On Duke Street she realised she was being followed. A man carrying a briefcase fell into step behind her. She could hear the segs on the heels of his shoes clicking on the paving stones, his pace disconcertingly out of time with her own. She crossed the road, making for North Street, and hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder. The man was wearing a dark woollen coat with the collar turned up and a bowler hat. The outfit was respectable enough. Near the corner she loitered, peering into the window of a ladies’ outfitter and hoping he’d pass. He did not. In fact, the fellow headed straight towards her without hesitation. Mirabelle stiffened. She wished she was carrying an umbrella – that was the ideal everyday weapon for seeing off an assailant. Instead she concealed the office keys in her clenched fist in case she had to strike and run. She took a deep breath. She could probably wind him for long enough to get away.
The man tipped his hat and smiled. ‘Excuse me, but are you Miss Bevan? Miss Mirabelle Bevan?’ he asked.
His voice was educated, cultured even. Mirabelle relaxed a little, though she kept the hidden keys turned out from her palm. Up and down the street she could see no one else. She examined the fellow in front of her. He was of slight build and sported a moustache. His neck was muffled by a dark scarf and he seemed somehow rather keen. She wished someone else was nearby. Further down the street, the door of a pub opened letting out almost no light at all. A fellow with a shabby jacket pulled round him lumbered into the street and turned in the opposite direction without even looking towards her.
‘Yes. I’m Mirabelle Bevan.’
‘I don’t mean to alarm you,’ said the man. ‘I intended to reach Brighton before closing time but my train was delayed. There’s a good deal of snow further north. I was going to call in to your office. I knew it would be closed by now, of course, but I thought I might as well have a look. Get my bearings and such. Then I saw you leaving . . .’
He didn’t look like a prospective client. McGuigan & McGuigan specialised in chasing outstanding rents, money that had been loaned and reneged upon, and unpaid bills run up in boarding houses and other Brighton establishments. Occasionally, Mirabelle and her colleagues branched into more interesting cases. But not by commission.
‘We’ll be open again at nine sharp,’ said Mirabelle. Business was business.
‘Yes, I see. It’s only that I’m not really here about the collection of a debt, Miss Bevan. It’s more a personal matter.’
‘You’ve had a wasted journey, then. We don’t take that kind of case, I’m afraid.’
The man nodded. ‘That kind of case’ meant evidence for use in the divorce courts. ‘No, quite. But I don’t mean personal to me. I mean personal to you, Miss Bevan. My name is John Lovatt. I’m a solicitor.’ He held out his gloved hand.
Mirabelle pocketed the keys and shook it, her hazel eyes unwavering.
Mr Lovatt continued. ‘The thing is, hmmm, I didn’t want to tell you this way, here in the street, but, well, here we are. You’ve been mentioned in a will. You’ve been left a rather unusual bequest, in fact. Is there somewhere we might go to talk?’
England Expects Page 27