Murder in the Museum. Simon Brett
the old kitchen garden where the structure was to be built, the project did not yet have the full support of all the Trustees.
The Museum polarized the differences between two schools of thought on the committee, because it was intended to broaden the appeal of Bracketts beyond Esmond Chadleigh himself. The collection would incorporate exhibitions about other Catholic writers of his period, and there would also be a strong South Stapley local history element. The Museum would also have a Visitors’ Centre, incorporating an academic library, a coffee shop, a new relocated gift shop and a performance space for literary events.
Those in favour of the scheme were certain that this development would increase the appeal of Bracketts to tourists and scholars alike. Those who opposed it – led with ineffectual vehemence by Graham Chadleigh-Bewes – saw the very idea as a betrayal of all that Esmond Chadleigh had stood for. The appeal of Bracketts should be its focus on his life, not that of his contemporaries. (His grandson’s hypersensitivity on the subject was perhaps inherited. During his lifetime, Esmond Chadleigh had always had a chip on his shoulder about what he perceived as neglect by the literary establishment, and the greater interest universally shown in his more illustrious peers. For Esmond Chadleigh, in common with most writers, paranoia was never far below the surface.)
Gina Locke had been prepared for the subject of the Museum to be raised, though a slight tug of annoyance at the corner of her mouth suggested she’d wanted to be the one who raised it. But she quickly recovered and began her pre-emptive strike on the matter.
‘Thank you, George. Yes, we had indeed hoped that the Esmond Chadleigh Museum would attract a substantial grant – indeed, that was the basis of our Lottery application – but I’m afraid we didn’t get it, so we’re still looking elsewhere for funding. This is the kind of project for which we need a very big sponsorship. But it’s important that we separate the funding needs of the Museum from the financial requirements for the day-to-day running of Bracketts. I think we—’
Gina Locke was stopped in her tracks by the clattering open of the dining room door. An impressive woman of about sixty stood in the doorway. She was nearly six foot tall, with dark blue eyes and well-cut white hair; she wore a black trouser-suit. Her wedding finger was clustered with rings. Under one arm she carried a sheaf of cardboard folders; under the other a black leather briefcase.
‘Sorry I’m late, everyone,’ she announced in a breezy, cultured accent.
‘Ah, Sheila,’ said Lord Beniston, half-rising from his seat in welcome. All the other Trustees seemed to know her too.
But the person on whom the new arrival had the greatest effect was Gina Locke. All colour drained from her face and through the tight line of her mouth, she hissed, ‘You have no right to be here. You’re no longer a Trustee!’
Chapter Two
Lord Beniston, however, was not going to worry about details of protocol, so far as the new arrival was concerned. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gina. We don’t have to bother about that. Of course you’re welcome to the meeting, Sheila. Shuffle up and make room for another chair there. Now do you know everyone?’
As she stepped forward to take her place at the table, the tall woman had an undoubted air of triumph about her. And from the way the Director of Bracketts continued to react, Gina Locke was the one being triumphed over.
The newcomer looked around the table, dispensing greetings and little smiles to the Trustees. But she stopped when she reached Carole. ‘We haven’t met.’
‘No, of course not.’ Lord Beniston gestured bonhomously. ‘Carole Seddon. This is Sheila Cartwright. Carole’s only just joined us as a Trustee.’
‘Oh?’ asked the tall woman, requiring more information.
‘Ex-Home Office. Isn’t that right?’
Carole nodded confirmation of Lord Beniston’s words, and the tall woman seemed satisfied, accepting the credentials. There was an aura of power about Sheila Cartwright and the reaction of those present – except for burning resentment from Gina Locke – seemed to be one of deference, though not perhaps affection.
Lord Beniston provided the explanation. ‘I’m sure you know all about Sheila.’ Before Carole had time to say she did know a certain amount, he went on, ‘Without Sheila, this place would just be a private house, and very few people would know that it had any connection with Esmond Chadleigh. Without Sheila, Bracketts in its current form wouldn’t exist.’
Everything fell into place for Carole. When the issue of her Trusteeship first came up, Gina had mentioned a ‘Sheila’ at Bracketts, and her tone of voice had suggested a degree of tension in their relationship. That tension was vividly illustrated now the two women were in the same room. Carole turned to Sheila Cartwright. ‘So you’re the one who actually set up the initial campaign to turn Bracketts into a heritage site? You did all that fund-raising in the seventies?’
‘Yes.’ The reply had the complacency of achievement. ‘Yes, I’m the one.’
More details came back to Carole’s memory. What Sheila Cartwright, a housewife with no previous business or organizational experience, achieved had become the stuff of legend. Her vision fixed solely on turning Bracketts into a shrine for Esmond Chadleigh, Sheila Cartwright had charmed, cajoled, bullied and battled to raise the money to buy the estate. She had then enthused hundreds of Volunteers to help its transformation into a visitor attraction, and presided over the grand opening on 17 April 1982, fifteen years to the day after Esmond Chadleigh’s death. When Lord Beniston had said that without Sheila Cartwright, Bracketts in its current form would not exist, he had spoken no less than the truth.
Her arrival that afternoon changed the mood of the Trustees’ Meeting. All the members – excepting, of course, Gina Locke – seemed visibly to relax in Sheila Cartwright’s presence. With her there, the Director’s gloomy prognostications became somehow less threatening. Sheila Cartwright had already overcome so many obstacles at Bracketts, she would surely have ways of dealing with the latest challenge. She knew everyone with any power in West Sussex; she could fix it. The older Trustees thought the place had been run better under her amateur administration, and had never really supported the appointment of a full-time professional Director.
Lord Beniston beamed as he brought her up to date. ‘Gina’s been spelling out our rather tight current financial outlook . . .’ A private chuckle defused the seriousness of this ‘ . . . and we were just going through potential sources of funding to rectify the situation. We’ve already discussed the Lottery . . .’
‘Which I’m sure proved as unhelpful as ever.’
A more general chuckle greeted this. Sheila Cartwright had so much experience in the affairs of Bracketts. Whatever new solution was suggested for the organization’s predicament, she had been there and tried it. Carole Seddon began to see just how inhibiting Sheila’s presence at the meeting must be to Gina Locke. Every suggestion the Director made would now be referred for the blessing of Bracketts’ originator and moving spirit.
Lord Beniston continued in his condescending chairman’s role. ‘We had actually just got on to the subject of the Museum . . .’ he said, knowing the word would prompt a response.
All Sheila Cartwright actually said was ‘Ah’, but the monosyllable was a huge archive of previous discussions and arguments about the subject.
‘Still, before we move on to that – the Museum is actually listed on the agenda as Item Seven – I thought we should have a little more detail on potential sources of funding.’ He flashed a professional smile at Gina. ‘If that’s all right with you . . . ?’
It was a question that could only have one answer, and the Director dutifully supplied an ‘Of course’ before reordering her papers and beginning. ‘Well, not a lot has changed on that front since our last meeting. As you know, we have always received a certain amount of legacy income, but as the generation to whom Esmond Chadleigh was important dies off—’