England Expects (14 page)

‘Do you think it’s some kind of dreadful plot?’ She was beginning to panic. ‘I mean, Daphne might be anywhere. Anyone might have her. Some monster – some absolute beast.’

It ran through the girl’s mind that she might have known. Mirabelle had a nose for this kind of thing. The minute she got interested in a case, it was a dead cert there’d be something serious. Vesta had been kidnapped two years before. She’d been released safely, but the man she’d been taken with hadn’t been so lucky. Maybe Daphne was tied up somewhere, praying desperately for someone to come and get her.

By contrast Mirabelle remained calm. Her fingers fluttered a little, but that was all. ‘You need to work from your last certainty, Vesta. Haven’t you learned anything?’ she scolded as she reached for the telephone and called the operator. ‘Be sensible,’ she mouthed as she turned her attention to the voice at the other end of the line. ‘Could you put me through to the Headquarters of the National Trust?’

Vesta lingered.

‘Don’t fuss. It won’t help,’ Mirabelle whispered sternly with one hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Sit down,’ she gestured. ‘Eat something.’

The girl drew out the last of her Jelly Babies for comfort. One orange and one lime sweet fell onto her palm as she up-ended the bag. She passed the green one to Mirabelle who scrutinised it as if it was a deadly insect.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘I wonder if I might speak to someone about Daphne Marsden, an employee of yours who
has been involved in restoration work at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton? . . . I’m trying to get in touch with her, and I hoped you’d have her contact details.’

At the other end of the wire, the woman’s voice was so shrill that Vesta could hear every word. ‘What is it in connection with?’ the woman squawked.

Mirabelle thought quickly. ‘A bereavement. I need to get in touch with Miss Marsden as soon as I can, but she isn’t at the Pavilion today. I don’t want her to miss the funeral, you see.’

‘Hold, please. I’ll check the records.’

The telephone clicked. Vesta felt calmer. The situation was in hand. She eyed her friend with pride. Mirabelle really was unflappable. She was tenacious, too – she’d follow every lead right to the end. Vesta wondered where Mirabelle had learned to sit so straight. You could crown the woman with an ostrich feather and it wouldn’t so much as flutter.

The lady at the National Trust office returned. ‘Hello. I’m afraid I have no Brighton address for Daphne, but you might be able to contact her through her family. I’m looking at the file now. They live, let me see, in Cambridge. This form has been filled out entirely incorrectly,’ she tutted, ‘but her father is a professor, it seems. I’m sorry – I don’t have an address, and really I should – but I’m sure if you phoned the university and asked for him they’d point you in the right direction. Peter Marsden – he’s Professor of Architecture at Downing College.’

Mirabelle smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She put down the phone with a satisfied click. ‘There, that’s a good start.’

Vesta stared. ‘She might not be there.’

Mirabelle looked doubtful. ‘She might not,’ she admitted, ‘but we’re a step closer.’

Vesta chewed her Jelly Baby. Mirabelle might be right, and, for that matter, admirable, but sometimes she could also be infuriating. ‘What do we do now?’ she mumbled. ‘Ring them?’

Mirabelle slipped the green Jelly Baby into her mouth and sucked. ‘Oh no. We have to go there,’ she said slowly.

‘Where?’

‘Cambridge, of course. When you think about it, it ties in very nicely. Architecture, you see. It’s quite masonic – or it can be.’

Vesta decided not to ask. Not just yet.

Mirabelle picked up her handbag. ‘Right,’ she said, checking her watch and winding it thoughtfully, ‘if we catch the next train to London we can make it to Cambridge just as they’ll be finishing dinner. We’ll have to stay over.’

Vesta got to her feet. ‘But Sergeant Belton said we shouldn’t leave Brighton.’

Mirabelle’s eyes twinkled. ‘You stay if you like. I’ll be back tomorrow. There’s no substitute for meeting people, Vesta – you pick up so much more. If the girl has absconded then her family might have an idea where she’s gone, if they aren’t sheltering her at home. Most people go home, you see, when they get into trouble. It’s only natural.’

Vesta considered the matter. Home for her, she realised, was her little bedsit now, not the brick-built house where she’d grown up. That’s how it felt.

‘When did we ever listen to a policeman, anyway?’ Vesta shrugged her shoulders.

When Mirabelle got in one of these moods it was best to hang onto her coat-tails and hope for the best. She’d leave a message for Charlie with Mrs Agora.

Chapter 18

Secrets are tyrants waiting to be dethroned
.

T
he women bought pork pies from a stall at Victoria Station before they caught the Tube to King’s Cross for the Cambridge train. It felt good to be back in London, if only for a few minutes, thought Mirabelle. The city still clung to the vestiges of Coronation fever that had pulsed through the whole country only a few weeks before, and the streets around Victoria were busy with people heading to and from St James’s park. Descending into the Tube to cross town, Vesta stowed the pies in her capacious handbag. Only a few minutes later the women exited King’s Cross on Euston Road. They could hear someone playing an old wartime hit on a piano in a nearby pub. A tatty Union Jack was still hoisted from an upstairs window. On the north side of the station women on the game leaned in doorways, smoking and chatting and dressed to the threadbare nines. Several cars were waiting at the traffic lights on the road towards Bloomsbury, their engines a background purr. Mirabelle liked it here. London always felt like the biggest and best city in the world. Gritty and glamorous, its streets would always be scarred by the Blitz though now the worst of the city’s wounds were slowly closing over.

The women decided to go to the station bar for some sustenance. Inside, Vesta pushed through the crowd and bought two bottles of beer, which she also stowed in her handbag for the second train.

‘Something for the journey. That’s us all set.’ She laughed as they hurried to make their connection.

The carriage rocked like a cradle and the women fell silent, sipping the beer, eating the pies and staring out of the window as the city receded. The down-at-heel trackside houses turned in due course into factories and then fields. As they left town, the train stopped at a series of small stations with glossy green benches and tubs of forget-me-nots, pansies and primroses. Almost at Cambridge the sun began to sink into the fens. In the half-light Mirabelle could just make out Ely Cathedral as she finished her drink.

‘We’re almost there,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty, isn’t it?’

‘Did you study here?’ Vesta asked.

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Quite the reverse. Oxford.’

Vesta giggled. If anywhere was the opposite of the University of Cambridge it was Southwark Secretarial College where she had taken her shorthand qualification and had learned to type. To Vesta the two august institutions were interchangeable.

‘I visited Cambridge now and then in my university days,’ Mirabelle reflected. ‘I was keen on debating. It was quite competitive.’

Vesta tried to imagine it. For someone who now said so little it was curious to think of her friend banging her fist on a wooden lectern as she argued and difficult to conjure an image of Mirabelle that was younger and more argumentative. What had she worn, Vesta wondered, as she expounded her opinions? How had she done her hair? Mirabelle seemed perpetual – like a statue set in stone, without a past or a future. And now Vesta came to think of it, even in company Mirabelle never really functioned as part of a team. She was always slightly detached. She’d known Mirabelle for two years and still had very little idea about her personal life, even where she’d come from, let alone what she’d done in the mysterious office where she’d worked during World War II.

‘I’ll bet you were good at debating,’ she said.

Mirabelle checked her hat was in place and gently smoothed Vesta’s collar where it had twisted. ‘We used to stay in rooms at St Catharine’s, but there was a nice B&B near the Fitzwilliam Museum. We’ll book into that one,’ she said decisively. ‘I hope it’s still there.’

The train pulled in just after nine and Cambridge appeared all but asleep. As the handful of other passengers dispersed, the women slipped into a taxi. Vesta took in the deserted winding streets and shopfronts. Even the pubs appeared only half-open. A dull glow in the windows was the only sign that anyone might be inside. A multitude of bicycles lined both sides of the road. The gold lettering from the university outfitters shimmered in the headlamps, and shop after shop appeared to sell nothing but books and sports equipment. Occasionally a high wall or a closed gate denoted college grounds. Ancient stained-glass windows set into the outer walls looked as if they were lit only by candles, and signs seemed for the benefit of insiders only. ‘Reach Library By The Backs’ one said, and ‘Silence During Evensong’, without any indication of the time of the service. The taxi slowed to give way to a white-faced boy in a black academic gown who scuttled across the street without looking left or right.

‘Doesn’t anyone eat?’ Vesta asked, straining to make out a bakery, a restaurant or a grocery – anywhere that might provide food. The evening air was devoid of the smell of cooking.

‘Well, there can’t be many people about. It’s the end of term now. In any case, mostly people dine in college,’ Mirabelle remembered.

Cambridge, after all, was smaller than Oxford. The university dominated everything. It wanted its dons on campus not carousing in town. When the locals went out to eat they chose pubs and restaurants on the river with views over the
countryside. There wasn’t much to do in the city centre apart from buy books and drink beer.

‘Tomorrow, if we’ve time before we go back to Brighton, we can pop into Fitzbillies,’ she offered. ‘Very good rock buns.’

Satisfied with this, Vesta settled into her seat as the cab turned onto a wide road of Victorian houses and shops. A little way along, the driver pulled up next to a grand gate set into a high brick wall. ‘Downing College, ladies,’ he announced.

‘Quiet night,’ said Mirabelle as she handed him their fare.

The driver shrugged. ‘I’m off home now. I just live round the corner. Thank you, Miss.’

Vesta rang the bell beside the gate. When the porter arrived he was a cheery fellow in a bowler hat who beamed when Mirabelle mentioned Professor Marsden.

‘He’ll be glad to see you two.’ The fellow winked, eyeing Vesta up and down. ‘I can take you over, if you like.’

‘Just point us in the right direction, if you don’t mind.’ Mirabelle scanned the grounds.

The man raised a hand as if he was directing traffic. Downing College was lavishly laid out with wide pathways and long quads between the buildings. It was just starting to get dark. One by one the outside lights were switching on.

‘Down the path,’ the porter gestured, ‘past the chapel and then the library. You’ll see it when you get there. It’s the third block on the left.’

As the women started down the pathway, the man retreated into his office, removing his bowler hat before he’d even made it through the door.

‘Benji, that dog Marsden’s got another two up there,’ they heard him say, his accent as broad as it was leering. ‘Frisky old sod.’

Mirabelle peered over her shoulder. The professor, it might be deduced, was one for the ladies. A veritable Cary Grant.

A beautiful landscape of well-kept lawns and terraced college buildings opened before them. It seemed vast in comparison to the cramped streets they’d seen on the way from the station. Some of the lawns had been laid over to fruit and vegetables. Mirabelle spotted rows of leeks and potatoes as well as raspberry canes and what looked like a plot of green beans and marrows. Downing had evidently done its bit, dug for victory and was still going strong. Somewhere in the distance Mirabelle could hear the contented cluck of chickens as the dusk fell. The college must have its own supply of eggs. Despite generating its own food by turning its quads into farmland, the place still felt grand.

To Mirabelle the feeling of coming off a street into a hidden world was familiar. The last time she’d been in Cambridge she’d visited a pub called St Radegund’s. The group had gone there after the debate was over. The pub was far enough away for the students to be able to let down their hair – on King Street, near Jesus College, a fifteen-minute walk from where they were staying. Women hadn’t been welcome but the landlord made an exception for her – the only girl on the debating team. Ironic, she remembered thinking, as St Radegund was female. Once the pints had been pulled and gin poured, the doors were locked and the debating teams of both universities got down to unofficial argument jammed against each other in the cramped, smoky room. Coming back into the college afterwards it felt as if the world had disappeared beyond the walls. She remembered feeling sophisticated – ‘a female pioneer’ her tutor had said. In the morning she’d woken to sunshine and cherry trees scattering petals like confetti across the quad. It had been 1934. It felt like a million years ago.

Now, she took in the surroundings. Downing was a relatively modern college – late Georgian she guessed. The boundary was skirted by a long stretch of high railings that
separated the college grounds from those of the institution next door. To the right a classical chapel built of Portland stone loomed out of the balmy half-light. Further along there was a library fronted by a row of columns. Above them symbols were carved beneath a stone apex. It was too dark to make out exactly what they were, but there was a scale of justice in the centre. Was that masonic?

Vesta clutched Mirabelle’s arm. ‘I’ve never been anywhere like this before,’ she whispered. When Mirabelle had said they were going to a college, Vesta had expected a single building, not this immaculate place that was more like a little town.

At the doorway of the accommodation block the nameplate for the first floor indicated Professor Marsden’s rooms.

Mirabelle patted Vesta’s hand. ‘Keep your eyes open,’ she said. ‘We need to find out about his daughter, and I expect he’ll be smooth as silk.’

Vesta grinned. The college might be intimidating but she was well able to deal with a gentleman’s advances. A year with Charlie hadn’t dulled her skills with the opposite sex.

‘Ready?’ Mirabelle checked.

Vesta nodded and Mirabelle knocked. When the door opened, a fug of pipe smoke assailed their senses.

‘Professor Marsden?’ Mirabelle enquired.

The man who stood on the threshold was portly, grey-haired and wearing a thick brown cardigan despite the warm weather. He was not what either of the women was expecting as he peered towards them owlishly through a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles. Tufts of hair poked out of his ears and his hair was too long to be respectable. Rather than an anti-establishment style statement it seemed far more likely that the professor had simply neglected to trim it. He coughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Who on earth are you?’

Mirabelle hid her confusion. The porter’s comment had hinted at a ladies’ man. This individual looked as if someone
had knitted him into being. Something about his sartorial disarray was reminiscent of Daphne and her crumpled linen trousers, though the girl’s fine features must come from her mother’s side.

‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan, pleased to meet you, and my friend Vesta Churchill. We’re looking for your daughter. Might we come in?’

Professor Marsden appeared bamboozled by this request but he stepped backwards nonetheless, albeit slightly unsteadily. The room was large, fitted with mahogany and packed with books, some of which teetered in piles on the floor. The tables and chairs were strewn with papers and bound manuscripts, many of which lay splayed, face down. Two drawing boards were covered with reams of paper held in place by a combination of paperweights and string. The walls were covered with prints of ancient buildings and black-and-white photographs of what looked like Greek ruins. The windows looked as if they hadn’t been opened in decades. The bedroom, which lay through an open door to one side, appeared not one iota more tidy or welcoming than the study.

The professor retreated towards the sideboard. ‘Lady visitors are not allowed after curfew,’ he said. ‘Not even in vacation time. The porter shouldn’t have admitted you.’

Mirabelle smiled and made no reply. The combination of the overwhelming smell of pipe smoke and the unexpected appearance of the professor had left her momentarily stunned.

Professor Marsden lifted a decanter in the direction of the women. ‘Brandy?’

Vesta shook her head.

‘No. Thank you.’ Mirabelle recovered herself. ‘I wondered if you had heard from Daphne lately?’

The professor poured a drink and took a gulp before he answered. He had been drinking for a while, Mirabelle realised. She told herself this might be a good thing. No matter
what they thought, drunks invariably let their guard down. Whether they were angry or sad or uncooperative they always told you more than someone with their stone-cold wits about them.

‘Daphne? None of the women in my family speak to me unless they have to,’ he spat. ‘Not one of them. Daphne included.’

Mirabelle’s eyes fell to one of the drawing boards. She’d lead him a little dance, a wander around what she’d like to know. She pointed at the sketch that lay on top of the pile.

‘That’s the chapel we passed on the other side of the main path. Did you draw it?’

Marsden nodded.

‘It’s very good.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I like the carvings on the masonry. I couldn’t quite make them out in the evening light. You’re a professor of architecture, aren’t you?’

Marsden lurched across the room to point out the features with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. ‘Symbolism is one of my specialist subjects.’ He started to reel off the details of laurel wreaths and snakes. He favoured Latin terms and architectural jargon, Mirabelle noted. Daphne’s father was not a man of the people. She nodded as he continued but Vesta’s head was cocked to one side – many of the images looked simple but the professor used such complicated terms to describe them and the tone of his voice was set in such a deathly drone that it was difficult to follow what he was saying.

‘These are masonic symbols, aren’t they?’ Vesta cut to the chase when he finally paused.

‘Well, what of it?’ He sounded angry.

‘Are you a brother mason, Professor?’ Mirabelle enquired gently.

Marsden crossed his arms. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘I was only curious.’

‘This is something to do with Hilary, isn’t it?
She
sent you.’