Читать книгу Murder in the Museum - Simon Brett - Страница 4

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—’

‘I don’t think you can say that,’ protested Graham Chadleigh-Bewes. ‘There is a universality about Esmond’s work. Children still respond with enormous pleasure to Naughty Nursie’s Nursery Rhymes.’

‘That’s good,’ said Belinda Chadleigh, recognizing the title through the miasma of other words.

‘I’m sure they do.’ Gina Locke, like everyone else, ignored the old lady and spoke calmly, repeating a response that she had often had to make before. ‘But the fact remains that Naughty Nursie’s Nursery Rhymes are out of print—’

‘Though I am in discussion with a publisher who’s considering reprinting them.’

‘I know that, Graham. However, since those discussions have already gone on for over a year, and since very few children at the beginning of the twenty-first century actually have “Nursies”, naughty or otherwise, I would think it unlikely that—’

‘You don’t know anything about publishing!’

‘I admit I’m not an expert, but I do know enough about—’

‘What’s more, you don’t know anything about literature!’

‘Listen, Graham . . .’

Ever diplomatic, Lord Beniston intervened. ‘Now, please, can we take things in order? There’ll be time for everyone to raise any points they wish to. Gina, you were talking about legacy income . . .’

‘Yes.’ Managing quickly to cover her anger, the Director went on, ‘Basically there’s less of it. Esmond Chadleigh’s contemporaries have mostly died off, and I don’t think we can expect much more from that source. We’ve only had one legacy of two thousand pounds in the last six months.’

‘So what else might we hope for?’

‘The royalty income from the estate is also going down.’ Gina gave Sheila Cartwright a gracious nod, which clearly cost her quite a lot. ‘Of course, we enormously appreciate the work Sheila did in getting the agreement of Esmond Chadleigh’s heirs to pay twenty-five per cent to Bracketts . . . but Naughty Nursie’s Nursery Rhymes—’

‘That’s good,’ murmured Belinda Chadleigh.

‘—isn’t the only book that’s out of print . . .’

‘I’m in discussion with publishers about a lot of the others, too,’ said Graham Chadleigh-Bewes petulantly.

Gina Locke gave no reaction to this, as she went on, ‘So I can’t see the royalty income going up much in the future . . . unless there’s a sudden revival of interest in Esmond Chadleigh’s works.’

‘Presumably that will be stimulated in 2004 . . . centenary of Esmond’s birth . . . and of course when the biography comes out.’ As he spoke, Lord Beniston looked across to the writer’s grandson.

Graham Chadleigh-Bewes squirmed. ‘Still a bit behind on that,’ he confessed. ‘You know, new material keeps being unearthed . . . and then I’m kept very busy by my discussions with publishers about getting Esmond’s books back into print and . . .’ The words trickled away into nothing . . . rather as, Carole Seddon began to suspect, the much-discussed biography might.

‘What about the opposition?’ asked George Ferris slyly.

‘What opposition?’ Lord Beniston sounded testy. He clearly disliked the ex-librarian, though whether this reflected the natural antipathy of the aristocrat to the pen-pusher or had some deeper cause, Carole did not know.

‘A letter was read at the last meeting. From an American academic. Don’t you remember?’

The Chairman resented the implication. ‘Of course I remember, George.’

‘Her name was Professor Marla Teischbaum. She wrote asking for the co-operation of the Bracketts Trustees with a biography of Esmond Chadleigh that she was proposing to write.’

‘And we very rightly refused such co-operation!’ Graham Chadleigh-Bewes snapped. ‘We don’t want any unauthorized biographies of Esmond. We only want the authorized biography!’

‘I agree,’ said George Ferris drily, ‘but how long are we going to have to wait for it?’

‘I’m working as hard as I can!’

‘Just a minute,’ Josie Freeman interrupted. ‘Was this Professor Marla Teischbaum from the same American university that wanted to buy the Esmond Chadleigh papers?’

Gina Locke had the facts at her fingertips. ‘No, that was the University of Texas. Marla Teischbaum’s at Berkeley.’

‘Wasn’t there a Bishop Berkeley . . .?’ asked Belinda Chadleigh, insubstantial and, as ever, ignored.

‘Well, I still think we dismissed that American interest in the papers far too casually.’ Josie Freeman gave a cool look at her perfectly manicured nails. ‘The money they were offering would have guaranteed the financial future of Bracketts for the next five years.’

‘But,’ Graham Chadleigh-Bewes spluttered, ‘it would also have removed the reason for Bracketts’ existence! Bracketts without the Esmond Chadleigh papers in its Library is just another country house.’

For once, Gina Locke found herself in full agreement with him. ‘And if we sold the papers, we’d remove the main exhibit that’s going to be put in the Esmond Chadleigh Museum.’

‘Surely, though—?’

But that was as far as Josie Freeman was allowed to get. With proper deference to her status and money, Lord Beniston silenced her and tried to get the meeting back on track.

‘Fellow Trustees, we are rather going over old ground here. We discussed the letter from Professor Marla . . .?’

‘Teischbaum,’ Gina supplied.

‘Thank you . . . at the last meeting. We put the matter to the vote, and the idea was rejected. So, with respect, Josie, I don’t think there was anything casual about our discussion.’

‘She won’t go away, though,’ said George Ferris with gloomy certainty. There was also a smugness in his manner; he had special knowledge which he intended to share with the other Trustees at his own chosen pace.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Professor Marla Teischbaum. I’ve heard through colleagues – former colleagues – at West Sussex Libraries, and in the County Records Office . . . on which, incidentally, I am something of an expert. I have even published a modest tome on the subject. It’s called How To Get The Best From The Facilities Of The County Records Office, in case I haven’t mentioned it before.’ (He had mentioned it before, at every opportunity.) ‘Marla Teischbaum’s been making a lot of enquiries. You see, she’s going ahead with her biography, with or without the co-operation of the Bracketts Trustees.’

‘Well, good luck to her. She won’t get far,’ said Graham Chadleigh-Bewes with childish satisfaction. ‘The best authorities on Esmond are sitting here in this room as we speak. And so long as none of us agree to speak to this dreadful woman, then we’ll be fine.’

‘How do you know she’s a dreadful woman?’ asked Carole, intrigued.

‘With a name like that, she’s got to be, hasn’t she?’ There was a playground snigger in his voice. ‘So . . . absolute solidarity, all right? None of us must talk to her.’

‘I’m not so sure about that, Graham.’ There was an evil twinkle in George Ferris’s gnome-like eye. ‘A bit of competition might be healthy. Might put a rocket up you to get your bloody biography finished.’

‘Now that’s not fair. As a Literary Executor, I’m kept incredibly busy, talking to publishers about new editions of Esmond’s work, getting together a selection of the letters, going round doing readings at schools, lobbying Literary Editors to—’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ Once again Lord Beniston felt the meeting was getting too far out of his control. ‘Could we get back to the agenda, please? We’ve agreed we are not going to co-operate with Professor Marla Teischbaum’s proposed biography. If we have any trouble from her, we will deal with it as the need arises.’

‘Which may be sooner rather than later,’ murmured George Ferris.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I happen to know . . .’ The former librarian slowed his words down to give his revelation full impact ‘ . . . that she will soon be in Sussex – if she isn’t here already – to continue her researches.’

‘That’s not a problem. So long as none of we Trustees tell her anything.’

‘But we can’t stop her coming round Bracketts as a member of the general public, can we?’

‘No, of course we can’t, but she’s hardly going to be able to write a definitive biography on the basis of one Guided Tour, is she? I really think you’re making rather too big a thing of this.’

George Ferris looked suitably deflated – and not a little peeved – as the Chairman moved the agenda on. Gina Locke, without much optimism, enumerated various possible sources of funding, and Sheila Cartwright compounded the gloom by saying that all the Director’s suggestions had been tried in the past, without success. Sheila hinted at the existence of potential sponsors, to whom she had exclusive access, who might save the day. But she couldn’t provide detail at that time. Everything, she said, building mystery around herself, was at a delicate stage of negotiation.

Carole got the feeling Gina was only going through the motions, providing the data Lord Beniston had asked from her, but awaiting the right moment to put forward her real agenda.

The moment came after Josie Freeman had asked Graham Chadleigh-Bewes about ‘any developments on the film front?’ At a meeting some two years previously he had announced to the Trustees with enormous excitement that a production company had been enquiring about the rights in The Demesnes of Eregonne, a children’s fantasy novel by Esmond Chadleigh which had had a considerable vogue in the 1930s. The delusion had spread of a block-busting movie, generating huge book sales, and of the elevation of Esmond Chadleigh to Tolkien-like status. The huge publicity build-up surrounding the film of The Lord of the Rings fed this fever. If ever the time was right for a movie version of The Demesnes of Eregonne, it was now.

But after the initial spurt of enthusiasm, the project seemed to be going the way of all films. At first the production company was going to commission a draft screenplay; then it was going to take the idea to Hollywood (‘where it’s just the kind of thing they’d love’); then the name of an A-List international star was attached to the project; then there was talk of Anglo-Australian funding; then an actor about to leave a popular British soap was said to be ‘looking for a vehicle’ and The Demesnes of Eregonne ‘could be the one’; then there was a suggestion of repackaging the idea and pitching the book as the basis for a six-part children’s television series. Then everything went quiet.

When Graham Chadleigh-Bewes had last spoken to the production company (which, incidentally, had never come up with any evidence of actually having produced anything), he had been told that ‘while the enthusiasm for The Demesnes of Eregonne within the company remained as strong as ever . . . it wasn’t really a good time.’ The trouble was, they said, the hype and success surrounding The Lord of the Rings had really ruined the chances of any other project in the same genre.

It was when Graham came to the end of this predictably depressing saga that Gina Locke moved up a gear and started to put forward what she really believed in. ‘All of which leads me to the conclusion, Mr Chairman . . .’ (she wasn’t going to risk stumbling on meeting protocol now she was talking about something important) ‘ . . . that Bracketts can no longer go on with its current amateurish attitude to money, crossing our fingers and living on hope. If this organization is going to have any future at all, it is time we employed the services of a professional fund-raiser.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ snapped Sheila Cartwright, too incensed even to be aware that meeting protocol existed. ‘That’s just creating another job for some Media Studies graduate with no knowledge of the real world!’

Even if she hadn’t herself been a Media Studies graduate, Gina Locke would have bridled at that. ‘No, it is not! It is living in the real world. Bracketts may have been founded on Volunteers and goodwill—’

‘And what’s wrong with Volunteers and goodwill?’

‘There is nothing wrong with—’

‘When I think of the work I put in to build up the network, then opening it out to gap-year students, helpers with learning difficulties, day-release prisoners from Austen Prison, not to mention—’

‘No one is diminishing your achievements, Sheila, but the heritage industry is now a highly sophisticated professional business.’

‘Are you suggesting my methods weren’t sophisticated?’ blazed Sheila Cartwright. ‘Are you calling me an amateur?’

‘I am saying,’ said Gina with great restraint, ‘that what you did worked wonderfully at the time. But that time was twenty years ago and, in the leisure industry particularly, times have changed.’

‘Leisure industry!’ Sheila Cartwright had considerable supplies of contempt and she loaded them all on to the two words. ‘Bracketts is not part of the leisure industry. Bracketts is a vision, the vision of Esmond Chadleigh, shared by me and by other lovers of his work. Heaven forbid that this beautiful place should ever be turned into a kind of literary Disneyworld.’

Her adversary knew the power of cheap rhetoric, but Gina Locke managed to sound calm as she pressed her point. ‘I agree, Sheila, and there is no danger of that happening. All I am saying is that Bracketts can’t continue to lurch from crisis to crisis. There are many more demands on potential sponsors and benefactors than there were twenty years ago, and in that time the business of fund-raising has become a deeply specialized one. Most other heritage organizations of this size employ professional fund-raisers, and I think such a post should be an accepted part of the management structure at—’

‘Management structure!’ Sheila Cartwright dug even deeper into her reserves of contempt to smother these two words. ‘That I’d ever hear an expression like that used in Bracketts! In the house of the man who wrote these words:

“Oh, spare me the fate of the pen-pushing man

In the comfortless gloom of his office,

Where there’s never a blot and it’s all spick-and-span,

And he never spills mid-morning coffees.

But grant me instead my own mess of a desk

With my books and my letters and clutter,

Where the tea has been spilt and the filing’s grotesque,

And the drawers may contain bread and butter.

And let me thank God that I don’t have to be

Like that miserable office-bound blighter.

I’m disorganized, messy, untidy – and free!

Thank God for the life of a writer!’”

Again it was cheap rhetoric. And again it worked. The quotation from one of Esmond Chadleigh’s most famous light verses brought an instinctive round of applause from the Trustees’ Meeting. They had been won round by someone who was no longer even a Trustee.

As the clapping died, Belinda Chadleigh smiled at no one in particular and said, ‘I like that poem.’