London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

  A waiter arrived to take her order. ‘Madam?’

  ‘Do you have sausages?’ she asked.

  The waiter looked slightly surprised at the question. ‘Of course, Madam. Beef or pork?’

  ‘Pork, please, with mushrooms and toast.’

  ‘No eggs?’

  Fresh eggs were a rationed treat. The taste of the powdered substitute the Ministry of Food inflicted on the British public made Mirabelle feel queasy. Vesta seemed to have mastered baking with them. In fact, she had made excellent pancakes a few times and, once, a kind of Madeira cake. However, in Mirabelle’s view powdered eggs certainly couldn’t be stomached alone, even if whisked with water or milk and scrambled.

  ‘Do you have real eggs?’ she checked. ‘Fresh ones?’

  ‘Of course, Madam. How many would you like?’

  ‘One, please. And a pot of tea.’

  Before she checked the top stories of the day, Mirabelle stared in wonder at the generous pat of butter the waiter brought on a porcelain plate and the small bowl containing what looked like strawberry jam. She breathed in the sweet fragrance – yes, it was strawberry. No one was roughing it at Duke’s.

  Well, I might as well enjoy it, she thought. This is a treat. As the waiter fetched her breakfast she scanned the Telegraph for any more information about Rose, but there was nothing. Perhaps another paper might be better – something more sensational. A downmarket rag more likely to pick up rumours or actively search for a story rather than simply printing police statements. To all intents and purposes Mirabelle was looking for gossip.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she asked a waiter, ‘do you have anything other than the Telegraph?’

  ‘The London Times?’ the man offered. ‘I can fetch it from the reading room, Madam.’

  ‘No, thanks, that’s not what I’m after. How about the Express? Or the Daily Herald? Both if possible. Oh, and the Mirror and the Mail if you have them.’

  The waiter didn’t pause though his disapproval was clear.

  ‘I shall send out,’ he said coldly.

  Ten minutes later, a selection of newspapers, warm from having been ironed, was delivered to her table. The breakfast was excellent, and as the Dining Room emptied of guests Mirabelle perused the news while finishing her toast and the last drops of tea. Sure enough, there was an article in the Mirror entitled ROSE OF ENGLAND. It detailed several arrests that had taken place over the last year in London’s jazz clubs and then culminated with the story of Rose going missing and Lindon being taken into custody. It did not mention that he had volunteered his witness statement, and referred to him as a ‘dark jazz fiend’. ‘When will this evil music stop?’ the Mirror asked, as if the syncopated rhythm of the music itself had been responsible for Rose’s disappearance. In another paper there was a photograph of Rose, this time in school uniform. She had studied at Cheltenham Ladies’ College and the school had refused to comment on the girl’s disappearance.

  Mirabelle folded the papers and got up from the table. Today, she thought, she’d pop along to Belgravia. It was the best lead she had, though she would need to be a good deal more careful with her enquiries there. No one in Jermyn Street or Feldman’s had loved Rose or was related to her.

  Mirabelle settled her bill and then set out briskly through the quiet streets. She stared at the upper floors of the buildings, many of which were familiar. Working for Jack had taken her into inner sanctum after inner sanctum, not least to 10 Downing Street on more than one occasion and the War Rooms – both of which were nearby.

  It was strange that Rose had been with one of Paul Blyth’s daughters. Blyth, Mirabelle recalled, had two daughters, the younger of whom, Lavinia, must be more or less the same age as Rose. She knew Paul Blyth well – an authoritarian who ran his department with terrifying efficiency. He was infamous for his temper, which he scarcely controlled, and for his icy sarcasm. Mirabelle had once met a secretary who claimed that after three weeks in Commander Blyth’s office her hands were shaking so much she could no longer take shorthand. The man was a bully, albeit a highly competent one. He had stayed in office, despite his unpleasant manner, because he had the uncanny knack of picking up just the right information at just the right time. Someone had told her once that Blyth had an incredible sense of the Zeitgeist. The German word had stuck in her mind.

  ‘We don’t have quite the word for it in English, but you know what I mean. The man’s a marvel. Knows what people want and when they want it well before they do. That’s a skill in itself, isn’t it?’

  She remembered the conversation clearly. Mirabelle wondered if Mr Blyth ran his household in the same style as his office, because in that context the idea of an eighteenyear-old girl being given permission to visit jazz clubs was highly unlikely. If Blyth’s personality was the same in peacetime as it had been during the war he’d be outraged at his daughter going against orders and, of course, with Rose’s disappearance and the police involved, now he’d know what they’d been up to.

  As Mirabelle crossed the Mall several horse riders were returning from a canter in the park, and she caught a whiff of horsehide as they passed. Mirabelle picked up her pace and headed towards the white stucco streets ahead. To the left was Pimlico where the facades were much more down-at-heel and to the right the upmarket addresses of Belgravia. Mirabelle took a deep breath and turned towards Eaton Square, its dark trees skeletal against the pale buildings. She struggled to remember the number of Commander Blyth’s house and walked the full length of the street trying to recall its location. Upper Belgrave Street looked slightly shabby these days. Grubbier than she remembered, it was an array of pale grey and cream rather than the crisp white of its heyday.

  The Blyth house was one of the buildings closer to Belgrave Square, she decided, and from memory an even number. Stopping on the corner she stared back down the road. Few lights were on, though from one house a maid emerged with a wicker shopping-basket over her arm.

  Mirabelle took her chance. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, approaching the girl, ‘I’m looking for a family who lives on this street. The Blyths? I haven’t been here for years and I’ve forgotten the exact address. I wonder if you know which house they live in.’

  The girl did not appear to find this request peculiar and pointed at number four. It didn’t stand out, apart from the front door, which was painted a very dark navy rather than the traditional black.

  ‘That one, Miss,’ she said. ‘But they ain’t there.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Weekend,’ the girl said as if Mirabelle was simple. ‘No one’s here over the weekend. Staff only. I’m sure none of the Blyths will be back till Sunday night at the earliest. None of our lot either. Everyone leaves, you see.’

  Of course. This part of town emptied out on Friday to house parties in the Shires. It seemed like a hundred years since she had been part of that.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  The girl half-curtsied and scurried off in the direction of Knightsbridge.

  Mirabelle surveyed the Blyths’ house. There was no point in being coy. The year before, she had broken into several premises but here there would be no need for that. Still, if she wanted to find out what was what there was nothing for it but to get stuck in. She walked confidently up to the front door and rang the bell. A butler answered. He was so elderly he looked as if he had been coated in white powder. Mirabelle wondered if he shouldn’t have retired.

  ‘Madam,’ he greeted her in an imposing voice.

  ‘I know Commander Blyth is away …’

  The butler interrupted. ‘Mr Blyth, Madam. The Right Honourable Mr Blyth.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I knew him during the war, you see. The thing is, I’m most dreadfully worried about this business with Rose Bellamy Gore. I’d very much like to have a word with Mr Blyth’s daughter. Lavinia, isn’t it?’

  ‘Madam.’
The butler raised his hand only very slightly but its meaning was clear. Mirabelle stopped speaking immediately. ‘Miss Lavinia will not be coming back to town. She is very active in the hunt this season. If you would like to leave a card I shall give it to the master when he returns.’

  ‘When will he return?’ Mirabelle asked.

  The butler froze, as if this question was deeply personal and asking it was an affront. ‘One cannot say precisely, Madam.’

  Mirabelle thought for a moment. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll try again on Sunday evening if I’m still in town. I would very much like to speak to Miss Lavinia and to Commander, that is, Mr Blyth.’

  The butler didn’t move. ‘If that will be all, Madam,’ he said.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is.’

  The door closed, and she moved back, hovering momentarily beside a white column before stepping back onto the pavement.

  Lavinia Blyth. The name was bringing back a memory. Yes, she hadn’t realised before. There were two memories – both newspaper articles over the last year. Yes, she’s a clever girl – that’s good, she thought. Glancing back at the closed door she suddenly remembered why the name had stuck in her mind and her heart sank. This didn’t make sense. The butler must be mistaken.

  ‘No,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘that isn’t right at all.’

  Chapter 9

  Difficulties show a person what they are.

  With disturbing facts falling into place, Mirabelle had a new direction. It was obvious, really. It had been years since she’d gone to the club and whether they’d let her in or not she couldn’t be sure; however, if they did she’d certainly be able to put to rest her suspicions about Lavinia Blyth. The sun was bright as she passed the palace. A flock of pigeons flurried in her wake. Outside the underground station the early afternoon editions were hitting the news-stands. A boy was kneeling on the frozen pavement, clipping the string to get at the first copies, as a man in a cloth cap took down the morning headlines to be replaced.

  ‘Evening Standard!’ he shouted.

  Mirabelle considered crossing the road to buy a copy but thought better of it. They had newspapers aplenty where she was going, and she had enough to think about already. It was, she decided, a measure of her recovery that she was prepared to go to the club at all. But the more she found out the more it seemed to her that several facts were amiss. She needed somewhere to sit down and think – ideally somewhere that might also provide information. If her memory served her correctly the Oxford and Cambridge Club would certainly have plenty of that. She picked up the pace once more as a stiff breeze whisked straight through her coat, and having cut through the park she rounded the corner into Pall Mall. It had been a while, and Mirabelle was almost surprised when she saw the old place. The exterior hadn’t changed although the building was a little closer to the park than she remembered. It was as if London had shifted. Perhaps, she mused, memory always worked that way. There was no brass plaque, of course. The club was nothing if not discreet – a bolthole for those in the know. She mounted the entrance steps straight into the hallway, where a steward stepped forward at the bottom of the stairs. He had a broad Northern Irish accent and was wearing formal clothes.

  ‘Good morning. I’m afraid I don’t have my pass. I was at St Hilda’s,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘I used to come here when I lived in London. My name is Mirabelle Bevan.’

  The steward didn’t move. ‘No card, Miss Bevan?’

  ‘Sorry. I am a member though.’

  ‘I’ll have to get someone to look it up, Miss.’

  ‘Oh yes. In fact, I’d love to speak to someone who could look things up. I have an enquiry about another member. At least, I assume she’s a member.’

  ‘Please wait a moment, Miss.’

  The man disappeared through a door painted the same deep red colour as the walls. Mirabelle turned and peered outside. A man was parking a car and he kept misjudging the space. As the vehicle roared back and forwards clipping the kerb, a small white cat rubbed itself against the railings of the building beside it. Something was niggling Mirabelle. What she needed, she thought, was a cup of tea to winkle it out. Was it some crazy sense of nostalgia that had led her here? The door in the wall opened once more.

  ‘If you go up to the Ladies’ Sitting Room, someone will come down, Miss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, but the steward had already retreated. Mirabelle took the stairs to the first floor. She looked around. The club had been redecorated but it looked much the same. She peeled off her gloves. The Ladies’ Sitting Room was off to the right and had been done out in a soft peach colour that reflected a warm light into the dark burgundy hall. Inside, curled up in a comfortable armchair, was an odd-looking girl with short blonde hair. She was reading a book in Russian. When Mirabelle squinted she could not make out the title, only the writer. It was by the humorist Fonvizin, although the girl did not appear to be finding the story amusing. There were so few women in the club and indeed at the universities that the atmosphere in the ladies’ rooms was usually friendly. Mirabelle was glad of the peace though – it would allow the time for reflection that she needed. She removed her coat, perched on a wooden chair near the fire and stared out of the window. The little white cat was now weaving in and out between the lampposts. Mirabelle wondered to whom it belonged.

  ‘Sweet little thing, isn’t it?’ a shrill voice said.

  The girl reading Russian looked up, shaken by the noisy intrusion. Fonvizin must be riveting.

  In front of Mirabelle, a woman in a grey pinstripe suit held out her hand. A pair of black-rimmed glasses dominated her face, which was otherwise very pretty. ‘I understand you’re a member. St Hilda’s was it? Mirabelle Bevan? I’m the membership officer. I see you’re on our register.’

  Mirabelle shook her hand. ‘Yes. I haven’t been here in years. I’m only visiting London for the day and I thought …’

  ‘Quite. We’re always delighted when out-of-town members pop in. You know the drill? Ladies are permitted in the Dining Room but only the foremost part, and this is the Ladies’ Sitting Room. Between seven and nine we’re admitted to the bar but only if accompanied. The Library is open to you, of course.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember. I’m keen to find out about one of our St Hilda’s girls. The daughter of an acquaintance. She went up to read mathematics if I’m not mistaken. A very bright spark. I wondered how she was getting on. Lavinia Blyth?’

  The woman stared at her feet as she thought for a moment and then her eyes lit on the girl with the Russian book who let out a gurgling laugh and sat up.

  ‘Gosh. What on earth do you want to know about her for?’

  ‘Well, I rather admired that astonishing debate in which she took part. About the rights of animals. Quite provocative stuff. I read the report of it but I haven’t heard anything about the girl since. She seemed remarkable – clever and principled but in an interesting way. And very young, of course.’

  The girl ran a hand over her head and plucked at her ear lobe. ‘Really? You liked all that guff ?’

  ‘Was it guff ? Didn’t Lavinia mean it?’

  ‘Just because she meant it doesn’t mean it wasn’t guff.’

  ‘So she hasn’t taken up with the hunt then? Rescinded her ways? Started to eat meat and kill foxes?’

  ‘Not the last time I saw her.’

  The membership officer stepped back. ‘Well, well, there we are,’ she said. ‘So you’re very welcome, Miss Bevan. I’ll leave you both to it, shall I?’

  Mirabelle nodded and focused on the girl. She wanted to find out more. She moved to sit on an armchair next to her.

  ‘I didn’t think Lavinia would change her ways and take up hunting. She was so very impassioned. I knew her father, you see. I can’t imagine the girl’s views went down well at home and that made me think it was doubly brave
of her.’

  The blonde snapped shut her book.

  ‘Are you a vegetarian, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’re a friend of Lavinia’s father?’

  ‘I knew him during the war. Quite a character! His office was next door to where I worked and he was a stickler. I made the connection when I saw her name. He had two daughters, I think. Lavinia must be the younger.’

  The girl surveyed Mirabelle carefully as if she was making a decision. ‘I’m starving,’ she said. ‘Let’s have some sandwiches, shall we?’ She reached out and rang the bell.

  ‘Ham sandwiches and tea,’ the girl instructed the maid who hardly had time to enter the room. ‘Lots of mustard, as well,’ she called out. ‘I can’t bear bland food, can you? It reminds me of everything that’s lousy about institutions. What did you read when you went up?’

  ‘Oh, that’s a while ago! Classics,’ Mirabelle replied.

  She had realised after she graduated that her degree wasn’t likely to lead to much of a career and as, like most women, she was expected to meet a suitable husband while she was up at university and marry in her early twenties. She hadn’t planned much beyond her graduation ceremony and when nothing presented itself she took a Masters in Modern Languages. Mirabelle loved college – an orphan by then it gave her something worthwhile to do. Later, after she’d graduated a second time, she’d worked for a translation agency until the war broke out. Then at least her education had proved useful. But there was no need to go into all that now.

  ‘Classics? Crikey,’ the girl said.

  Giving a little information always seemed to turn the tables. You gave a little, and then the person you wanted to talk gave back. It came so naturally she scarcely thought about it.

  ‘Are you still at college?’ The youngster seemed no more than twenty at most, but, still, it was hard to tell these days.

  ‘I should come clean,’ she volunteered, reaching out her hand. ‘I’m Deirdre. Call me Didi. I’m Vinny’s sister, Deirdre Blyth. Paul Blyth’s elder daughter. That’s why the membership lady scooted. A potentially windy situation – you enquiring about my sister in front of me.’