Murder in the Museum. Simon Brett
the abstracts of their discussion. He remained hypersensitive and twitchy, but Jude liked to think that she had begun to get through to him.
As they entered the Education block that afternoon, it struck her that she knew nothing about Sandy Fairbarns’ life outside her work. They got on, Jude responded to Sandy’s tenacity and enthusiasm, and yet all that energy was job-related. Of the woman’s life outside Austen Prison, Jude knew nothing. There was no wedding ring, but that at the beginning of the twenty-first century could have any number of meanings.
The realization increased Jude’s admiration for Sandy. Knowing that people found her easy to talk to, Jude had got used to hearing more of their lives than she volunteered of her own. The situation suited her very well. Her life had many strands; different friends matched up with different strands, and there was rarely cause for them to intertwine. Without being deliberately secretive, Jude retained her privacy. She had never felt the need, which seemed to be such a common one, to tell everything about herself.
In Sandy Fairbarns, she recognized a practitioner of the same method, and she respected what she saw.
‘Good luck,’ said Sandy. Through the open door at the end of first-floor landing, Jude could see her group assembled. A couple sat neatly in chairs like schoolchildren. Others lounged against the walls in attitudes of insouciant independence. The smell of stale masculine sweat, which permeates all prisons, was stronger.
‘What are you going to start with today, Jude?’
‘Thought I’d start with psychosomatic symptoms – how the body provides its own reactions to stress. And see where we go from there. And who knows in which direction that will be . . .?’
She took another look through the door, and waved at a face she recognized. ‘Can’t see Mervyn in there. He’s usually one of the first, sitting upright waiting for teacher.’
‘Mervyn won’t be there today,’ said Sandy.
‘Why not?’
‘He’s with the police.’
‘Police? What, is this something to do with his release, the terms of his parole or—?’
‘No. A dead body was found up at Bracketts. It’s a place on the tourist map, house and Museum . . .’
‘I know it.’ But Jude still reacted as if the discovery of the body was news to her.
‘Anyway, Mervyn’s been working up there . . . you know, day-release stuff. Bracketts’ve taken quite a few people from Austen over the years. Mervyn’s a keen gardener, and it all seemed to be working very well for him . . . until this. That’s what the police are talking to him about.’
‘Oh, but for heaven’s sake! A dead body’s found somewhere, and so the police instantly turn on the one person present with a criminal record. I thought they were supposed to be getting more sensitive and imaginative these days. Why can’t they—?’
‘Jude, the police had no option.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mervyn’s confessed to the murder.’
Chapter Seven
‘Is this Carole Seddon?’
‘Yes.’ She was slightly mystified, trying to think who she knew with an American accent.
‘Oh, hi. My name is Professor Marla Teischbaum.’
Carole was caught on the hop. She should have been prepared for a phone call like this. As it was, she couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘From the University of California. Berkeley.’ But the voice wasn’t Californian; it carried the nasal twang of New York. ‘You probably know my name.’
‘No, I don’t think I’ve . . .’
‘Then you’re the only Bracketts Trustee who doesn’t.’
Carole felt like a naughty schoolchild, caught out in her instinctive lie. She was normally better in control of herself, but the American’s forceful directness flustered her.
‘Oh yes,’ she said feebly. ‘Professor Teischbaum. Now you’ve put yourself in context, I know exactly who you are.’
‘I’m writing a biography of Esmond Chadleigh . . .’
‘I know that too.’
‘ . . . and I’d like for us to meet.’
Again Carole was uncharacteristically tentative in her reaction. ‘Well, I’m not sure . . .’
‘Listen, I know the official line on this. All you Trustees have been told about this crass American vampire who’s out to suck the lifeblood out of Esmond Chadleigh’s reputation . . .’
‘It wasn’t quite put like that.’
‘No, but basically you’ve been told you mustn’t talk to me. And I thought – because, if you like, I’m American and pushy – why should I just accept that? Why don’t I talk to the Trustees individually, and maybe explain what my agenda is on Esmond Chadleigh, and who knows . . . some of you might realize I’m not the monster I’ve been painted.’
‘I really don’t think I should talk,’ Carole floundered on. ‘Apart from anything else, I’m a very new Trustee. I don’t know much about the Bracketts set-up. And I’m certainly not a literary person, so I’m afraid my knowledge of Esmond Chadleigh is—’
‘All I’m asking is: could we meet, have a chat? I’m still going to do my biography if I get no co-operation at all from the Chadleigh family or the Trustees, but establishing a dialogue would seem to me to be a more civilized approach to the situation. I object to being branded as a muck-raking mischief-maker by people who’ve never met me.’
‘Well, I can see you have a point, but—’
‘Listen, Carole, I’d like to talk to you. Think about it for twenty-four hours. I’ll call you tomorrow. Tuesday. Goodbye.’
And the connection was broken. Carole thought of all the more assertive things she should have said during the conversation.
Immediately she rang the number of the Bracketts Administrative Office. ‘Gina, I’ve just had this Professor Marla Teischbaum on the phone.’
‘You too.’
‘She’s working through Trustees then, is she?’
‘Oh yes. Started at the top with Lord Beniston.’
‘Presumably no one’s told her anything?’
‘No.’
‘And presumably you want me to clam up too?’
‘Well, actually,’ said Gina, to Carole’s considerable surprise, ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Really?’
‘She won’t go away. I had her on the phone for an hour yesterday. Marla Teischbaum’s a tenacious woman. I think maybe we should chuck her something.’
‘In the same way you chuck a bit of meat to a circling shark?’
‘In exactly that way, yes.’ The Director made a decision. ‘Fix to see her, Carole.’
‘But I know virtually nothing about Esmond Chadleigh. Of all the Trustees, I’m the newest and the most ignorant.’ There was a silence, which Carole filled in, ‘Which is exactly why you want me to talk to her, isn’t it?’
‘Spot on.’
‘I’m not sure I like the idea of—’
‘I’ll get a pack of stuff together for you. Some biographical articles and what-have-you, photocopies of some of Esmond Chadleigh’s