‘You know the papers haven’t said that Rose was hurt? They just say she’s missing.’
‘Stands to reason, though, dunnit? That girl’s most likely done for. Face it.’
‘Yeah,’ the younger girl chipped in. ‘I mean, what else could it be? She’s out in a club, goes missing and doesn’t turn up for, well, it’s been a whole day now. Her mama and papa must be beside themselves. Them girls are like pearls, ain’t they? When did a deb ever go missing for a day, let alone overnight? She’s got to be hurt. Makes you shudder just thinking of it.’
Mirabelle nodded. The girl continued. ‘Well, there you go. And as soon as a darkie’s involved the Bill assume it’s him. Who knows, they might be right. Stranger things have happened, ain’t they? Maybe he was different from what he seemed. Maybe he had a brainstorm and went mad. Just ’cause we ain’t seen his temper don’t mean he ain’t got one.’
‘Nah.’ The other girls shook their heads.
‘Well, I want to find out,’ Mirabelle said firmly. ‘I want to find out what happened to the girl, of course, and I want to make sure they don’t fit Lindon up for it. I’m just not sure how to track things down. I’ll get there but I’m not sure yet.’
‘But the Bill got him, don’t they? I mean they must know what’s happened. Why’d they be out looking in the first place if something hadn’t happened? It’ll all come out.’
‘The thing is, the police don’t always think enough,’ Mirabelle said. ‘They don’t see through things.’ The girls nodded in agreement, as if this was a sage point that they had previously never considered.
‘And another thing,’ the older girl leaned in conspiratorially, ‘it happened fast. I’ll say that for them. I mean, how long does someone have to go missing before the Bill get involved? Longer than an hour, usually. Jesus, when Mary Grady got knifed in Peckham they took more time than that to turn up. No, something’s happened. They just ain’t saying what.’
It didn’t take long for the tea to run out and the biscuits to be finished.
‘I might try Feldman’s, after all,’ said Mirabelle.
*
The girls insisted on donating powder and thick red lipstick to help a reluctant Mirabelle paint her face.
‘I’m not sure I need this,’ Mirabelle tried.
‘You gotta look your best for Feldman’s,’ the girls insisted, and she let them apply the make-up. ‘You want to be turned out proper.’
When she checked in the mirror the transformation was marked and she had to admit that she looked a good deal more suitable for Soho at night. She seemed younger, she thought, like when Jack used to take her out.
‘You brush up nice. What you need is a frock, really. Evening wear.’
‘I didn’t bring anything to change into. It’s a good thing it’s dark,’ she said.
Outside it was getting colder and the smog hung in little clouds around the streetlights. Heartened by the conversation, Mirabelle cut down Rathbone Street and onto the main road. Feldman’s was only round the corner. Its entrance was less discreet than the club in Jermyn Street. It was definitely not the doorway to anything remotely underground or controversial. In fact, there was a red canopy with the club’s name scrawled in white script. A solid-looking bouncer was hovering outside.
‘Evening, Ma’am,’ he said solemnly as he opened the door. It cost twice as much as Jermyn Street to get in but Mirabelle didn’t quibble. The interior was more luxurious than anything she’d seen in a long time and the place was crowded. Red leather banquettes were fitted around one side of the stage and the walls were covered with shimmering black material. As well as the stage lighting there were tiny spotlights set into the ceiling. They glowed blue. On stage, six musicians in stiff -looking suits played a frenzied tune though they were, Mirabelle noted, less frenzied than the four barmen, two of whom seemed permanently employed in shaking cocktails and pouring them into chilled glasses set up in a row. Waiters buzzed efficiently around the tables.
Mirabelle pushed her way to the rear and found a high stool on which to perch. Couples had taken to the small dance floor and there were even some single girls dancing alone or twirling their friends.
Mirabelle decided to try a different tack. She flagged down a waiter. ‘Never been here before. My niece told me about it.’ She raised her voice over the music.
‘Yes, Ma’am. Can I get you something? A club cocktail perhaps?’
‘I wondered if you knew her. My niece. She’s the girl who’s missing. Rose. Rose Bellamy Gore.’
The waiter visibly twitched. ‘I think she used to come here sometimes. Eh, yes, I’m sure she did,’ he stammered.
‘We had no idea she liked this kind of thing, of course. Still, I can see the attraction. Rose loves music, and it certainly is lively. Do you know if she was in yesterday night? Were you on duty?’
‘No. She wasn’t here. I wasn’t working, but, well …’
‘Oh, I’m sure everybody knows about what happened. Everyone has been very kind. Sometimes one needs to find things out for oneself though. I’d like a whisky, please. Islay if you have it. Glenlivet if not. No ice.’
The waiter disappeared. At the end of the number the crowd clapped. A boy at one of the tables stood up and whistled. Then the band started again, this time a gentler number. Three couples stayed on the floor but most of the dancers returned to their tables. Mirabelle watched. A few minutes later a man in a dinner suit pushed his way through the crowd. He was bulky, but there was nothing soft about his body. Completely bald, he looked extraordinarily clean and in the low light his pale skin gleamed. ‘You are Mrs?’
‘Miss,’ Mirabelle insisted, ‘Miss Bellamy Gore.’
‘Can I help you in some way?’ he offered.
‘Do you work here?’ Mirabelle asked unnecessarily.
The man nodded abruptly. ‘We’re all very sorry about your niece. It’s a dreadful thing.’
‘I just felt the need to see what it was like.’ Mirabelle waved her hand airily. ‘It’s a different world. I can see why Rose was attracted to it. She’s still missing, you see, and I wanted to come and see for myself where she sneaked off to. Naturally we had no idea she enjoyed jazz music quite so much. To be frank, it’s nowhere near as, well, seedy as I expected.’
‘Feldman’s isn’t that kind of jazz club, Madam. Your niece didn’t go missing here.’
‘Oh yes. But she had been here, hadn’t she? By all accounts she’s a regular.’
The man bowed his head. Mirabelle noticed he was fiddling with something in his pocket. It was good he was nervous, she thought. It usually meant you were on the right track.
‘She is such a charming girl,’ she pushed on. ‘I’m terribly fond of her. And it’s a worry not knowing where she is. Or for that matter where she’d been.’
The man drew a little object from his pocket. His huge fingers moved across it, rubbing it almost desperately, like an old woman with a set of prayer beads. He clearly wanted her to leave but he didn’t know how to say it. This was the aunt of the missing girl, after all.
‘Oh, I say, is that a fumsup? Haven’t seen one of those for years,’ said Mirabelle, hoping to break the ice.
‘Yes. I’ve had it since the trenches. It’s been everywhere with me.’ He held out the tiny metal figurine.
‘Who gave it to you?’
The man flinched almost imperceptibly – no more than a blink. ‘My dad. It got him through the Great War. He said it’d see me through whatever the fighting threw my way.’
‘Well, I wish Rose had had one of those with her last night. Her father was at the Somme, you know. He served in the last war as well, though not cavalry of course – too old for that. And now this.’
The man looked around. Did he want to get away or was he simply checking to see if he was being observed? He was anxious, that m
uch was certain. Mirabelle stared wide-eyed and didn’t falter. ‘Are you a family man?’ she enunciated clearly over the music.
It took a moment or two for this to sink in. The man didn’t respond but he made a decision. ‘Come with me.’ He jerked his head towards the banquette seating. ‘We can talk in the back. It’ll be quieter.’
The door to the office was concealed next to the final row of seating. Behind it there was a brick-lined passage. Two spotlights were mounted on the ceiling. After the subdued lighting of the club Mirabelle’s eyes smarted in the brightness. The big man’s skin seemed too smooth, somehow, now she could see him properly. He reminded her of an overgrown baby. A big hard baby. He wore a heavy yellow-gold signet ring on his left pinkie finger and his suit was ill-fitting and stiffly starched. He had a very slight limp.
The music faded as they moved down the corridor. When they entered the office at the end and closed the door everything fell almost silent. Inside, it was utilitarian – two chairs, a black metal filing cabinet and a telephone on an otherwise bare desk. It reeked of stale alcohol, and away from the crowd and with no heating the air was chilly. The man directed Mirabelle to one of the chairs and pulled out a bottle of brandy from the desk drawer along with two tiny balloon glasses.
‘Would you like one?’
‘Thanks. I don’t know your name.’
‘You can call me Barney.’
Mirabelle’s heart skipped a beat. She smiled. Lindon had mentioned a Barney.
‘You were there, weren’t you, Barney? You saw Rose last night.’
Barney’s eyes narrowed as he took a second or two to process what Mirabelle said. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Were you working at Mac’s?’
He poured them two generous measures of brandy, finishing the bottle. ‘I hate it on the door at Mac’s,’ he said, ‘but sometimes needs must. I used to be handy with my fists, but these days any trouble breaks out I just block the way.’ He slapped his stomach. ‘I help out a few places.’
‘So you saw Rose?’
‘Yeah. I seen her before, of course. Your niece was an enthusiast, if you don’t mind my saying. She knew her stuff. Last night she got talking to Lindon Claremont the sax player when he came off. Mac’s ain’t a proper show. Just musicians playing. They start, they stop, different combinations and that. Jamming, they call it. Lindon and your girl was talking a long time. Thick as thieves. They had a dance. Then they left together. I’m sorry. It’s not something that a lady, such as yourself … The Bill got the lad though. They caught up with him in Brighton, I heard.’
‘So last night Rose left with Lindon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And they were alone? You saw them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But I thought she was at the club with a friend.’
‘She arrived with two of them – the fella I’d seen before but the girl I hadn’t. Anyway, your niece left with Lindon. Her friends weren’t too chuffed but she’d made up her mind. Wish I’d tried to stop her now.’
‘And neither of them came back later? Neither Rose nor Lindon? They didn’t return?’
‘No. I didn’t see either of them again. They hailed a cab outside. I don’t know where they went to.’
‘And her friends?’
‘Well, they tried to stop her but then they came back in. They was slow-dancing for a while. After that they left. We get them, you know, young kids from the upper end. Jazz is an adventure. They like the music and sometimes, if you don’t mind me saying so, Madam, they like the mix-up. You know, the black fellas. I don’t know about your niece. I don’t mean to be disrespectful.’
‘Barney, I simply want to know what happened. I’m not worried about any judgements. So the other two were dancing after Rose left?’
‘Yeah, they saw Rose out, then they stayed but not long. Things was winding up by then.’
‘And what time did Rose leave?’
Barney’s stare was even. He was humouring her but he didn’t like it. ‘Half three? Four? I don’t wear a watch, Miss Bellamy Gore, so it’s difficult to be exact. I told the police that, too. But it was late. After hours. Mac’s starts late and goes on till dawn easy, till the last player runs out of juice. See, audience turns up there but it ain’t really for the audience. Mac’s is for the players. It ain’t a show or nothing. Audience covers the cost of the booze, that’s all.’
Mirabelle downed her brandy. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I feel better knowing. Tell me, this Lindon chap, what do you know about him?’
Barney shifted in his seat. He pulled out a hip flask and topped up his drink, motioning to see if Mirabelle might want the same. She laid her hand on top of the glass. She’d had more than enough.
Barney took another sip. ‘The Bill got him, Miss. You don’t need to worry.’
‘I want to know about the young man. Please, Barney.’
‘He’s a sax player. A darkie. He’s young, I suppose. They’re all the same. There’s a lot of drink in these places, Miss, and other things, although I’m not suggesting that your niece liked any of that.’
‘Thank you. I suppose that is a relief,’ she said. ‘Had you ever known Lindon to take up with ladies before?’
Barney froze with his eyes so wide open they were like little pink circles. ‘I dunno. Begging your pardon, but not many men aren’t into the ladies. Especially a girl like your niece. The police got him, Miss, and that’s the main thing.’
‘Yes, but no one has found Rose, have they?’
This left the big man, Mirabelle noticed, looking quite bereft. He didn’t answer.
‘Had you known Lindon for long?’ Mirabelle persisted.
‘These guys come in. They play. They leave. I dunno much. He’s a good musician – not a genius or nothing. What they call a session musician.’
‘But had you ever seen him leave the club with a woman before?’
Barney thought for a moment. ‘Nah. Can’t say as I have.’
‘But you’d seen Rose in the past, hadn’t you? It wasn’t her first time out. I do wish I’d known.’
‘Yeah. I seen her before in lots of places. Miss, I got to ask you to leave now. I gotta get back.’ He downed his drink and scraped the chair across the floor as he got to his feet.
‘That’s all right, Barney. I appreciate your talking to me.’ They walked in silence down the corridor. The icy night air seeped in as Barney held open the backstage door.
When Mirabelle passed through, she turned and said, ‘I’d just like to check about the other two. Lavinia Blyth and her friend.’
‘The boy?’
‘Yes. They saw Rose out, you said.’
‘Yes.’
‘But they came back in again?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘How long did that take, Barney – all of them outside like that?’
‘A couple of minutes, I suppose.’
‘I see.’
‘Did you watch?’
‘I was on the door.’
‘Did you see it all?’
‘She gave Lindon her cigarette case.’
‘Outside?’
‘Yes.’ Barney pulled back and opened the door a little wider. Mirabelle decided she’d got enough out of him for now.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s a comfort, you know.’ She was aware of his eyes still on her as she made her way down Berniers Place into the foggy night.
When she was sure she could no longer be seen she slowed her pace. She needed to think. It was intriguing; there was no doubt about it. The story kept shifting. Somewhere in all the detail there must be a path to follow – the path of what actually happened – but identifying it would be difficult. Perhaps Lindon had left with Rose but she doubted that. Something was wrong. Mirabelle’s mind was b
uzzing as she ran over everything Barney had said, the words the girl had used about Lindon in the café and the tense air around the barman in the Jermyn Street jazz club. And the one thing they had all seemingly agreed on – Lindon hadn’t been in trouble before. He wasn’t a womaniser. He was a nice lad, a competent musician, gentle – too gentle – and a bit useless. Barney might be right about where Rose had handed over her gold case. Maybe they’d walked out together – all of them – but Lindon had definitely gone back inside. The gift of the cigarette case was surely a parting gift. You don’t give a man your cigarette case when you’re about to get into a taxi with him. It had been a grand gesture of farewell. Yes. That was a start. Poor Barney, Mirabelle mused, if he had any feathers they would be well and truly ruffled. She smiled as she imagined him as a huge fat bird, feathers on end. Who, if anyone, would he tell about her visit? Had he told them about her already? She checked her watch. It was well past midnight and the last train to Brighton was long departed. She was almost back at the park. There was nothing else for it. She’d have to stay in London overnight.
Chapter 8
Be careful going in search of adventure –
it’s ridiculously easy to find.
Breakfast in Duke’s Hotel was served in the Dining Room, which was reached by a series of passages that would have been impossible to navigate were it not for a succession of small signs on wooden stands. However, once you got there, Mirabelle thought, it was certainly worth the trip. You’d almost think rationing had been abandoned. Admittedly she felt slightly the worse for wear this morning on account of the whisky sours and Barney’s rough brandy. As a result she was one of the last of the patrons to take a table at half past nine. And, uncharacteristically for this time of the morning, Mirabelle was ravenous. Her late-night forays appeared to have done wonders for her appetite, if not her head.
Most of the guests were reading the Telegraph, although at one table she noticed a French paper propped up against the toast rack. At another table a young couple mooned at each other as they sipped the last of their tea. The window looked out over a small courtyard where wisps of smog swirled around two statues.
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