Murder in the Museum

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Emergency Trustees’ Meeting rather ran out of steam after that. The announcement that Sheila Cartwright had taken the decision to commission a new biography of Esmond Chadleigh without even the illusion of consultation had knocked the stuffing out of Gina Locke. She had the look of a woman who’d contemplated throwing in the towel many times before, and had now been floored by the final body-blow. On her small dark face was an expression of resignation, and it looked as though a matching letter would soon follow.

She no longer maintained even the pretence that she was chairing the meeting, and listened while Sheila outlined her orders to the others for dealing with the press. The Old Guard had won. Sheila Cartwright was as much in charge of Bracketts as she had ever been.

The only resistance she encountered was from George Ferris, who echoed the doubts Graham Chadleigh-Bewes had expressed about the likely quality of a biography written by Jonathan Venables.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sheila responded tersely. ‘The important thing is that it’s published as soon as possible, and spikes the guns of Professor Marla Teischbaum.’

‘We can’t be sure it’ll even do that,’ said the ex-librarian slyly. ‘I heard a rumour that the good Professor is pretty well advanced in her researches. It could be a race to the line.’

Carole would have put money on the fact that the rumour came from Marla Teischbaum herself.

‘She can’t complete it before the end of the year,’ said Sheila, countenancing no possible argument. ‘She’s still got requests in to the Estate for permission to quote from Esmond’s works. We can spend a good while toing and froing over that.’

‘Before finally saying no.’

‘Exactly.’ The word was accompanied by a thin, complacent smile. ‘Don’t worry. We can delay Professor Teischbaum for quite a long time.’

There was a flash of lightning from outside. The rain that had been threatening on and off all afternoon came down with sudden force. Recalcitrant thunder groaned distantly.

Gina Locke and George Ferris had left the house as soon as Sheila Cartwright pronounced the meeting closed, hurrying out in a break between the thunderstorms. Gina looked pale, in shock, and walked like an automaton towards the Administrative Office. George turned towards the car park. Carole felt sure he would be seeing or telephoning Marla Teischbaum before the night was out.

She found herself lingering with Sheila at the open front door by the gift shop. Outside the darkness was now total, heavy with the threat of another inundation. Remembering the suicide masquerade she had witnessed, she asked, ‘Do you think Graham will be all right?’

‘Yes,’ came the curt reply. ‘His pride’s hurt, that’s all. He’s no one but himself to blame. He’s been promising that biography for years, and there’s no sign of it.’

‘How near do you think he is to completion?’

Sheila Cartwright snorted. ‘No idea. Not very far advanced, I imagine. He’s just gone round in circles doing research. I should think the amount of actual writing he’s done could be measured in tens of pages.’

‘Why was he given the job in the first place?’

‘Because he was the obvious person. A relative, obsessed with Esmond, with easy access to all the papers – and a good Catholic.’

‘Is Jonathan Venables Catholic?’

‘No, but that doesn’t matter. He’ll do a workmanlike job.’

‘I still don’t quite understand why Graham was appointed to write the biography . . .?’

‘Because it flattered his vanity . . . mostly. Also, I thought it would give him a big project, something to do . . .’

‘Keep him out of your hair?’

‘Yes. That was another reason.’

‘You sound as if you didn’t much care whether his book ever got completed or not.’

The tall woman looked down at Carole. There was an uncompromising honesty in her eyes. ‘All right. To be quite honest, I didn’t. I was keen on anything that might raise the profile of Esmond and Bracketts, but I wasn’t convinced the biography would make that much difference. Maybe, coinciding with the centenary in 2004, but . . . I wasn’t really that bothered . . . until Marla Teischbaum came on the scene.’

‘Right.’

For a second the outside world was illuminated by a flash of lightning. The thunder now followed hard on its heels.

‘Do you mind if I ask if you’re Catholic, Sheila?’ Carole didn’t like the woman; she didn’t mind if she sounded nosy.

‘No.’

‘Then why . . .?’

‘Why have I devoted my life to this place?’ Sheila Cartwright’s dark blue eyes suddenly focused on the pale blue of Carole’s.

‘All right. Why?’

The rain fell as though an overhead sluice had suddenly been opened. The two women looked at the spatters of water bouncing up from the ground outside.

When she spoke, Sheila’s voice was barely audible above the roaring of the weather. ‘The reason I’m obsessed with Bracketts is very simple. Comes down to one poem. Esmond’s most famous poem. I’m sure you know it.’

‘ “Threnody for the Lost” . . .?’

The tall woman’s head nodded once. ‘Nearly twenty years ago, I was all right. Happily married, one teenage son. Nick. My husband had a good job, I didn’t need to work. Just spent the time ministering to my menfolk. Cooking dinner parties for my husband’s friends, ferrying Nick from pillar to post. Squash court to rugby club to hockey pitch to Yacht Club . . .’

She was silent for a moment. ‘Nick was drowned in a sailing accident. He was fourteen. His body was never found.’

‘Like Graham Chadleigh’s?’ asked Carole softly.

Another single nod. ‘I was devastated. We were both devastated, my husband more than me. He’s never really recovered. He’d invested so much hope in Nick, in Nick becoming a sportsman, in Nick achieving things he’d never achieved himself. It was a bad time.’

Only the persistent drumming of the rain filled the silence.

‘I tried everything,’ Sheila went on, ‘that might bring me comfort. Religion . . . therapy . . . antidepressants . . . Nothing worked. The pain just got worse. And then, for the first time, on the recommendation of a friend, I read “Threnody for the Lost”. At last I’d found something that spoke to me, somebody who had shared and empathized with my pain. So I started to read more of Esmond Chadleigh’s work, to read about his life. I discovered that this house was no longer in the family and falling into disrepair and –’ the shrug of her shoulders seemed to encompass everything ‘– that’s how an obsession was born.’

‘And your husband? Was he involved too?’

A brisker shrug. ‘No, I said he went to pieces.’ Like the way she hadn’t graced him with a name, this dismissal confirmed her husband’s irrelevance in her life.

‘You mean he’s hospitalized?’

‘No, no, he’s at home. But he’s had nothing to do with Bracketts.’

That seemed to be all she had to say on the subject of her husband. And the brief moment of vulnerability brought on by the mention of her son had passed too. Sheila Cartwright moved briskly to the doorway and looked out at the sheeting rain.

‘It’s not going to let up. We’d better make a dash for it.’

‘You’ll get soaked through,’ said Carole dubiously, feeling slightly smug for having brought her Burberry with her from the Renault.

‘I’ll borrow one of these.’ Sheila took down a ‘Brack-etts Volunteer’ waterproof from the pegs by the door. ‘We’ve got plenty of them.’

‘Some sponsorship deal, was it?’

‘Yes. Very promising one. Didn’t last, though. Company got taken over by one of the insurance big boys, and the new owners weren’t interested in sponsorship at this level. Wanted to entertain their corporate clients at golf tournaments, not writers’ houses,’ she concluded bitterly.

‘Still, the coats are good,’ said Carole.

‘Oh yes, got something out of it,’ Sheila agreed, zipping up the front and pulling the hood over her head.

‘Shouldn’t we lock up?’ asked Carole.

‘Oh no,’ said Sheila Cartwright. ‘Gina’s the Director. That’s her job.’