Murder in the Museum

Chapter Nineteen

There were three butts on the ground by the Renault when Carole returned, and the fourth cigarette was already drooping from Laurence Hawker’s mouth. Neither he nor Jude noticed her approach. He was lounging against the car, gazing out over the green downland, while Jude looked at him with unusual intensity, as if trying to impress his image on her mind.

Carole, with some annoyance, interpreted this as a look of love, and in fact she wasn’t far wrong. Jude was having increasing difficulty in maintaining her ‘no love’ agreement with Laurence. Insidiously, over the past few days, he had become part of her life, and the prospect of losing him was more and more painful to contemplate.

Finally hearing Carole’s approach, she shook herself out of introspection, and observed, ‘Took a long time to pop an envelope through a letter box.’

‘Yes. I talked to Graham.’

‘And?’

But Carole didn’t want to discuss the case with a third person present. Particularly with Laurence Hawker present. Mumbling that Graham hadn’t said anything of great interest, she got into the car. Jude knew exactly what was going on, but said nothing.

On the way back, Laurence again trailed his smoking hand out of the window, but Carole was still very aware of the smell.

Graham Chadleigh-Bewes had moved quickly in contacting Sheila Cartwright. There was a message from her on the answering machine when Carole got back from Bracketts. While Gulliver fussed around her legs, as though she’d been away for six months, she listened to the playback.

‘This is Sheila Cartwright. The police are about to make a statement to the press about the discovery in the kitchen garden. It is very important that we all sing from the same hymn-sheet on this one. So I’m calling an Emergency Trustees’ Meeting to discuss the situation and the appropriate responses to it. The only time Lord Beniston can make is tomorrow evening, Friday, at seven. Seven o’clock in the dining room at Bracketts tomorrow evening. Do attend if it’s humanly possible. This is very important. Message ends.’

Carole Seddon smiled wryly. Sheila had realized that the secret could not be kept much longer, and made a pre-emptive strike. Regardless of whether it was her job to do it or not, she’d summoned the Trustees. How would Gina Locke react to this latest usurpation of her authority? The meeting the following night held the promise of a considerable firework display. It would not be an occasion to be missed, under any circumstances – least of all by someone who suspected some kind of skulduggery was going on at Bracketts.

There was a brief mention of the body on the local news at six-thirty. A presenter who was going to have to have her teeth fixed before she made it on to national television announced, ‘At Bracketts House, near South Stapley, the former home of writer Edmund Chadleigh, there has been a grisly discovery. Human remains buried in a shallow grave were discovered during digging the foundations for a proposed museum at the tourist site. A Sussex Police spokesman said that the body belonged to a man, and he is thought to have died at least fifty years ago. There is no information yet as to his identity or the cause of death.’

The report was accompanied by library footage of Bracketts looking at its best in summer sunshine. Then the presenter moved on to the story of a seven-year-old girl in West Durrington who had enlisted her primary school class-mates into a team of majorettes.

So much for the profile of Esmond Chadleigh in the wider world outside Bracketts – even a professional news service got his name wrong. Carole wanted to share her reaction to the bulletin with Jude. In fact, she would rather have been watching the news with Jude. But the presence of Laurence Hawker in Wood-side Cottage inhibited her from going round or picking up the phone.

Jude had said she and Laurence were going to have supper at the Crown and Anchor, and had, with her customary openness, invited her neighbour to join them. Characteristically, Carole had invented a reason why she couldn’t.

But she was desperate to talk to Jude. On her own.

Jude and Laurence had had quite a lot to drink, and he poured himself another large whisky when they got back to Woodside Cottage. She wasn’t so worried about the drinking, but in the course of the evening she had managed to tackle him about his smoking.

To no effect, of course. ‘It’s what I do,’ he said. ‘It’s part of me. Like English literature. Take it away, and there’s nothing of me left.’

Jude had put her plump arm around his thin waist and pulled him to her. ‘There’s not much of you left, as it is.’

‘True,’ he agreed. ‘Not much.’ And he had planted a small kiss on her nose. ‘I’m glad to see you again, Jude. You mean a lot to me.’

She cherished the rareness of the moment. Though physically affectionate, Laurence Hawker had never committed himself much verbally. Supremely articulate though he was, he was wary of voicing feelings of attraction. (Cynically, Jude had often wondered whether this was the caution of a man who spent time with so many different women that he didn’t want to risk the danger in a moment of intimacy of getting a name wrong.) And, though someone with his knowledge of English Romantic Poetry must have realized the relative feebleness of ‘You mean a lot to me’, Jude recognized, from that particular source, the sentiment’s true value.

As if in punishment for this lapse in his customary reticence, Laurence had been immediately attacked by a ferocious fit of coughing. During which he lit up another cigarette.

Jude had had her mobile off in the Crown and Anchor, but found there was a message when she switched it back on in her sitting room. ‘I’ll just check this,’ she said.

‘Right. See you in bed.’ Taking the whisky bottle by its neck, Laurence left the room. She heard his cough receding up the stairs.

‘Jude. It’s Sandy. Ring me as soon as you can, please.’

The voice of Austen’s Education Officer was tight with anxiety. Jude rang back straight away. There was the sound of a car’s engine in the background, though of where she was going, and who with, as ever Sandy Fairbarns made no mention.

She told the news as soon as Jude got through.

‘It’s Mervyn. He’s gone over the wall. He’s escaped.’