re out now, aren’t we?’

  By the time they turned into Brills Lane it was almost eleven o’clock and it was a relief to get out of the sun.

  ‘There you are,’ Bill said as they walked in. ‘I think the weather’s putting people off business. There’s not been a soul over the door all morning. You seen this?’ He lifted the paper to show them a short article about Captain Henshaw’s death. ‘It doesn’t say why he did it,’ he added.

  Panther looked up as the women removed their summer jackets. He let his head fall back on his paws and slowly wagged his tail.

  ‘It’s the heat,’ Bill explained. ‘Neither of us can really get going.’

  Mirabelle sank into her seat. She felt exhausted and, worse, unwanted. No one seemed to care what she thought about Captain Henshaw, Joey Gillingham or Elsie Chapman. McGregor wanted to work it out for himself, and as far as he was concerned she was an irritation. Vesta had already given up. She felt angry. The details rushed through her mind but she couldn’t grasp them, and for once she wasn’t sure what to do next. With no clear pathway presenting itself she leafed half-heartedly through the paperwork in front of her. Bill was right. It had been a quiet week.

  Vesta put a strong cup of tea on her desk with an apologetic smile. ‘Are you all right?’

  Mirabelle sipped the tea. She rubbed her tired, dry eyes. ‘You could go home,’ Vesta suggested. ‘Why don’t you have a lie down? You haven’t slept a wink all night. Bill and I can manage things here.’

  Mirabelle thought about closing her bedroom curtains and curling up on the mattress. It was an attractive proposition. She felt as if she’d wasted her time and run off on a wild goose chase. If no one cared, where was the harm in taking it easy? She might as well get some sleep. For once she didn’t want to be in the office. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.

  Vesta fetched Mirabelle’s jacket from the stand. ‘Here,’ she offered. ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve had a snooze. We’ll see you tomorrow. Leave everything to me.’

  Mirabelle folded the garment over her arm and picked up her handbag. ‘All right,’ she said.

  Outside on the pavement she kept to the shadows. Instead of heading to the front and walking along the shore, she went up East Street and past Bartholomew Square. Somehow the sea seemed too bright. It would be better to head along the maze of streets towards Hove. She passed the turn-off for Fred’s place without a second glance. Within half a mile she was on the long straight road out of town. Women were shopping, shopkeepers were tending their displays and children were hanging around the bakery. Things were normal. This was what her life ought to be like, she reflected. Grocery shopping and cups of tea. Why did she find herself drawn to these horrible cases? It was none of her business. She hadn’t even managed to save Henshaw.

  She bought a copy of the local paper and then, heading towards The Lawns, she withdrew her key, almost starting at the sight of the coin on her key ring, a memento of her very first case. Things had seemed easier even only those few years ago. Inside, she slipped off her shoes and turned over the first few pages of the afternoon edition. In the Deaths column Mrs Chapman’s funeral was announced – at All Saints on Saturday afternoon. Mirabelle closed the paper and decided to blank out the world by drawing the curtains. Fully clothed she lay down on the bed. The outside world disappeared.

  As her breathing slowed, she slipped into unconsciousness trying not to think of poor Ellie Chapman, all alone in the world, or Mrs Henshaw, frantically trying to reconcile her husband’s suicide with the man she had lived with for forty years, or Ida Gillingham, sorting out her brother’s clothes. Vesta had given up on them all and maybe she was right. As her thoughts eased out with the tide, the warm light filtering through the curtains faded even further and Mirabelle didn’t so much as dream.

  Chapter 24

  Curiosity killed the cat.

  Vesta finished work at half past five. Charlie was playing later, but she didn’t want to wait for hours in a smoky pub. The humdrum routine of the office had provided more than enough of a steady rhythm and lots of time to think. After lunch Bill had gone on his calls, and she’d been left alone with insufficient paperwork and a nagging sense of guilt. Mirabelle had looked deflated when she’d been packed off. In the two years Vesta had known her friend and partner she’d never seen her look so dejected. Some women distracted themselves from their troubles by knitting or cleaning or playing music or dancing. Nothing perked up Vesta like a biscuit. She didn’t hide it. But for Mirabelle these thorny cases she was drawn to were the only things that took her out of herself. They made her feel alive. Mirabelle didn’t appear to feel fear. Vesta felt ashamed of herself. If she’d been old enough to understand what was going on, she’d never have made it through the war. Now she was out of immediate danger her mind returned to the thorny issue of Mrs Chapman’s death and her curiosity was aroused. Had McGregor succeeded in tracking down what had really been going on, she wondered as she locked the office door.

  On East Street she emerged into the sunshine and picked up a paper from the news-stand. Leafing through it, she realised there was nothing that might offer a clue to whatever police action was underway. It was f
ar too soon for that. The evening stretched ahead of her. Neither option of how to spend it – sitting listening to Charlie drum or chatting to Mrs Agora – seemed satisfactory. Looking left and right Vesta made the snap decision to walk up to Queen’s Road. She’d call on Mr Tupps. The caretaker had been cross the last time she’d seen him but she was sure he’d have got over it by now. She’d pushed the old man’s buttons all right. It’d be interesting to see how he was taking the latest death. Captain Henshaw had been his boss – he was sure to have an opinion.

  Vesta dodged through the busy side streets. Everyone was on their way home from work. Navvies from the nearby building site were heading for the front. Men in suits slipped into the Black Lion or the Cricketers for a pint or two before going home. As she turned onto Queen’s Road several gentlemen were walking up the hill towards the station. Vesta took a seat on a low wall opposite the lodge. One after another at least a dozen men slipped through the building’s front door carrying small suitcases. There must be a meeting tonight. She grinned at the idea of them wearing little aprons. Really, it was quite the most ridiculous thing!

  In the balmy evening air she began to daydream, running one scenario after another. It was for this reason that she jumped as someone laid a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Hello,’ Mr Tupps said cheerily. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just thinking.’ Vesta smiled.

  ‘I thought I warned you off that, young lady,’ he said with a grin. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  Vesta shrugged. ‘Perhaps I play things too safe. That’s what I’m wondering. Do you know if they’ve found the murderer yet?’

  Mr Tupps let out a low whistle. ‘It’s a bad business,’ he said. ‘But a man’s sins will find him out. If he has sinned, that is. If there is a murderer still at large.’

  ‘There has to be,’ Vesta insisted.