long experience, the Trustees all ignored the old lady’s interpolations. ‘Any reasons given for the refusal?’ asked Lord Beniston.
‘They didn’t reckon the Bracketts project offered enough “ethnic diversity and community access”.’
‘Of course not,’ Graham Chadleigh-Bewes agreed bitterly. ‘And no doubt all their literature budget has been paid out to one-legged black lesbian story-tellers.’
Gibes of that sort about British arts funding’s predilection for minority groups were so hackneyed that his words, like his aunt’s, prompted no reaction at all amongst the Trustees.
‘Any other grant applications out at the moment?’
Gina shrugged. ‘Trying a few private trusts, as ever, but I wouldn’t give a lot for our chances. That kind of money may be available for big projects, new buildings and so on – not for the kind of continuing financial support we need here at Bracketts.’
This prompted a response from a short man whose curly hair and pepper-and-salt beard were a reminder of those Victorian pictures which still look like a face whichever way up they’re held. ‘Surely our plans for the Esmond Chadleigh Museum qualify as a big project – and as a new building, come to that?’
Carole had been introduced to him at the previous meeting. George Ferris, former Assistant County Librarian. In his retirement, he had become involved in a variety of literature-related projects, including writing a book with the catchy title, How To Get The Best From The Facilities Of The County Records Office, of which he was inordinately proud. George Ferris had been asked to become a Trustee of Bracketts on the assumption that he would bring some literary know-how to the group. On the evidence Carole had seen so far, all he had brought was a nit-picking literalness.
This mention of the Esmond Chadleigh Museum wrought a change in the Board of Trustees. There was a soft rumble of recognition and anticipation. Members shifted in their chairs or straightened agendas. The proposed Museum was a thorny issue, and one which the meeting could not avoid discussing. Though architectural plans had been drawn up and work started on clearing 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
