Murder in the Museum (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

  ‘Couldn’t a lot of that be put down to the foot-and-mouth epidemic? Keeping the visitors away?’ The new voice was marinated in Cheltenham Ladies College and money. It belonged to Josie Freeman, whose husband John had started a very successful car-parts franchising operation in the late nineteen-eighties. His shrewdly calculated marriage had been the first step in a gentrification process which had recently been crowned by an OBE ‘for services to industry’. Josie brought to their partnership the class her husband lacked, and by way of gratitude he passed on to her the responsibility of channelling a part of his considerable income into the kind of good causes suitable to the status towards which he aspired.

  Her acceptance of a Trusteeship at Bracketts was a part of that process. Josie Freeman had access to a whole group of equally well-groomed and well-blonded wives of the wealthy, just the kind of essential fund-raising contacts that Carole Seddon lacked. Because of her status, Josie was constantly approached by the outstretched begging-bowls of heritage sites, theatres, hospitals, hospices, animal charities and a thousand-and-one other worthy causes. The skill with which she selected those to whom the Freeman endorsement should be granted or withheld, and her masterly control of her calendar of charitable events, would have qualified her for a diplomatic posting in the most volatile of the world’s trouble-spots.

  ‘Foot-and-mouth had an effect,’ Gina Locke replied crisply, ‘as it did all over the heritage industry, but it only exacerbated problems which were already established here at Bracketts. A place like this can never be kept going by the money from visitor ticket sales alone.’

  ‘It used to be,’ said Graham Chadleigh-Bewes with some petulance. ‘When it was just run as a family concern. Before management experts were brought in.’

  Gina ignored the implied criticism in his emphasis. She was too shrewd an operator to get diverted into minor squabbles. ‘Bracketts was a much smaller operation then. And staffed almost entirely by Volunteers. Now that it’s a real business with professional staff, obviously the outgoings are much greater.’

  ‘But what about the atmosphere of the place?’ asked Esmond Chadleigh’s grandson, in the mumble of a resentful schoolboy wanting to be heard by his friends but not the teacher.

  Again Gina didn’t let it get to her. The Trustees’ Meetings every couple of months were just part of the Director’s job, a boring part perhaps, but something she had to get through. If she was polite, kept her temper and made sure that the Trustees could never complain that they didn’t have enough information, then she could soon get back to running Bracketts the way she wanted.

  ‘So,’ demanded Lord Beniston with the aristocratic conviction that there must be an answer to everything, ‘where are we going to get the money from? I’ve forgotten, what’s the state of play with the Lottery?’

  ‘Come to the end of the road there, I’m afraid. After all that work we put into the application, the answer came back last month and it was a no.’

  ‘What was a no?’ asked Belinda Chadleigh, picking up on the word and making a random entrance into the discussion.

  ‘The Lottery.’

  ‘Ah, I’ve never won anything on that either,’ she said, and retired back into her shell.

  From long experience, the Trustees all ignored the old lady’s interpolations. ‘Any reasons given for the refusal?’ asked Lord Beniston.

  ‘They didn’t reckon the Bracketts project offered enough “ethnic diversity and community access”.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Graham Chadleigh-Bewes agreed bitterly. ‘And no doubt all their literature budget has been paid out to one-legged black lesbian story-tellers.’

  Gibes of that sort about British arts funding’s predilection for minority groups were so hackneyed that his words, like his aunt’s, prompted no reaction at all amongst the Trustees.

  ‘Any other grant applications out at the moment?’

  Gina shrugged. ‘Trying a few private trusts, as ever, but I wouldn’t give a lot for our chances. That kind of money may be available for big projects, new buildings and so on – not for the kind of continuing financial support we need here at Bracketts.’

  This prompted a response from a short man whose curly hair and pepper-and-salt beard were a reminder of those Victorian pictures which still look like a face whichever way up they’re held. ‘Surely our plans for the Esmond Chadleigh Museum qualify as a big project – and as a new building, come to that?’

  Carole had been introduced to him at the previous meeting. George Ferris, former Assistant County Librarian. In his retirement, he had become involved in a variety of literature-related projects, including writing a book with the catchy title, How To Get The Best From The Facilities Of The County Records Office, of which he was inordinately proud. George Ferris had been asked to become a Trustee of Bracketts on the assumption that he would bring some literary know-how to the group. On the evidence Carole had seen so far, all he had brought was a nit-picking literalness.

  This mention of the Esmond Chadleigh Museum wrought a change in the Board of Trustees. There was a soft rumble of recognition and anticipation. Members shifted in their chairs or straightened agendas. The proposed Museum was a thorny issue, and one which the meeting could not avoid discussing. Though architectural plans had been drawn up and work started on clearing the old kitchen garden where the structure was to be built, the project did not yet have the full support of all the Trustees.

  The Museum polarized the differences between two schools of thought on the committee, because it was intended to broaden the appeal of Bracketts beyond Esmond Chadleigh himself. The collection would incorporate exhibitions about other Catholic writers of his period, and there would also be a strong South Stapley local history element. The Museum would also have a Visitors’ Centre, incorporating an academic library, a coffee shop, a new relocated gift shop and a performance space for literary events.

  Those in favour of the scheme were certain that this development would increase the appeal of Bracketts to tourists and scholars alike. Those who opposed it – led with ineffectual vehemence by Graham Chadleigh-Bewes – saw the very idea as a betrayal of all that Esmond Chadleigh had stood for. The appeal of Bracketts should be its focus on his life, not that of his contemporaries. (His grandson’s hypersensitivity on the subject was perhaps inherited. During his lifetime, Esmond Chadleigh had always had a chip on his shoulder about what he perceived as neglect by the literary establishment, and the greater interest universally shown in his more illustrious peers. For Esmond Chadleigh, in common with most writers, paranoia was never far below the surface.)

  Gina Locke had been prepared for the subject of the Museum to be raised, though a slight tug of annoyance at the corner of her mouth suggested she’d wanted to be the one who raised it. But she quickly recovered and began her pre-emptive strike on the matter.

  ‘Thank you, George. Yes, we had indeed hoped that the Esmond Chadleigh Museum would attract a substantial grant – indeed, that was the basis of our Lottery application – but I’m afraid we didn’t get it, so we’re still looking elsewhere for funding. This is the kind of project for which we need a very big sponsorship. But it’s important that we separate the funding needs of the Museum from the financial requirements for the day-to-day running of Bracketts. I think we—’

  Gina Locke was stopped in her tracks by the clattering open of the dining room door. An impressive woman of about sixty stood in the doorway. She was nearly six foot tall, with dark blue eyes and well-cut white hair; she wore a black trouser-suit. Her wedding finger was clustered with rings. Under one arm she carried a sheaf of cardboard folders; under the other a black leather briefcase.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, everyone,’ she announced in a breezy, cultured accent.

  ‘Ah, Sheila,’ said Lord Beniston, half-rising from his seat in welcome. All the other Trustees seemed to know her too.

  But the person on whom the new arrival had the greatest effect was Gina Locke. All colour drained from her face and through the tight
line of her mouth, she hissed, ‘You have no right to be here. You’re no longer a Trustee!’

  Chapter Two

  Lord Beniston, however, was not going to worry about details of protocol, so far as the new arrival was concerned. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gina. We don’t have to bother about that. Of course you’re welcome to the meeting, Sheila. Shuffle up and make room for another chair there. Now do you know everyone?’

  As she stepped forward to take her place at the table, the tall woman had an undoubted air of triumph about her. And from the way the Director of Bracketts continued to react, Gina Locke was the one being triumphed over.

  The newcomer looked around the table, dispensing greetings and little smiles to the Trustees. But she stopped when she reached Carole. ‘We haven’t met.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Lord Beniston gestured bonhomously. ‘Carole Seddon. This is Sheila Cartwright. Carole’s only just joined us as a Trustee.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked the tall woman, requiring more information.

  ‘Ex-Home Office. Isn’t that right?’

  Carole nodded confirmation of Lord Beniston’s words, and the tall woman seemed satisfied, accepting the credentials. There was an aura of power about Sheila Cartwright and the reaction of those present – except for burning resentment from Gina Locke – seemed to be one of deference, though not perhaps affection.

  Lord Beniston provided the explanation. ‘I’m sure you know all about Sheila.’ Before Carole had time to say she did know a certain amount, he went on, ‘Without Sheila, this place would just be a private house, and very few people would know that it had any connection with Esmond Chadleigh. Without Sheila, Bracketts in its current form wouldn’t exist.’

  Everything fell into place for Carole. When the issue of her Trusteeship first came up, Gina had mentioned a ‘Sheila’ at Bracketts, and her tone of voice had suggested a degree of tension in their relationship. That tension was vividly illustrated now the two women were in the same room. Carole turned to Sheila Cartwright. ‘So you’re the one who actually set up the initial campaign to turn Bracketts into a heritage site? You did all that fund-raising in the seventies?’

  ‘Yes.’ The reply had the complacency of achievement. ‘Yes, I’m the one.’

  More details came back to Carole’s memory. What Sheila Cartwright, a housewife with no previous business or organizational experience, achieved had become the stuff of legend. Her vision fixed solely on turning Bracketts into a shrine for Esmond Chadleigh, Sheila Cartwright had charmed, cajoled, bullied and battled to raise the money to buy the estate. She had then enthused hundreds of Volunteers to help its transformation into a visitor attraction, and presided over the grand opening on 17 April 1982, fifteen years to the day after Esmond Chadleigh’s death. When Lord Beniston had said that without Sheila Cartwright, Bracketts in its current form would not exist, he had spoken no less than the truth.

  Her arrival that afternoon changed the mood of the Trustees’ Meeting. All the members – excepting, of course, Gina Locke – seemed visibly to relax in Sheila Cartwright’s presence. With her there, the Director’s gloomy prognostications became somehow less threatening. Sheila Cartwright had already overcome so many obstacles at Bracketts, she would surely have ways of dealing with the latest challenge. She knew everyone with any power in West Sussex; she could fix it. The older Trustees thought the place had been run better under her amateur administration, and had never really supported the appointment of a full-time professional Director.

  Lord Beniston beamed as he brought her up to date. ‘Gina’s been spelling out our rather tight current financial outlook . . .’ A private chuckle defused the seriousness of this ‘ . . . and we were just going through potential sources of funding to rectify the situation. We’ve already discussed the Lottery . . .’

  ‘Which I’m sure proved as unhelpful as ever.’

  A more general chuckle greeted this. Sheila Cartwright had so much experience in the affairs of Bracketts. Whatever new solution was suggested for the organization’s predicament, she had been there and tried it. Carole Seddon began to see just how inhibiting Sheila’s presence at the meeting must be to Gina Locke. Every suggestion the Director made would now be referred for the blessing of Bracketts’ originator and moving spirit.

  Lord Beniston continued in his condescending chairman’s role. ‘We had actually just got on to the subject of the Museum . . .’ he said, knowing the word would prompt a response.

  All Sheila Cartwright actually said was ‘Ah’, but the monosyllable was a huge archive of previous discussions and arguments about the subject.

  ‘Still, before we move on to that – the Museum is actually listed on the agenda as Item Seven – I thought we should have a little more detail on potential sources of funding.’ He flashed a professional smile at Gina. ‘If that’s all right with you . . . ?’

  It was a question that could only have one answer, and the Director dutifully supplied an ‘Of course’ before reordering her papers and beginning. ‘Well, not a lot has changed on that front since our last meeting. As you know, we have always received a certain amount of legacy income, but as the generation to whom Esmond Chadleigh was important dies off—’

  ‘I don’t think you can say that,’ protested Graham Chadleigh-Bewes. ‘There is a universality about Esmond’s work. Children still respond with enormous pleasure to Naughty Nursie’s Nursery Rhymes.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Belinda Chadleigh, recognizing the title through the miasma of other words.

  ‘I’m sure they do.’ Gina Locke, like everyone else, ignored the old lady and spoke calmly, repeating a response that she had often had to make before. ‘But the fact remains that Naughty Nursie’s Nursery Rhymes are out of print—’

  ‘Though I am in discussion with a publisher who’s considering reprinting them.’

  ‘I know that, Graham. However, since those discussions have already gone on for over a year, and since very few children at the beginning of the twenty-first century actually have “Nursies”, naughty or otherwise, I would think it unlikely that—’

  ‘You don’t know anything about publishing!’

  ‘I admit I’m not an expert, but I do know enough about—’

  ‘What’s more, you don’t know anything about literature!’

  ‘Listen, Graham . . .’

  Ever diplomatic, Lord Beniston intervened. ‘Now, please, can we take things in order? There’ll be time for everyone to raise any points they wish to. Gina, you were talking about legacy income . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Managing quickly to cover her anger, the Director went on, ‘Basically there’s less of it. Esmond Chadleigh’s contemporaries have mostly died off, and I don’t think we can expect much more from that source. We’ve only had one legacy of two thousand pounds in the last six months.’

  ‘So what else might we hope for?’

  ‘The royalty income from the estate is also going down.’ Gina gave Sheila Cartwright a gracious nod, which clearly cost her quite a lot. ‘Of course, we enormously appreciate the work Sheila did in getting the agreement of Esmond Chadleigh’s heirs to pay twenty-five per cent to Bracketts . . . but Naughty Nursie’s Nursery Rhymes—’

  ‘That’s good,’ murmured Belinda Chadleigh.

  ‘—isn’t the only book that’s out of print . . .’

  ‘I’m in discussion with publishers about a lot of the others, too,’ said Graham Chadleigh-Bewes petulantly.

  Gina Locke gave no reaction to this, as she went on, ‘So I can’t see the royalty income going up much in the future . . . unless there’s a sudden revival of interest in Esmond Chadleigh’s works.’

  ‘Presumably that will be stimulated in 2004 . . . centenary of Esmond’s birth . . . and of course when the biography comes out.’ As he spoke, Lord Beniston looked across to the writer’s grandson.

  Graham Chadleigh-Bewes squirmed. ‘Still a bit behind on that,’ he confessed. ‘You know, new material keeps being unearthed . . . and then I’m kept ver
y busy by my discussions with publishers about getting Esmond’s books back into print and . . .’ The words trickled away into nothing . . . rather as, Carole Seddon began to suspect, the much-discussed biography might.

  ‘What about the opposition?’ asked George Ferris slyly.

  ‘What opposition?’ Lord Beniston sounded testy. He clearly disliked the ex-librarian, though whether this reflected the natural antipathy of the aristocrat to the pen-pusher or had some deeper cause, Carole did not know.

  ‘A letter was read at the last meeting. From an American academic. Don’t you remember?’

  The Chairman resented the implication. ‘Of course I remember, George.’

  ‘Her name was Professor Marla Teischbaum. She wrote asking for the co-operation of the Bracketts Trustees with a biography of Esmond Chadleigh that she was proposing to write.’

  ‘And we very rightly refused such co-operation!’ Graham Chadleigh-Bewes snapped. ‘We don’t want any unauthorized biographies of Esmond. We only want the authorized biography!’

  ‘I agree,’ said George Ferris drily, ‘but how long are we going to have to wait for it?’

  ‘I’m working as hard as I can!’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Josie Freeman interrupted. ‘Was this Professor Marla Teischbaum from the same American university that wanted to buy the Esmond Chadleigh papers?’

  Gina Locke had the facts at her fingertips. ‘No, that was the University of Texas. Marla Teischbaum’s at Berkeley.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a Bishop Berkeley . . .?’ asked Belinda Chadleigh, insubstantial and, as ever, ignored.

  ‘Well, I still think we dismissed that American interest in the papers far too casually.’ Josie Freeman gave a cool look at her perfectly manicured nails. ‘The money they were offering would have guaranteed the financial future of Bracketts for the next five years.’