Murder in the Museum

Chapter Fifteen

‘Hello?’

‘Carole, it’s me, Jude.’

‘Where are you calling from?’

‘Home.’ That was odd. Jude would never use the phone when just dropping in was an option. ‘Just a couple of things I found out from Mervyn Hunter.’

‘I didn’t know you were going to see him.’ Once again pique was not far away from Carole’s voice.

‘No. Well, I told you, I don’t talk a lot about that prison stuff.’

‘Right.’ But it didn’t sound as though everything was quite right, so far as Carole was concerned.

‘Anyway, I found out two important details about the body.’

‘The Bracketts body?’

‘Yes. These were the reasons why the police didn’t take Mervyn’s confession seriously. For a start, the skeleton is a man’s. And, second, it had been buried in the kitchen garden for a very long time.’

‘How long?’

‘Before Mervyn was even born. Possibly as much as ninety years ago.’

Carole quickly did the calculation. Second decade of the twentieth century. ‘That’s very interesting. Thank you for telling me.’

Carole was about to ask why Jude hadn’t come round to give the information in person, but missed the opportunity, as her friend went on, ‘You didn’t find out anything more at Bracketts?’

‘About the body? No.’

‘I’m amazed there still hasn’t been anything in the press. It’s not the sort of thing you can keep quiet for long.’

‘Sheila Cartwright claimed to have a direct line to the Chief Constable. Maybe that’s it. She’s persuaded him to sit on it.’

‘Can’t do that for ever.’

‘No. By the way, I’ve fixed up my meeting with Professor Marla Teischbaum.’

‘Ah.’ Jude sounded intrigued, as if she wanted to know more. But then there was a sound on the line, and she seemed to change her mind. ‘Tell me all the details when the deed is done.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ said Carole.

‘Must dash. Bye.’

It was with a familiar frustration that Carole put down the phone. Jude could sometimes be so infuriating. She didn’t deliberately withhold information, just rarely volunteered it. There remained vast areas of her life about which her neighbour knew nothing at all.

And was Carole being fanciful to imagine she’d heard the distant rumble of a man’s voice on the line just before Jude rang off? Not of course that it was her business. Jude had a perfect right to live her life exactly as she chose, giving away only as much information about it as she chose to. And, thought Carole with a return of frustration, that was a right of which Jude took full advantage.

Still, no time to brood. She was meeting Marla Teischbaum in Fedborough at four. The Professor had offered to come to High Tor, but Carole thought she’d feel safer on neutral ground, so they’d agreed to meet at the American’s hotel, the Pelling Arms.

Which meant that, if her Labrador Gulliver was going to get his walk on Fethering Beach, Carole would have to get her skates on. Even though he found the hot weather oppressive, Gulliver was panting, pathetically grateful to her for being taken out.

She didn’t positively look at Woodside Cottage as they walked past, but Carole couldn’t help noticing that the curtains of Jude’s bedroom were drawn. Maybe she wasn’t well? Maybe Carole should go round with some neighbourly grapes? No, probably not.

She wondered what was going on, and again her sense of frustration returned.

It wasn’t that Carole didn’t like mysteries. But she liked mysteries that were capable of rational solution. And those which surrounded her friend Jude very rarely were.

Carole wasn’t quite sure what she’d been expecting from Professor Marla Teischbaum. The voice on the phone had suggested that, though she worked there, she wasn’t a native of California. From the nasal voice, Carole had conjured up the image of someone small, bustling, combative and, yes, very Jewish. She certainly wasn’t expecting the extremely tall, elegant woman who uncoiled from a chintzy armchair to greet her in the Residents’ Lounge of the Pelling Arms.

‘You must be Mrs Seddon.’

‘Please, call me Carole.’

‘And I’m Marla.’ They sat down. ‘Can I get you coffee or something?’

‘Coffee would be nice, thank you.’

‘Well, I’ll do my best. The secret in this place seems to be to get your order in quickly. Then after the second or third time you order it, something may arrive. Excuse me, I’ll go to the bar. Passing waiters in this Lounge are rarer than passenger pigeons. Regular coffee, is it?’

‘Please.’

Carole watched the tall figure leave the room. Marla wore trousers in the subtlest of green, and a loosely-hanging oatmeal top which, in spite of its price, was probably still designated a T-shirt. Her neatly sculpted hair was a rich chestnut, almost copper beech in tone. Her make-up was expertly applied, highlighting the dark eyes and full lips. She didn’t match any of the scruffy stereotypes of academics; someone passing her in the street might mark her down as an actress or a model.

When she returned, Marla Teischbaum sank with a graceful mock-ennui back into her armchair. ‘They appeared to get the message,’ she said dubiously.

‘Do I detect you’re not over-impressed with the Pelling Arms?’

‘Gard, where do I start? Goodwill, friendliness of staff, I give them one hundred per cent. Efficiency . . . I’m afraid a bit lower down the scale.’ She enumerated on her long beautifully manicured fingers, ‘No elevators, no air conditioning, no ice machines, no . . .’ She stopped and smiled, setting up a ripple of fine lines around her mocha-coloured eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m sounding terribly American.’

‘Don’t worry. You’re not treading on any toes. The local reputation of this place isn’t that great.’

‘Right. Anyway, it’s somewhere to stay. Right area. Location is what counts, after all. Convenient for the County Records Office in Chichester.’ She paused significantly. ‘And, of course, for Bracketts . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘By the way, Carole, I do know why you’re here.’

‘Well, yes, of course.’ Carole found herself unaccountably flustered. ‘I’m here because you wanted to meet me.’

Marla Teischbaum raised a single long finger of objection. ‘Not entirely correct. With no offence to you at all, I hope, Carole, I did not initially ask for a meeting with you. I approached the Bracketts Trustees requesting co-operation for my researches into Esmond Chadleigh.’

‘Yes. And the Trustees are prepared to co-operate.’

Carole tapped the folder on her lap. ‘This is an expression of their willingness to share with you . . .’

But the slow shaking of Marla’s head dried up her words. ‘No,’ said the American calmly. ‘You know and I know that that is just a gesture, throwing a bone to the slavering dog in the hope that it will get distracted and forget to attack you.’ The assessment was so accurate that Carole could only hang her head in embarrassment. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if such expressions have been used about me in your Trustees’ Meetings.’

Again it was too close to the truth for any sensible argument to be offered. All Carole could say was, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not really an expert on Esmond Chadleigh.’

‘I am well aware of that. Also well aware of the fact that that is why you have been sent to see me.’

Marla Teischbaum’s understanding of the situation was so total that Carole started to wonder whether the Professor actually had a spy in the Bracketts camp. Was one of the Trustees feeding her information? If that were the case, Carole didn’t have to look far for her chief suspect. She remembered the glee with which George Ferris had brought up Professor Marla Teisch-baum’s name at the last meeting. And he’d been the one who knew she was about to visit West Sussex. Yes, Carole could see George Ferris relishing the glamour a woman like Marla might bring into the tedium of his retirement.

‘You’re the perfect emissary,’ the American went on, one hand unconsciously smoothing the contours of her chestnut hair. ‘Since you know virtually nothing about my chosen subject, you can’t let slip anything about Esmond Chadleigh that you shouldn’t.’

‘What kind of thing did you have in mind?’ asked Carole, suddenly assertive. The Trustees had cast her in a subservient role, but that didn’t mean she had to play it their way. ‘Some dirt? That’s what the Trustees think you’re after. You won’t be surprised to hear that, when your name came up for discussion, the word “muck-raker” was used.’

‘I’m not surprised at all. It is, as it happens, an inaccurate description, but there’s no reason why you should believe that. What I am after, in fact, is not dirt but truth.’

Carole did not disbelieve her. Increasingly she was feeling a tension between the part she was meant to be playing and her instinctive trust in the other woman. But all she could say was, ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘What do you mean by that, Carole? That you don’t deal in truth?’

‘In my current situation,’ came the curt reply, ‘I deal only with what the Trustees have given me to deal with. A very limited role, with which – you will not be surprised to hear – I am far from happy.’

Marla smiled. ‘I was beginning to detect that, yes.’

Carole gathered up her handbag from the floor. ‘So I think I may as well leave, really.’ She waved the folder. ‘Shall I take this back with me? If you think it’s going to be completely useless to you.’

‘No, no, I’ll take it. Thank you. Could be something there I haven’t seen before. I don’t think even Graham Chadleigh-Bewes would be quite so crass as to give me all rubbish.’

‘I had a glance through the stuff. Some of it did look interesting. But, as we have established, I am not an expert.’

‘No. But you’re clearly shrewd. So, if you thought some of the material was interesting, I will accept it with gracious thanks for your recommendation.’

As Marla Teischbaum took the folder, she looked again towards the bar. ‘Sorry, as you see, the Pelling Arms is not really geared to this encounter. There’s no chance of the coffee arriving for a short meeting.’

‘Well, there you go,’ said Carole, rising awkwardly to her feet. Marla’s poise made her feel clumsy.

‘So what do you report back to your Trustees?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Presumably they will want to hear what happened at this meeting?’

‘I suppose they will, but a formal report wasn’t discussed.’

‘It was thought that handing this file over to me would be the end of the matter? That I would gracefully touch my forelock, and return to the wilds of California?’

‘Well . . . maybe. Yes, perhaps that was what they hoped.’

The Professor shook her head in wry disbelief. ‘Gard, they sure don’t know me, do they?’ She tapped the file. ‘This was Graham’s idea, I take it . . .?’

‘I, er . . . I’m not sure that he came up with it completely on his own.’

‘No. Unlikely, I agree. I don’t think Graham’s ever come up with anything completely on his own. So who was it? Gina Locke, the new Director? I’d be surprised. From the correspondence I’ve had with her, she sounds too bright to think something like this’d work.’

‘I’m not sure . . .’

But as Carole floundered, a light of knowledge came into Marla’s dark eyes. ‘No, of course. Oh Gard, yes, I’ve got it. Her predecessor. The One Who Will Not Go Away. Yes, this little scheme has Sheila Cartwright written all over it.’

There seemed no point in denying this conclusion. ‘Now I really had better be going.’

‘Sure.’ But Marla Teischbaum held Carole there by the force of her personality, as she said, ‘Even if you haven’t got a formal arrangement to report back to the Trustees, I do have a message for them. I am going to write my biography of Esmond Chadleigh.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘What do you mean – why?’

‘Why Esmond Chadleigh? There are so many other literary figures you could write about, so why did you choose him?’

Marla Teischbaum’s head shook slowly, in a mixture of exasperation and disbelief. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Carole? You don’t get what being an academic is about.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Carole, trying desperately not to sound humble.

‘It’s not random, you know. In my line of work, you don’t suddenly say to yourself, “Hey, I feel a biography coming on. Who’s it going to be? Who shall I pick? Maybe I should stick a pin in some list of authors and see who I come up with . . .?” ’

Carole felt uncomfortable, as though she was being treated like a child, while the Professor continued, ‘I like Esmond Chadleigh’s work. What I know about his life intrigues me. I want to find out more. That is why I am writing his biography.’

The conviction in Marla Teischbaum’s voice did not diminish Carole’s discomfort. She was silent.

‘And I am going to make that biography as accurate as I possibly can. If I discover that Graham Chadleigh-Bewes’ assessment of his grandfather is correct, that Esmond really was a saint walking on earth, then fine, that is what my biography will say too. But if I find information which does not fit in with that rosy picture, I will use it. If this folder is the extent of the Trustees’ co-operation with me, I’m grateful, but I think they’re being very foolish. Continued co-operation with me offers them a much better chance of influencing what I write than they will get by making an enemy of me.

‘I don’t blame the other Trustees for the way they’re reacting. I certainly don’t blame Graham Chadleigh-Bewes. He’s just weak, and worried that I’m going to publish my biography before he gets round to finishing his. But I know where the power lies at Bracketts. Still. It’s Sheila Cartwright. She’s the one behind this deliberate blocking of my researches. She has already made an enemy of me.’ The lipsticked mouth framed a bittersweet smile. ‘You have my permission to tell her that, Carole, if you wish.’

At that moment a spotty youth in a blue waiter’s jacket appeared with a tray of coffee. There was a silence while he put it down on the table between the two women.

‘Are you sure you won’t have some, Carole? Now it’s actually arrived?’

‘No. I think I’d better be on my way.’

‘Fine. Your choice. Just one thing . . .’

‘What?’ Carole turned to look back at the elegant creature in the armchair. Again an unconscious hand was caressing the neat contours of her shining hair.

‘I do know about the body that was found in the kitchen garden,’ said Professor Marla Teischbaum.