Murder in the Museum (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

‘Well, I don’t need to tell you. You’ve seen her in action, Carole. She resigned as a Trustee . . . which is in fact why there was a vacancy on the Board for you to fill . . . and you’re not going to believe the reason Sheila gave for resigning. “I don’t really think a Trusteeship is the ideal role for me – it seems to involve responsibility without power.” ’ The tone with which she invested the words was uncannily evocative of the dead woman.

  ‘Put it another way, being on the Board of Trustees meant she occasionally had to listen to the opinions of others about what should be done at Bracketts. So she ceased to be a Trustee, and just continued to go her own sweet way, as if there never had been any change in the management structure.’

  Gina grinned gleefully. ‘But not any more. I am now going to show what I can do in this job. I’m going to turn Bracketts round, and I am going to get that Museum built.’

  ‘Have you got a sponsor then?’

  ‘I’ve got some very good potential names. Big companies. Sheila had set up meetings with them. I will go to those meetings, catch them when their guard’s down and they feel they should be saying appropriate things about her death. There’s nothing like death to put people in a charitable mood.’

  This sounded a painfully cynical approach to fund-raising, but Carole didn’t question its efficacy. For some obscure reason, though, she felt moved to defend Sheila Cartwright, exonerate the dead woman from the full force of Gina’s vilification. ‘Did Sheila ever tell you why she took up the cause of Bracketts so single-mindedly?’

  Gina Locke shrugged. The answer didn’t interest her. But Carole still recounted the conversation she’d had with Sheila while they were waiting for the rain to ease off . . . in fact just before the woman had been shot.

  Still Gina wasn’t impressed. ‘That may have been what started her off. What kept her going was her pure megalomania. From which, thank goodness, none of us will ever have to suffer again.’

  There was a silence. The unchallenged Director of Bracketts glowed. Having unburdened herself of that lot, the make-over was complete.

  Then Carole said, ‘Which I assume means you won’t go to Sheila’s funeral . . . whenever that may be?’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. I’ll be there.’

  ‘But if you hated the woman as much as you say . . .’

  ‘All the Great and the Good of West Sussex will be there.’ She made a little finger-rubbing money gesture. ‘Dosh. Potential sponsors.’

  ‘Right,’ said Carole, who was beginning to get a clearer idea about the ethics of fund-raising.

  And that was about it, really. They finished their drinks, and Gina said she’d have to go. Which she did, leaving Carole Seddon wondering why this important face-to-face meeting had been set up in the first place.

  All Carole was left with was the very strong impression that the Director hadn’t killed Sheila Cartwright, but that Graham Chadleigh-Bewes had.

  Which perhaps, she reflected, was exactly the impression with which Gina Locke had intended to leave her. And to give that impression had, indeed, been the sole purpose of their meeting.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jude enjoyed a slow getting-up on the Sunday morning. She had had all the windows open most of the previous day, and only a residual tang of cigarette now hung about Woodside Cottage. It was a long time since she had cohabited with anyone for more than a night, and she couldn’t deny her relief at having the house to herself.

  The fact that she knew Laurence Hawker to be in the company – almost certainly the bed – of another woman could not have worried her less. For the first six months in Prague, even the suspicion of such a possibility would have reduced her to an anguish of doubt and pain. Now . . . the image of the other woman did not even enter her mind. Partly, she knew, this was because she had matured. And partly . . . it was because of Laurence’s circumstances.

  The shadow of his infidelity, which had hung over their previous cohabitation, had been replaced by the shadow of his illness. Jude tried not to think about it too much, and for much of the time could keep her mind fruitfully full of other thoughts, but every now and then the reality gatecrashed. Neither of them pretended that they were the great loves of each other’s lives, but their rediscovered proximity was bound to aggravate the inevitable pain that lay ahead.

  Occasionally, Jude’s mind strayed to the possibilities of cure. She knew many heart-warming stories of success with cancers, using both conventional and alternative therapies. But every time she had such thoughts, she hit a brick wall; she couldn’t take the idea further. It was Jude’s deeply held belief that in all matters medical the wishes of the patient remained paramount. Even to raise the subject of treatment with Laurence would be a betrayal of the agreement they had made. Jude sometimes found it hard to live with that agreement, but she knew she must. If Laurence were to change his mind, the situation would be different. But she knew he was never going to.

  Still, as she soaked in a bath fragrant with herbs and oils on the Sunday morning, Jude was able to displace morbid thoughts of one death with more cheerful thoughts of another. Since she’d never properly known Sheila Cartwright, the murder prompted an intellectual rather than an emotional reaction. Jude didn’t have nearly as much knowledge of the principals in the case as Carole did, but she could still speculate. And ring Carole later, see if she fancied lunch at the Crown and Anchor, for a bit more speculation.

  The phone rang. Fortunately, for once she’d remembered to bring the handset with her, so she could answer it without getting out of her cocoon of bath water.

  It was Sandy Fairbarns. ‘I’m ringing because obviously I heard about the murder up at Bracketts.’

  ‘Hard to escape it. Radio, television . . . I haven’t seen any of the papers yet today, but I’m sure it’ll be all over them too.’

  ‘It is. And, listen, the police have been to Austen.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Asking some of the other inmates about Mervyn Hunter.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Until Friday evening, the search for him was a kind of “Circulate his details round the country, but he’ll turn up in his own good time.” Now it’s a manhunt.’

  ‘You mean he’s a suspect?’

  ‘Apparently, he had a good few set-tos with Sheila Cartwright. Just the kind of bossy, demanding woman who’d get to him.’

  ‘Yes, but do you think . . .? It would have taken planning . . . for Mervyn to make his way up to Bracketts, find the gun and—’

  ‘No, I don’t for a moment think he’s anything to do with it. But the poor sap’s tarred with that brush . . . you know, he killed a woman once, so . . .’

  ‘Of course he’s going to go on killing women.’

  ‘That’s the thinking, yes.’

  ‘But I’m sure when he’s found, it’ll be proved he had nothing to do with this murder.’

  ‘Hope so. I’m just worried about that “when he’s found”. I’m afraid if the hunt got really intense and close, Mervyn might panic and . . . do some harm . . .’

  ‘To himself or to someone else?’

  ‘Either. I’m actually more worried about him doing harm to himself.’

  ‘Hm. So what do you want to do, Sandy?’

  ‘I want us to try and find him before the police do.’

  Jude let out a low whistle. ‘What are the chances of that? Do you have any leads?’

  ‘Only one. There was a guy up at Bracketts Mervyn used to talk about. Sounded almost like he’d got a friend up there. Certainly closer to a friend than anyone he met round Austen.’

  Jude understood instinctively. ‘So you want me to go and talk to this “friend”? See if he knows anything about Mervyn’s whereabouts . . .?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Sandy Fairbarns.

  ‘All right. What’s his name?’

  ‘Jonny Tyson.’

  Mrs Tyson had answered the phone. She volunteered that her name was Brenda, but still sounded guarded. Yes, Jonny was at home, but
he didn’t like the telephone. What was Jude’s call in connection with?

  ‘It’s about a friend of Jonny’s. Someone he works with up at Bracketts. Mervyn Hunter.’

  ‘Ah.’ The name brought instant warmth of Brenda Tyson’s voice. It seemed to come more naturally to her than the initial frostiness. ‘Yes, Jonny talks about Mervyn a lot. They seem to get on very well.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if you’d heard, but Mervyn Hunter has escaped and—’

  ‘Escaped? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Oh dear. Perhaps Mervyn had never mentioned his unusual accommodation arrangements. Or perhaps Jonny had perhaps not mentioned them to his parents.

  Still, Jude had stepped too far in for retreat. If she was going to get to see Jonny, the truth would have to come out. ‘Mervyn Hunter’s a prisoner at Austen. He works at Bracketts on a day-release programme they organize.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that.’ But Brenda Tyson didn’t sound too shocked by the news.

  ‘Well, the fact is that Mervyn’s escaped, and the police are looking for him. They haven’t been in touch with Jonny yet, have they?’

  ‘The police? Good heavens, no. Jonny’s never had anything to do with the police.’

  ‘I’m sure he hasn’t. I was just thinking, Brenda, that it might help if I came and talked to Jonny . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that, if the police want to talk to him – and I think they probably will – Jonny will at least know the background to what they’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘I thought it might be less frightening for him.’

  Jude’s response to the uncertainty in Brenda Tyson’s tone had exactly the right effect. ‘Good idea. Yes, you come and talk to him.’ Then, hesitantly, Jonny’s mother asked, ‘Is this something to do with that poor woman up at Bracketts . . . the one who . . . you know . . .?’

  ‘There might be an indirect connection.’

  ‘Then you’d better come over here as soon as possible.’

  A twenty-minute cab drive took Jude to the Tysons’ house in Weldisham, a place which still had dark memories for her. A previous investigation in the village had led to Carole’s kidnapping and a very real threat to her life. But most of the people Jude had met at that time had, for one reason or another, moved away.

  That early October noontime, though, the very idea that the village might have a darker side was incongruous. The sky was a deep autumn blue, lazy lines of cloud straggled across the top of the grey-green Downs; the thatch and flint of Weldisham’s houses acted out the fantasy of every tube-bound Londoner.

  The cottage outside which Jude’s cab drew up was the most idyllic of the lot. Old red brick with flint facing, thatch which came down low like a generous pie-crust. The front garden was immaculate; no autumn leaf would be allowed more than a temporary sojourn on that fitted carpet of a lawn.

  Brenda Tyson had clearly been waiting for her. The studded wooden door, over which climbing rose bushes had been artfully trained, was open before Jude came through the garden gate. A smell of Sunday roast emanated from the cottage, and the woman who stood in the doorway supplemented the image of English home and mother-love.

  She was in her late sixties, sturdy rather than plump, dressed in the kind of belted blue cotton dress which, never having been fashionable, did not look unfashionable. There were thick brown sandals at the end of her stout legs. Grey hair was cut short in what was once called a ‘page-boy’ style, and her ruddy face looked as if it had never bothered with make-up.

  ‘Jude, so good of you to come. I’m Brenda, as you probably worked out. Jonny’s in the garden. I haven’t told him you’re coming. It’s often better if he doesn’t have time to worry about things. Do come in.’

  Jude was led through an immaculate hall, whose white-painted panelling was bright with highly polished horse-brasses, trivets and warming pans, into a sitting room, from whose French windows a beautifully kept garden sloped down into a small valley. There was no sign of Jonny; he must have been working out of sight down the bottom of the garden.

  But there was someone else in the room. Propped awkwardly on an armchair with a footrest extension sat a thin old man, neatly dressed in cavalry twill trousers, a Tattersall checked shirt and a lovat-green cardigan with leather-covered buttons. He appeared unable to move, though a flicker in his half-open eyes registered the new arrival.

  ‘My husband Kenneth. He’s had a couple of strokes, but—’ she smiled determinedly across to him ‘—you’re on the mend now, aren’t you, love?’

  Brenda Tyson left a polite moment for some response, but there was none. ‘Do sit down, Jude. Can I get you a tea or coffee or something?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  At that moment Kenneth Tyson slipped slightly in his chair and was left hanging over the arm. While his wife straightened him up, Jude took in the sitting room. Like everything else about the Tysons’ cottage, it was impeccably neat. Curtains with a design of ivy on a white background toned with the sage of the carpet and the darker Dralon of the three-piece suite. Kenneth Tyson’s chair, though clearly a piece of specialized furniture, had been covered to match the rest.

  And on every surface in the sitting room were celebrations of Jonny. Photographs of him as a baby, an infant, a child, a teenager, a powerful adult. The flattened face with its same huge smile beamed from every frame.

  Brenda Tyson followed Jude’s eyeline and could not repress a smile of pride. ‘He’s nearly forty now, you know. When he was born, they said there was no chance we’d have him that long. But the care has improved, and . . .’ She chuckled. ‘Mind you, when he was born, he was called a “Mongol”. But we’re not allowed to say that now. “Down’s syndrome” . . . I don’t know why that’s reckoned to be any better. I suppose it’s all this political correctness – mustn’t say anything that might be hurtful to the Mongol hordes. Though, having lived in this area all my life, I think it’s only a matter of time before someone pops up and says “Down’s syndrome” is offensive to the South Downs. Doesn’t worry me, though. Whatever name he’s given, he’s still basically just our Jonny.’

  There was tension in her smile as she finished and Jude realized that, in spite of her relaxed mumsy exterior, Brenda Tyson was on edge. Her long speech had been displacement activity, putting off what she really wanted to say.

  Jude was good at silence, and she let it extend until Brenda felt ready to confide in her.

  ‘The fact is, Jude, I’m worried about anything that may upset Jonny.’ She gestured round the sitting room. ‘We’ve got everything settled here for him. He knows what to expect. He’s calm. There’s a rhythm to his life which suits him.

  ‘The same up at Bracketts . . . not quite to the same extent, because there are a lot of other people up there . . . but he knows what’s expected of him, and he works very hard for them in the garden . . .’ She couldn’t resist a proud digression. ‘Jonny’s wonderful with plants, you know. He really seems to understand them, be in tune with them.’ Her gaze shifted out through the French windows. ‘He does everything here, you know. It’s all down to Jonny.’

  Brenda Tyson was again silent, still having difficulty getting to the point she wanted to make.

  ‘You’re worried that this business with the police may upset his routine?’ Jude suggested.

  The woman smiled gratefully. ‘Exactly that. Most of the time, when he knows what’s going on, Jonny’s fine. He’s a real ray of sunshine to have around the place. But when there’s something he doesn’t understand . . . he gets confused. He, sort of, has tantrums. And he’s such a strong boy that . . .’

  ‘Are you saying he sometimes gets violent, Brenda?’

  A firm shake of the head. She wasn’t going to have that word applied to her son. ‘No. He gets confused, as I said. He becomes very truculent and unco-operative. Jonny’s like all the rest of us – he likes to be liked. If he gets the impression someone dislik
es him, if someone’s harsh with him . . . I’m sorry, I know I’m overprotective . . . but I’m his mother and I know him so well . . . He’s very trusting with strangers, but if someone’s nasty to him – or shouts at him – or bullies him . . . he reacts very badly.’

  ‘Did Sheila Cartwright ever bully him up at Bracketts?’ asked Jude tentatively.

  She had feared Brenda Tyson might read this as suspicion of her son, but that anxiety was immediately diffused. ‘No. Sheila was very gentle with him. With all the . . . oh dear, what’s the current politically correct way to describe them? “People With Learning Difficulties”, that’s probably it. Sheila set up that whole system, she saw the potential for co-operation between Bracketts and all the training colleges that look after . . . people like that. And she was always particularly good with Jonny. Very calm, let him take things at his own pace. Sheila had a son too. She lost him. I think that made her extra-sensitive to Jonny.’

  This was a new dimension to the image of Sheila Cartwright, but Jude did not disbelieve it. She could not imagine Brenda Tyson speaking anything other than the complete truth.

  ‘Does Jonny know what happened to Sheila?’

  Brenda shook her head, shame-faced. ‘I haven’t dared tell him yet. And I’ve kept him away from news bulletins on the television and radio – not that he’s ever much interested, anyway. No, he doesn’t know anything.’ The face that looked up at Jude contained a mixture of apology and pleading. ‘It’s the kind of news that’ll really upset him, destroy his equilibrium. And it’ll make him angry with me. Jonny’s never very good at distinguishing between the bad news and the messenger.’

  ‘Would you like me to tell him about Sheila Cartwright?’

  The open red face showed how much Brenda Tyson would like to say yes, how much she’d even been angling for the offer, but her sense of duty stopped her. ‘It’s something I should do.’

  ‘I don’t mind. He’ll have to know, because of the things I need to ask him about Mervyn Hunter.’

  ‘It really should be me,’ Brenda insisted. ‘I’m his mother.’