Brighton Belle Page 22

  They were just about to move when a car careered off the main road and, with screeching wheels, turned into the quay. Mirabelle squinted to see who was in the driving seat as the vehicle skidded to a halt beside her. She almost burst into tears as Vesta tumbled out of the passenger seat. ‘Oh, thank God!’ Vesta barked. ‘We found you! Is that Lisabetta you have there? That’s a great disguise.’

  ‘Not quite. And where the hell is McGregor?’

  ‘McGregor?’ Vesta asked. ‘How would I know? The desk sergeant rang and gave me your message. Well, I knew something was up. I mean, what would you want to go to Portsmouth for? This is Mr Stewart – I knew he was getting delivery of his Ford this morning and, well, he’s been such a sport. So we followed you. They remembered you at the train station, of course – called you an “elegant lady” as a matter of fact.’

  Mr Stewart, a burly man in his forties, emerged from the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  ‘Are you ex-forces?’ Mirabelle had never felt so grateful in her life.

  ‘Air Corps. Want me to take that gun?’

  Mirabelle felt a sudden wave of nausea overcome her. ‘Yes, please. And we need some police officers. I really don’t feel well.’

  ‘You don’t eat enough,’ Vesta lectured. ‘I bet you ain’t eaten anything at all today.’

  ‘Oh, Vesta, stop fussing!’ Mirabelle heard herself say. She felt woozy. ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting the revolver into Mr Stewart’s hands. ‘Watch Mrs Velazquez.’

  And the next thing she knew everything went black and she passed out on the cobbles.

  When Mirabelle woke up, the boy’s sodden body was laid out on the quayside and the police had arrived. The old lady was crying. Inconsolable, her hands were cuffed and soggy make-up was dripping off her chin. As she passed, she threw Mirabelle a look of sheer hatred. Mirabelle could hardly blame her.

  ‘Well done, Miss Bevan,’ a man in uniform said as he passed her a cup of tea, ‘that was a pretty plucky show.’

  But Mirabelle felt like crying. She wasn’t proud of what had happened – she’d never wanted to kill anyone but there simply hadn’t been a choice.

  ‘I’m sorry’ she said to Mrs Velazquez , ‘but he was trying to get away.’

  The woman looked away, eyes burning.

  Mirabelle turned back to the policeman. ‘There’s a body somewhere – she killed a woman in Brighton this morning sometime. Brighton police are looking for the woman but they don’t know she’s dead, if you see what I mean. Her name is Lisabetta.’

  ‘We’ll look into it, Miss Bevan.’

  ‘Come on, Mirabelle.’ Vesta took her arm. ‘We better get you home. The officers here can finish everything. Those foreign cops – the ICPC fellows – are coming over. Remember?’

  Mirabelle raised her head. ‘Right. That’s good. It’s just such a mess. It’s a horrible mess. Thanks for coming to get me, Vesta.’ It felt good to have someone to lean on.

  ‘Sure thing.’ Vesta smiled proudly, looking more mature than usual. ‘It was my responsibility and I couldn’t shirk that now, could I?’

  31

  Widow: the word consumes itself.

  The trees outside the morgue were in blossom and fallen petals clumped together over the ground around the entrance, held together with mud and drizzle. Dressed in black, Mirabelle looked composed. She took a deep breath as the sergeant opened the door for her to go in. It smelled, unsurprisingly, of antiseptic. The sergeant signed the paperwork and motioned her through.

  On a trolley, under a bare lightbulb, Lisabetta looked tiny – like a broken china doll. Her glassy eyes were bloodshot. Her carefully painted fingernails were broken where she had tried to fight off the Candlemaker’s wife. She seemed older, somehow, now she was still.

  ‘Yes, it’s her.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea of a last name?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No one does. Where did you find her?’

  ‘Station Hotel,’ the sergeant said. ‘In her room.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  He lifted the sheet to expose a gunshot wound to Lisabetta’s chest. ‘Pathologist reckons the shot took her by surprise. She was fighting someone off but she didn’t know there was a gun. She was booked in as a Mrs Lawson.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mirabelle said faintly. ‘Do Not Disturb.’

  ‘And the old lady confessed the crime to you?’

  ‘Yes, she did. Hasn’t she said so?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘Hasn’t said a word. She’s a tough old bird.’

  ‘That’s the competition for you,’ Mirabelle said, and she smiled. If Jack was anywhere, he’d be with her now. And he always called them the competition. The Jerries.

  ‘Come on,’ the sergeant motioned her away. ‘The Super said to drop you over at the Sacred Heart.’

  McGregor stood in the rain over the grave. The team had erected a tent before they started digging and Father Grogan had blessed them. Now they had almost excavated the whole thing, a shade off six feet down. It wouldn’t be much longer. Mirabelle stood to one side, dabbing her tears with a handkerchief. As the spade hit the coffin lid she flinched visibly and McGregor went to her side. Her skin looked very pale but he couldn’t be sure if it was the effect of wearing such a dark colour or if she had blanched. In a way, he thought, whatever it was, the colour suited her. It highlighted the warm hazel tone of her eyes.

  Are you going to be all right, Miss Bevan?’ he whispered.

  Mirabelle nodded silently. It was best not to faint, of course, though with the visit to the morgue and now this, it was turning out to be a challenging day. She took a few deep breaths. She had wanted to be here – had insisted, in fact – and she mustn’t make a fuss.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Honestly.’

  The first of the team jumped down into the hole, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief before opening the coffin. McGregor moved forward to get a better view. ‘It’s him, all right,’ he said as Father Grogan sprinkled some holy water into the grave.

  It was set to be a long week of funerals. Crichton’s body had washed up near Bournemouth, identified initially by the very expensive and distinctive driving gloves he had been wearing, of which, the housemaid said, he had been extremely fond. His face had been bashed on the rocks until it was almost unrecognisable. Lisabetta’s body would be released for burial now she had been formally identified.

  Mirabelle had surprised herself – she wanted to attend all the funerals. ‘Just to be sure, I suppose,’ she’d said.

  ‘You’ve been very brave,’ McGregor said kindly. ‘A rock, quite astonishing.’

  Mirabelle breathed deeply. Being here in the churchyard felt like the most difficult thing she had had to do in a long time. She wasn’t sure if the memorial mass that was planned for Sandor the following day would make things better or worse but, one thing was certain, she’d rather face down Mrs Velazquez again than have to attend any of the formal services that were planned. She didn’t think she could cry any more than she had over the last few days. The loss she felt was profound and the sense of her own responsibility worse.

  ‘I wish ...’ The rest of the sentence disappeared from her mind as a woman with a bunch of daffodils in her hand came out of the side door of the church and walked along the main path through the graveyard.

  McGregor met her, barring the way.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m afraid there’s police business here. The churchyard is out of bounds.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, staring, Mirabelle noticed, directly into his eyes, ‘I didn’t mean to pry ...’ She paused, waiting for him to introduce himself.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Alan McGregor,’ he said, right on queue.

  The woman smiled. She was neatly dressed and wearing immaculate make-up.

  ‘I come every Tuesday at this time, Mr McGregor. Father Grogan will vouch for me. I’m Mary Duggan. My husband is buried over there. I only want to leave the flowers on his grave. Yellow, you k
now, was his favourite colour.’

  Mirabelle shook her head. Jack’s favourite colour was red, the colour of blood. McGregor she noticed, however, seemed entranced by the widow. There was something quite pretty, even vulnerable, about her as she stared up at him with her wide blue eyes.

  ‘If you don’t mind my accompanying you, I’m sure it will be fine to leave the flowers, Mrs Duggan.’

  ‘Please, call me Mary. Jack was in the detective force, in a way, during the war. He worked in Whitehall. I never really found out exactly what he did but you people do such a wonderful job. It’s so terribly lonely without him.’

  Mirabelle couldn’t believe the woman was peddling that line. Jack had hardly seen his wife for the last ten years of his marriage – they had, by mutual arrangement, kept separate households. Mary had been utterly uninterested in what Jack was doing – not that he could have told her about it, anyway – and only seemed concerned about the latest round of cocktail parties and spending the money he earned. If it hadn’t been for the twins they would never have seen each other at all. The idea that Mrs Duggan missed her husband seemed very unlikely.

  But McGregor had fallen into step with Jack’s widow who picked her way delicately along the path, her black patent stilettos sparkling in the grey light. At the grave Mirabelle heard the woman giggling at something he said. ‘You must call on me, Detective Superintendent. I make a wonderful venison stew – it’s a recipe that my mother handed on. She was a Forbes, you know, very Scottish, very proper. From Nairn. It would be delightful to have a man to cook for again, I must say. Will you come on Friday?’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you, Ma’am ... Mary’ he corrected himself.

  Mirabelle felt her colour heighten. At least, she thought, she didn’t feel like fainting any longer – more like kicking Mrs Duggan and her bloody daffodils right out of the bloody churchyard and back home to her bloody venison stew. People were such a sham, sometimes. What was she doing here, flirting and giggling, while Ben was being taken out of the ground? McGregor should have known better.

  The men had heaved up the coffin and manoeuvred it onto the pathway before filling in the hole. It had been decided not to use the burial plot for anyone else – it would remain vacant for all time. Who, after all, would want to be buried in a spot with such a chequered history? Perhaps they would erect a memorial but all that was for later. Ben’s box landed on the gravel with a bump and the men turned immediately to shovel in the soil and close the hole.

  Mirabelle heard the familiar click of Vesta’s heels on the path behind her and turned to see her friend clutching a huge magenta umbrella, almost falling as it was caught by a gust of wind.

  ‘Spring storms, Mirabelle. Sorry I’m late. You holding up?’

  Mirabelle nodded and looped her arm through Vesta’s slightly damp raincoat.

  ‘This came in.’ Vesta pulled an envelope from her pocket. ‘It’s the payment from the solicitor. Bert Jennings’ money for Romana Laszlo’s death. No one told them! After all that!’

  Mirabelle smiled sadly. She crumpled the envelope and flung it into the grave where it was covered immediately by a clod of damp earth.

  Vesta looked down into the hole. ‘Yes, you’re right, I guess.’

  At the other side of the graveyard McGregor walked Mrs Duggan to the gate and held it open for her, chatting pleasantly.

  ‘There’s another reason I’m late,’ Vesta admitted. ‘Mr Halley’s back. Never seen him so furious. I made him tea and toast but it didn’t calm him down one bit. I think I’m out of a job.’

  Mirabelle shifted her gaze from the flirtatious conversation that was clearly underway on the other side of the churchyard – details over timings for Friday night and if the detective superintendent preferred a martini or a sidecar before dinner, no doubt.

  ‘You got fired?’ she said.

  Vesta shrugged. ‘I hated insurance, anyway. I’m not sure how I’ll ever get back to normal life, really. After all this, I mean, I hardly feel like anything normal. I was listening to The Archers on the radio last night and all I could think was why doesn’t anything interesting happen? I can’t believe they cancelled Dick Barton. I loved that show.’

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘Normal life. What is that?’

  ‘The thing is, I was wondering ... you know, if you might be interested ...’ Vesta continued.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mirabelle cut in, ‘I was wondering about that, too. Do you think we could keep Ben’s name on the door?’

  ‘It’s only fitting. And we could be partners? I mean, I’d be a junior partner, obviously. Because you, well, you’re just amazing.’

  ‘Sixty-forty’ Mirabelle held out her hand.

  Vesta shook it. ‘But next time I’ll be damned if we have so many bodies. That’s all I have to say.’

  ‘We’re going into debt collection, Vesta. I worked for Ben for eighteen months and not one single person turned up dead.’

  ‘Debt collection and investigation then,’ Vesta insisted. ‘We got skills.’

  ‘Well,’ Mirabelle smiled, ‘you certainly proved that you’ve got potential. That’s for sure.’

  The hole was half-full now and the coffin had been removed in an unmarked hearse. The police insisted on performing an autopsy before Ben could be reburied. It was a procedure that Mirabelle had felt was quite unnecessary, but the law was the law.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ she said.

  ‘Come on,’ Vesta took her arm. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  It took ten minutes to make it back to the Lawns. Vesta had decided she would have to throw away her shoes – they were squelching in a most unattractive fashion and the sole had come away. ‘Well, at least we won’t have to deal with that idiotic policeman any more.’

  ‘Absolutely We won’t. Ever again.’ Mirabelle trotted smartly up the stairs, drawing the key from her pocket. Vesta grinned. There was a gold sovereign hanging from the fob, swinging from side to side. A drop of rain ran down the face and dripped off, making it look even shinier.

  ‘Mirabelle! How could you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Vesta. I think we’re due a little memento, don’t you? I had one made for you, too. Lucky pennies. Now, do I take it that you might be ready for a spot of lunch?’

  Author’s note

  The quotes in the chapter headings are taken from a variety of sources and some have been deliberately misquoted to fit in with the text. Apologies to those abused in this fashion, who include: Bertrand Russell, Thomas Foran, Victor Hugo, Sun Tzu, Winston Churchill, Immanuel Kant, Raymond Chandler, Napoleon Bonaparte, S.J. Perelman, Machiavelli, Norman Sherry, Robert Bourassa, José Bergamin, Roger Kahn, Commander R.T. Bower, George Bernard Shaw, Lord Byron, Clement Atlee, Sophocles, Mark Twain, Alexander the Great, Adolf Hitler, Sylvia Plath and extracts from various SOE operations manuals.

  Questions for readers’ groups

  1. Is it history if it’s in living memory?

  2. Was rationing good for the country?

  3. We don’t know a huge amount about Lisabetta – what do you think happened to her during and just after the war?

  4. At what point, if any, is it right to stop hunting war criminals?

  5. Did advances in forensics put an end to the amateur detective?

  6. Is Mirabelle Bevan ‘curiously British’?

  7. How did the post-war landscape differ in 1918 and 1945?

  8. Without the 1950s, could we have had the social changes of the 1960s?

  9. Would you have let Delia go?

  10. How different is the racism Vesta encounters to the racism she would encounter in British society today?

  11. What is the fascination of a female detective? What can they bring to the genre?

  12. How does historical crime fiction differ from contemporary crime fiction?

 

 

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