‘On the contrary, we’re here to commend Mr Lewis,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He has by far the highest success rate in the county – hygienically speaking. We shall be awarding him the Sussex gold medal.’
Daphne cast Mirabelle a baffled look.
‘When we’ve done that, of course, we’ll undertake a full inspection. Sous chefs are a particular interest of mine. off you go.’
The boy put the cigarette back in his mouth and fled to scrub the carrots.
In the side kitchen, along the corridor the boy had pointed out, Charlie was piping pastry onto a tray. He didn’t look up as Mirabelle knocked on the door jamb.
‘Just put it there.’ He waved at a marble counter. ‘I’ll need them in a minute.’
‘Will here do?’ said Mirabelle.
Charlie raised his eyes. ‘Mirabelle! What are you doing here?’ Then his voice dropped. ‘Is it Vesta? I ain’t been home yet. A late night session and then an early shift, you know. Is she all right?’
‘She’s fine. It’s nothing like that. This is Miss Marsden. Daphne. We need your help, Charlie. We need to use the service stairs.’
‘Is this going to get me into trouble?’ Charlie grinned. ‘Give me a second. I just need to finish these éclairs and I’ll be all yours.’
The service areas of the Grand Hotel were not as extensive as those at the Pavilion but they included a service lift as well as back stairs. With his éclairs in the oven, Charlie obligingly checked the catering book and confirmed that three gentlemen were booked into one of the penthouse suites under the name of Smith and had ordered an alarm call and morning tea at quarter past eight.
‘Eight fifteen, eh? Lazy devils!’ Charlie laughed. ‘They’re the lucky ones, eh? I’ve been up since, well, yesterday morning.’
‘I don’t know how you manage,’ said Mirabelle with a smile.
‘It’s the music, Ma’am. Well, if you want to see these fellas you’ve got a while to wait. Come back down to the kitchen and let me make you some breakfast.’
This, it transpired, comprised strong coffee and warm pastries on a makeshift table in one of the pantries. There was even a small bowl of fresh strawberries. Mirabelle ate slowly, relishing the flavour.
‘England’s finest,’ Charlie declared. ‘We ain’t got berries like these back home.’
Left alone while Charlie went off to tend to his ovens, Mirabelle sipped the coffee and dabbed her lips with a thick white linen napkin while Daphne took the last strawberry from the bowl. The pastries were delicious. Once she had finished, Mirabelle turned her attention to the matters in hand. She folded her napkin and sat back in her seat, looking at Daphne curiously.
‘What do the letters say?’ she asked.
‘It’s so lame – that’s the ridiculous thing.’
‘It can’t be that lame if they’ve killed all these people to keep it secret.’
‘That’s the masons for you, isn’t it? Drama after drama over something symbolic.’
Mirabelle folded her hands in her lap. ‘Well?’
‘Do you know the Grand Lodge in London? In Holborn?’
‘Yes. Next to the Connaught Rooms.’ The building had been renovated between the wars. They’d hoped it would be a monument to peace before 1939 came along. ‘It’s the oldest lodge in the country, isn’t it? The one the king attended?’
Daphne leaned in. ‘That’s the thing,’ she whispered. ‘It’s ironic, really. I mean, it’s not the oldest. That’s what becomes clear in the letters and that’s what they’re interested in. The letters are from a nineteenth-century earl who wrote to George IV. He mentions the real lodge, the first lodge – another order that was up and running before the Grand Lodge. Of course, it’s more ancient and more secret. More senior. More everything.’
‘And London doesn’t want the story to get out?’ Mirabelle picked up her cup and took a sip.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Daphne kept her voice low, ‘until you mentioned the men my father was meeting. It hadn’t occurred to me that the order might still be going. But now it looks as if it is. It’s in Scotland, you see. In Ayrshire somewhere. Somehow Daddy has got in touch with them – or them with him. Which is all to the good, really. As you said, they’ve got more money.’
Mirabelle put down her cup. ‘I understand you’re in this for the cash, Daphne, but the rule is to stay realistic in these situations. Greed only gets people hurt, and you’ve already set the terms of your deal. These men – if they are who you think they are – have killed people to defend their history. To keep their order’s provenance secret. I’d be wary of pressing them. They seem keen on guarding their ground. God knows why.’
Daphne’s face became earnest. ‘History is all we have left now. We won the war and lost India and Palestine, and, well, look at us, losing the peace. This country is in tatters. I can’t blame them for caring about the past.’
Mirabelle decided not to comment. Britain had fought its way through the war, and the country would get through the peace, too. People were resilient. Better days were already here and there would be more ahead. Her optimism momentarily surprised her. ‘So, what do you know about these men? About this Scottish lodge?’
Daphne finished her coffee. She cast her eyes around the pantry as if behind the sacks of potatoes someone might be listening. ‘It was pro-Stuart. George was a Hanoverian king. I assumed he’d rubbed out the order – got rid of it, I mean. I’d seen mentions of it here and there before, but no definite proof that it existed. The Hanoverians were not keen on dissent and it was only a hundred years since James Stuart attempted the coup that scared George’s great-great-grandfather into reprisals. It was only a few decades since Bonnie Prince Charlie and his troops made it as far as Derby. A potent Jacobite force north of the border was a real threat. The monarchy was afraid of the Scots. When I found the letters I assumed King George had destroyed the order. It seems, though, they escaped George’s retribution and they’ve been keeping their heads down all this time. They’ve survived by being more secret than anyone else.’
Mirabelle checked her watch as the girl continued.
‘Early brotherhoods are fascinating. They’re based on knightly principles. Warriors, I think, maybe even Crusaders at the beginning. They were the gatekeepers. The defenders of relics. And, well, there are stories of treasure, of course.’ She popped a strawberry into her mouth. ‘Not like the masons – they’re just boy scouts behind closed doors.’
‘And they’re definitely Scottish?’ ‘
Yes. At least that’s where the letters were written. Perhaps King George didn’t have time to do anything about it before he died. The letters have lain there for more than a hundred years. Maybe no one knew about them other than the king himself.’
‘We better go upstairs,’ Mirabelle said decisively. ‘I’d like to have a look at the lie of the land.’
Chapter 27
Only in love and murder do we remain sincere.
Charlie ushered the women into the service lift. ‘The penthouses have a dining room,’ he explained. ‘No one was booked to eat there yesterday or today so it’s empty at the moment. The fancy rooms are quiet most of the time. It’s only now and then the Grand cashes in on them.’
Upstairs, at the end of a wide corridor was a double doorway. Charlie produced the key and let them inside. The room was lovely though it wasn’t on the seaward side of the building. The roofs of Brighton stretched up the hill beyond the glass. There was a faint smell of cigars and furniture polish.
‘Mostly it’s occupied at night,’ Charlie explained as he ushered the women inside and closed the door with a quiet click. ‘Private parties.’
The view over Brighton might be prettier in the dark, Mirabelle thought. The thing that held the attention was the sky, blue and streaked here and there with a trail of fluffy cloud. The window was framed by blue chintz curtains and dominated by a long mahogany table with two silver candelabra placed at the centre. To one side a chiffonier was stacked with porcelai
n, cutlery, crystal and silverware monographed with the Grand’s logo. Mirabelle noticed that in addition to the door they’d come in there were three other exits.
Charlie followed her eyes. ‘That one is the dining kitchen. It’s small – for reheating or cooking to order. Most of the food comes up from downstairs in the lift. The other two doors open directly into the suites, and if I’m not mistaken,’ he started towards the one on the other side of the room, ‘your fellas are in here.’
Mirabelle looked perturbed.
‘Don’t worry, the doors are locked unless the dining room is booked. But I thought you could have a peek. Like the advance guard.’ Charlie put his eye to the keyhole. He turned around. ‘They’re up,’ he whispered, checking his watch. ‘They won’t be needing that alarm call.’
‘Thank you, Charlie. We’ll be fine now. They’ll be missing you downstairs.’
‘OK. If you need me, there’s a direct line to the service kitchen. I’ll keep an eye on it. And if you want to come down, get into the service lift and press B1. It’ll bring you out in the kitchen, right next to where you came in. Oh, and here’s the key to the interconnecting door.’ He pressed it into Mirabelle’s hand. ‘In case you need it. It works on all the doors in here – the rooms on this side can be opened into one big suite with dining facilities if need be, so the locks are the same.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You sure you don’t want anything else? I can stick round if you like.’
‘No. It’s probably best if you go now. I don’t want to get you into trouble.’
Charlie hovered. ‘OK, Mirabelle. But just to fill you in, there’s no one else up here. There’s six large suites on this floor and only one of them taken last night. You’re on your own.’
‘Thanks for not asking too many questions.’
When the door closed behind Charlie, Mirabelle put her eye to the keyhole. On the other side there was a sitting room full of ornate French furniture. In one corner there was a bar. The man in the tweed three-piece suit whom she had last seen in Professor Marsden’s rooms was pouring himself what looked like a whisky. He added a dash of soda and then took the glass to the window and sipped it as he took in the view. It was early to be drinking.
‘Let me see.’ Daphne jostled Mirabelle’s shoulder.
The girl bent to get a look. ‘Is that him? The Scottish chap? With the moustache?’
Mirabelle stared at the dining-room window and then at the wall to the left of it. The man was twenty feet away at most. ‘We have to be very quiet,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, that’s Laidlaw.’
‘Oh,’ Daphne whispered, ‘now Daddy’s come in. He must have just woken up. I think he’s slept in his clothes. He’s coming out of one of the bedrooms. Lazy beast. It’s almost time for us to arrive.’
‘I’m sure he’s come along to keep things in hand. Or, more specifically, you.’
‘In hand? I don’t think that will be necessary,’ Daphne objected. ‘It should be quick, shouldn’t it? Easy?’
‘In an ideal world.’
‘Today’s the day, then,’ said Professor Marsden jovially to Laidlaw, who raised his glass without turning round.
They still had fifteen minutes. The telephone sounded next door and the professor went to answer it. The alarm call, Mirabelle realised, wasn’t to wake up the men, it was to ensure they were ready when Daphne arrived.
‘Where’s the other one?’ Mirabelle thought out loud. Charlie had said there were three of them.
She bent down again to see if she could make out any sign of him. Before she could establish anything, there was a knock on the door and Laidlaw went to answer it. A waiter with a silver tray came into the suite and laid out a teapot and cups. Professor Marsden, Mirabelle noted, put copious amounts of sugar into his tea – three lumps at least. If he had been trying to keep up with his friend he probably had a hangover. Three men had booked in, and now there were three cups. Where was the third man? Had someone else joined Professor Marsden and Laidlaw in the suite? If so, why hadn’t he come out when the alarm call sounded and the tea arrived?
‘Well,’ she stood up, ‘there’s no point shilly-shallying. We’re early but we might as well get on with it. Are you ready?’
Daphne passed a hand over her hair. She walked to the window, looked out and then turned with a wide grin. ‘Let’s,’ she said. ‘The early bird catches the worm and all that . . .’
In the hallway the women paused. Mirabelle brushed a hand over her skirt. She wouldn’t have worn black for this, had she known. She didn’t like wearing the colour at all. Widow’s weeds – a grim reminder. She took a deep breath and motioned Daphne towards the door. The girl checked the small pouch of papers in her handbag, then nodded and rapped hard. In an instant the handle moved and the door opened.
Laidlaw stood in the doorway. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘You’re prompt. You must be Miss Marsden?’
‘Yes. And this is my friend, Miss Bevan,’ Daphne introduced Mirabelle.
Neither Mirabelle nor Laidlaw held out their hand.
‘This lady shouldn’t be here,’ he said bluntly, blocking their entry to the suite. ‘Our business is with you alone, Miss Marsden, and confidentiality is very important. We stressed that, I believe, when the arrangements were made.’
‘Then it would seem sensible not to discuss matters in the hallway, would it not?’ Daphne kept her cool.
The man considered this for a moment and then stood back to let them enter. Mirabelle, after all, could not be magicked away now she was here.
‘Good morning, Daddy,’ Daphne said brightly as she strode into the suite.
Professor Marsden let out a grunt and gulped his tea. He did not acknowledge Mirabelle.
‘What do I call you?’ Daphne asked the Scotsman as she sat down, seemingly completely at ease, in an armchair opposite her father.
Mirabelle was impressed. She hovered behind the girl with one hand on the chair’s chintz covering.
The Scotsman looked them up and down. ‘Laidlaw,’ he said.
‘Well, Mr Laidlaw, shall we get started?’
‘Not quite yet. Who exactly is your friend?’ He pointed at Mirabelle, crossing to the bar and pouring himself another drink without offering anyone else.
‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan. I’m just an acquaintance, Mr Laidlaw. Professor Marsden can vouch for that. A family friend, you might say.’
The professor bared his teeth and squinted across the low coffee table. He clearly hadn’t told Laidlaw about Mirabelle’s visit to his rooms. ‘She’s Daphne’s friend,’ he said. ‘She was looking for the girl the other day. I hadn’t set eyes on her before that.’
The Scotsman downed his whisky. ‘Well, she’s here now.’
‘Yes,’ Mirabelle smiled, ‘I am. At Daphne’s invitation.’
The girl nodded. She passed a hand through her hair as if this was a delightful cocktail party and she was enjoying the company.
‘So,’ said Mirabelle, ‘shall we get down to business?’
‘Do you have it?’ Laidlaw glowered in Daphne’s direction.
‘Do you have the money?’ Daphne inclined her head.
Laidlaw drew a small leather suitcase from behind the sofa and laid it on the table. Daphne went to open the catch, but he blocked her move with his arm. ‘Oh no, you don’t. Show me the letters first.’
Daphne removed the neatly parcelled sheaf from her handbag and put it on the table. ‘There.’
‘The way it works, Miss Marsden, is that neither of us removes the goods from the table until they have been inspected and we are agreed. Do you understand?’
Daphne agreed. Laidlaw moved his arm out of the way and she clicked open the case. Mirabelle caught sight of stack upon stack of banknotes. The girl must have netted thousands. Daphne took in a deep breath and her face relaxed. Her summer on the French Riviera was secure. On the other side of the low table, Mr Laidlaw donned a pair of spectacles and opened the letters one by one. He cast an eye over the wide, ar
ching script, pushing each paper along to Daphne’s father. After a minute or two Professor Marsden nodded and Laidlaw refolded the thick scripts.
‘It appears we have a deal,’ Laidlaw stated.
Daphne got up. ‘Well, business is easy, isn’t it, when both parties know what they want? However, we weren’t treating only over the money, were we? There is also the matter of my friend Mrs Chapman – you were to hand over her killer to the police. Miss Bevan here is of the opinion that the man who it is thought committed suicide after killing her is not the murderer. We need to clear that up before we’re done.’
Laidlaw paused. He eyed Mirabelle as if she was a curiosity. ‘Miss Bevan is correct. I don’t want you to worry, Miss Marsden. This is a disciplinary matter and your concerns have been seen to. In fact, I’ve seen to it personally,’ he said with a smile. ‘Will you take my word on it? The man who killed your friend has been punished.’
Daphne hesitated. ‘Why on earth should I take your word? And I don’t want you to punish him, whoever he is. I want you to hand him over to the police. That’s real justice, not just a rap on the knuckles.’
It passed across Mirabelle’s mind that this man wouldn’t restrict himself to a rap on the knuckles if his temper was let loose.
Laidlaw frowned. ‘I tell you what – I have a proposition for you that will ensure you aren’t worried any more about who killed your friend.’
‘What is it?’ Daphne asked.
‘It’ll close the deal, you’ll see.’
Mirabelle tensed. Something was off here. Mr Laidlaw seemed to be enjoying himself – quietly, earnestly even, but enjoying himself nonetheless. There was an underlying relish in his tone.
‘It’ll be a nice tidy affair.’ Mr Laidlaw got up as if he was about to fetch something. He stood behind Professor Marsden so that Daphne had to squint to see him against the light from the window. ‘I suspect you like things tidy, don’t you, Miss Marsden? You look like the kind of woman who prefers it when things work out just so?’
England Expects Page 22
