‘See you later,’ he said and the door banged airily as he left.
Mirabelle sank into her chair, her hand resting on her stomach. When she looked down a McGuigan & McGuigan card was still in her hand. She wouldn’t be in this position if she wasn’t such an investigator. Her face crumpled. She shoved it into her pocket as she scrambled for a handkerchief. But she didn’t have a handkerchief. It was all still at the hotel.
Making up for several days of being at work at least an hour before McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery opened its doors, Vesta didn’t arrive at the office until well after half past nine. Bill Turpin had strolled in on the dot, by which time Mirabelle was muddling through the papers on her desk. As Vesta finally burst through the door, Bill looked up and mumbled his good mornings. For an ex-policeman he was not terribly observant and had not remarked that, having removed the apron, Mirabelle was wearing an ill-fitting black shift – a colour she associated with mourning and therefore rarely sported unless she was due to attend a funeral. Neither had he noted that she was wearing a pair of flat shoes.
Vesta was a different matter. She removed her coat, laid her newspaper on the desk and just stared.
‘I need your help,’ Mirabelle said.
The girl grinned. ‘I’ll say.’
Mirabelle held up the apron, which she had secreted behind her chair. ‘Long story,’ she said.
Bill scraped his seat along the floor and got to his feet. ‘I’ll leave you ladies to it, shall I?’ There was a plethora of subjects which Bill considered ‘women’s business’. He avoided them assiduously and this had the feel of being one. He lifted his papers and called his dog, Panther, to heel.
‘Well?’ Vesta demanded after the door had closed behind him.
‘My clothes are on the service floor of the Grand Hotel. In a changing room used by female staff. I need to get them back.’ This wasn’t the main thing on Mirabelle’s mind, but it seemed a practical place to start.
Vesta grinned. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I assumed you’d swapped clothes with a nun.’
‘Chambermaid,’ Mirabelle said flatly. ‘But not so much swapped, as, well, stole. I left my handbag – keys, money, the lot.’
A wry expression played on Vesta’s lips. ‘Well,’ she said.
‘It’s not the clothes that are most important.’ Mirabelle tried to ignore the fact that Vesta was clearly enjoying this. ‘I think I’m on to something. I’ve made a connection between Billy Randall and the countess.’
‘The countess?’
‘The Russian woman. Staying at the Grand. The one you picked out in that magazine. She’s here, in Brighton.’
Vesta’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes. I saw.’
‘Billy Randall had her card. Or at least, a card with her telephone number on it. Her number in London. I picked his pocket. She’s been running some kind of casino in her hotel suite. I think perhaps she does the same thing in town – twice a week. She must be making a fortune.’
Vesta leaned against her desk. ‘I see,’ she said, though her expression was quizzical. ‘She’s been complaining. About the food at the Grand. About everything.’
Mirabelle nodded. ‘That sounds like her. I followed Billy to London. It turns out he was there on Saturday night and on Sunday. That’s why he didn’t come home. Whatever he was up to he didn’t want to tell his wife about it, which is why he came up with the lie about working overtime.’
‘Poor Vi,’ Vesta mouthed.
‘I challenged him, but he wouldn’t come clean. He got quite agitated.’
‘Was he gambling, do you think?’
‘I wondered that. The thing is, he has nothing to gamble with. Not at this level. These games are well beyond the reach of the Randalls. Though I suppose he might be gaming somewhere else. It’s not as if they couldn’t use a big win.’ Both women paused, remembering the worn carpet that Vi Randall had paced when they first questioned her about Helen Quinn’s murder. ‘Besides,’ Mirabelle continued, ‘he brought home enough money to buy a pram. It’s hardly a good night at the tables.’
‘Muscle?’ Vesta hazarded doubtfully.
Mirabelle’s nose crinkled with dubiety. ‘He doesn’t seem the type – not really. He tried to threaten me, but I could hardly take him seriously. There’s a game in London tonight. At least I think there is. It’s Saturdays and Tuesdays. I rang the number on the card.’
Vesta turned over her newspaper thoughtfully. ‘And how does this tie in with the murder of Helen Quinn?’
‘I have no idea. I accused Billy Randall of killing her and he denied it. He doesn’t have any motive that I can figure out, but there’s a connection. He definitely knows something.’
Vesta reached for her coat. ‘We better get your clothes back,’ she said.
It was easy enough to have someone fetch Charlie. Lunch service was nowhere near started. He appeared in the doorway at the rear of the hotel, his kitchen whites luminous as he cracked a ‘Hey, baby,’ in the direction of his wife.
‘Congratulations.’ Mirabelle shook his hand.
Vesta blushed. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ she said. ‘Look, Charlie, we need help. Mirabelle’s left her clothes inside.’
‘Inside?’
‘In the hotel. She stayed here last night.’
Charlie’s face lit up. ‘Mirabelle,’ he teased. ‘Really?’
‘Oh stop it! She was on a case.’ Vesta defended Mirabelle’s honour. ‘Can you get us into the women’s changing room? The one for the staff?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Both of you? I mean, we don’t give guided tours, but I could probably take one of you in if the coast was clear . . .’
Vesta raised her eyebrows. ‘Want to toss for it?’
‘You go. Charlie might be bringing you into the kitchen for another reason. And, besides, I don’t want to bump into the manager I met this morning. I left my clothes to the right-hand side. My handbag is hidden under the skirt.’
Vesta held up her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find everything. Your stuff is going to stick out – most waitresses don’t have your style.’
‘Did Vesta tell you the news?’ Charlie lingered on the doorstep, as he shooed his wife ahead.
‘About the baby? Yes. It’s wonderful.’
‘No. About the High Court. We ain’t got no more racial segregation in the States. Not on buses.’
Mirabelle recalled Vesta toying with the newspaper that morning. She normally brought in the Picture Post. She should have realised something had happened, but then she’d been preoccupied. ‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ she said.
‘Charlie’s cock-a-hoop,’ Vesta cut in.
As the door banged behind the young couple, Mirabelle realised they had had a conversation to which she hadn’t been privy. Charlie had asked Vesta what she thought about moving to the States. Vesta had always said that the Americans treated the blacks worse than anywhere in Europe, let alone in England. But now, with this decision, Mirabelle wondered if things might be changing. She backed off, loitering out of the way by the rubbish bins. She’d hate to do without Vesta, but then she’d never want to hold her back. That was the trouble, you couldn’t replace people. The truth was, you were always alone, or, at least, it seemed she was.
Shuddering at the thought, Mirabelle considered moving into a small square of bright sunlight on the other side of the byway. She was about to do so when a car appeared at the end of the run. It drew up slowly at the door. Mirabelle stepped backwards, skulking round the side of the bin. She didn’t want anyone to see her. Then her eyes widened as the man who had been on duty in the countess’s suite the night before got out and lit a cigarette. He stepped into the sunny spot Mirabelle had considered. Then he exhaled, checking his watch. He must have been on time, because he had no sooner finished this manoeuvre than the service door opened and Billy Randall stepped on to the tarmac, accompanied by another man Mirabelle had never seen before.
‘All right?’ the man enquired of the driver.
‘Did she giv
e you a bollocking? You’re trying her patience, son.’
Billy Randall looked almost tearful. Next to these men, his frame seemed particularly slight.
‘Aww. Don’t make the baby cry,’ the man teased. ‘You want to be thankful you’re gold dust. Or you’d be gone by now. Long gone.’
Billy looked as if he was about to say something, but then he spotted Mirabelle. He stared right at her. Mirabelle’s heart pounded, but Billy didn’t give her away. It was confusing. She’d assumed he was on the other side, but then these things could be complicated. She smiled. Then one man pushed him into the back seat of the car and the other man got into the driver’s seat. The engine fired and the car backed down the lane. Mirabelle had to make a split second decision, but then what else could she do? Leaving Vesta to pick up her worldly possessions, she ran after the car as it disappeared around the corner. At the front of the hotel, there were two taxicabs. She ducked into one of them.
‘Are you from Hove Cars?’
‘Yes, love,’ the driver turned in his seat.
‘I don’t have a penny, but I can see to it that you get paid later. My name is Mirabelle Bevan. I’m on the trail of Helen Quinn’s killer and I need you to follow that car.’ She pointed at the motor, which was receding westwards along the front.
The driver hesitated then switched on the ignition. ‘Right,’ he said.
‘Try to hang back,’ Mirabelle instructed. ‘Don’t let them see you.’
The car turned up First Avenue and the taxi followed discreetly.
‘Is the murderer in there?’ the driver asked, as he indicated.
‘I don’t know. But the men in that car know who did it.’
‘Mrs Quinn was a nice woman.’
‘I know.’
As the car drove north, Mirabelle sat on the edge of her seat, clinging to the leather strap above the window. She was familiar with the area they were passing through. These streets were not far from her flat on the Lawns. As the journey continued, the houses were set back further from the road. They became more spread out and the gardens surrounding them greener. When the car turned into a driveway, the taxi driver pulled up on the street. Mirabelle took in the vista of one of Brighton’s most expensive addresses. What were the men doing here? Billy Randall wasn’t a tough guy or a high roller. What did he have that brought him to the Grand and then here of all places? When the man said he was gold dust – what did he mean?
‘Want me to drive in, miss?’
‘No.’
The house had wrought-iron gates. The building was partially obscured by trees, though Mirabelle could make out a turning circle and a couple of rose beds at the top of the drive. She reached for the door handle.
‘If you contact Superintendent McGregor at Bartholomew Square, he’ll pay you,’ she said.
The driver shrugged. ‘I can wait if you want.’
Mirabelle considered it. This is what drivers did for the women who lived on Tongdean Avenue. ‘No,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll be fine.’
It took only a moment or two for Mirabelle to disappear through the gate and up the drive. The house was impressive. She guessed it was Victorian – a sprawling brick edifice with a small tower built on to one gable. The car had parked to one side of the front door. Mirabelle kept out of the way, slipping up the right-hand side of the drive and using the planting to shield herself. That was one advantage of wearing black, she mused. It was great camouflage. At the top of the drive, she peered through a window. Inside, a grand room was only partially furnished. Two men on ladders were painting the cornice. Mirabelle continued around the perimeter. There was a dining room and, to the side, some kind of pantry, a laundry, a lavatory and a service entrance. Around the next corner, the extent of the grounds became clear as the grass stretched towards a tennis court and a small cottage hidden by a bank of trees, which, she supposed, must have been built to accommodate a senior member of staff. Turning back to the main house, she noted the rear windows opened on to a large kitchen and, beyond that, a conservatory and some kind of public room – a sitting room, perhaps. Mirabelle made her way towards this when the startling sound of someone knocking on a window halted her in her tracks. On the other side of the glass, a plump, older woman gesticulated towards the back door. Mirabelle froze. The woman disappeared and then the door opened.
‘You’re meant to come to the side,’ she scolded loudly. ‘And you’re late.’ Without waiting for a reply, she stepped back to let Mirabelle enter. There didn’t seem a lot of options and, besides, Mirabelle wanted to see inside. ‘There’s a power of work to do,’ the woman continued. ‘I’m Cook. What’s your name?’
‘Mary,’ Mirabelle said, as if by rote. It had worked at the Grand, and here too, the cook didn’t question it.
‘I don’t know.’ The woman turned back into the kitchen, casting an eye over a pot that was bubbling on the stove. ‘The painting isn’t even finished in some of the rooms. There’s three workmen still full time and her ladyship decides to throw a party. She’s sick of the hotel, she said. We’re nowhere near ready.’
‘A party? Tonight?’
The older woman nodded and rolled her eyes to confirm this ridiculous idea. ‘The furniture isn’t even all delivered. They got the billiard table in, but there’s nowhere near enough chairs. Empty bedrooms. You name it.’
‘It’s a lovely house,’ Mirabelle observed.
Cook looked bemused at this comment. ‘It’ll take some keeping – these old places. Where did you work before?’
‘Belgravia.’ Mirabelle found the lie tripping off her tongue.
‘Well, it’s different in Brighton. It’s not the big city. First off, you’ll need to make up her ladyship’s room. She may want to use it.’
‘Her bedroom?’
‘She’s staying in the hotel just now, poor soul, but at least she can use it to powder her nose.’
Mirabelle found herself unable to pity the countess her three-room penthouse at the Grand.
Cook continued. ‘She’s bound to need somewhere to retire. Seventy guests. No dinner, mind you. Thank the Lord. Well. Get on with it then. First floor. It’s pale blue and gold. You’ll find linen in the cupboard at the top of the stairs.’
Chapter 25
When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers
Beyond the kitchen, the house smelled of fresh paint and cigarettes. It was enormous. It reminded Mirabelle of a smaller version of Brighton Pavilion, where she had tracked down a murderer only a few years before. Then the Pavilion had been in disrepair whereas here the countess’s house was light and, although not completed, seemed in good order. Crystal chandeliers with cameos set into the frames were hoisted over thick carpets and the rooms were mostly decorated, downstairs, at least. There was hand-painted red wallpaper of a Chinese design in the dining room and then, further along, a games room with the billiards table Cook had mentioned. It might be smaller than the Pavilion, but the place was better appointed. It felt very private – close the door on one of these rooms and you could get up to whatever you wanted.
Mirabelle was considering this when she found herself distracted by the sound of men laughing and, checking over her shoulder, she decided to investigate, setting off past the billiards table. Loitering in the doorway of the room that led off it, she noted half a dozen card tables had been set up and, at one end, a roulette wheel. The room itself, however, was deserted. Then the laughter sounded once more – this time from a room off that. The door was ajar and Mirabelle approached with caution and glanced inside. The anteroom was smaller – only one table had been set up inside. Leaning against the wall, the driver she’d seen at the Grand smoked a cigarette, while round the table Billy Randall was holding court. He looked as if he belonged there. In front of him, three young men were observing carefully as Billy dealt cards.
‘You think this is a face card,’ he said, turning one over with an elegant flick. ‘But it’s a two. And this is the three. And here is the four.’
<
br /> The sound of young men being impressed emanated, as Billy casually worked the pack, naming each card before he turned it over.
‘Are you dealing from the bottom, Mr Randall?’ one of the boys asked.
Billy laughed. ‘Fool’s game. You’d spot that.’ He continued to turn the cards effortlessly on to the surface in front of him. So this was what he could do for the countess. This was why the Randalls had left London. This was what Vi meant when she said Billy was good with numbers. This was worth a fortune.
Mirabelle shifted in the doorway, as she realised the possibilities. Spotting her movement, the driver looked up. He swung back the door and glared.
‘Sir,’ she said, bobbing a curtsey. ‘I came to see if you might like tea?’
Billy looked alarmed. He stopped dealing.
‘Tea?’ The driver’s tone made it clear that tea would be unnecessary. ‘We’re busy in here, love.’
‘Yes, sir. Cards.’
‘Play a little, do you?’
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Not even canasta? You must like a flutter now and then. Come on. Take a seat. Let Billy deal for you.’
‘Leave her alone, Roberts,’ Billy objected, but the man was not to be put off. He took Mirabelle’s arm and pulled her into the room. The young men shuffled to make space. ‘She’s a punter, Billy. A green one. Go on. You show them how it’s done. You don’t mind, love, do you?’
Mirabelle sat at the table. Billy motioned one of the men to take a place opposite her. ‘Five card poker,’ he announced. ‘Might as well start at the beginning. Now, we want the punters to gain confidence. Nobody plays cards to lose, do they?’
There was a general murmur of assent.
‘So let’s say they get half a dozen decent hands just playing straight. They might win, they might lose. If they’re losing too much you give them a nudge, so they win. We want them to win, see. At first. The stakes are never less than ten guineas here and, on the private tables, higher, so on a table like this, this lady might have won fifty guineas before I’d step in. Some nights, a hundred.’
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