London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘I tuned her up,’ Miles said.

  The car engine roared into life and a cloud of engine fumes sank into the inspection pit.

  ‘That sounds much better,’ Harry said.

  ‘I hope the lady …’ Miles’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that!’ The boy’s voice had an edge. ‘I’ll get what I want. It’s all going to work out perfectly, Miles. You’ll see. And don’t worry about that old aunt impersonator either, whoever she is. If you see her again give her what for. Did you leave my jacket in the boot?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  The car pulled off slowly. Mirabelle heard Miles sighing, the light being snapped off and his footsteps receding. With some effort she pulled herself out of the pit and limped towards the pool of light at the garage exit. There was blood on her stocking – she must have bashed her ankle when she fell in – and now a long rip snaked up her calf. As she bent down to touch her leg she could see that her wrist was slightly swollen. But there was no time to attend to that now. Out of sight at the end of the alleyway she heard Harry’s car turn left.

  Mirabelle’s mind was whizzing. Miles was an accomplice to whatever Harry had done. Had the boy really kidnapped his own cousin? It certainly seemed that way and, worse, he’d hurt her. The dress was torn. Come to think of it, worse still, the dress had been removed. Was this about money? Some kind of family feud? Surely the boy wouldn’t hold his own aunt and uncle to ransom. How could he?

  Mirabelle felt fury rising in her belly and then a sense of confusion. Momentarily her outrage overcame the pain. There was something else entirely going on here and poor Lindon had become caught up in it. And then it occurred to Mirabelle: the dress, the fact that Harry had kept the dress, meant most likely that Rose must be alive. To keep it otherwise was crazy – it was too incriminating. The most logical explanation was that somehow it would be used as a lever to get something he wanted. A ransom, perhaps. And, if that was the case, the girl was safe somewhere. If she was alive she could be found. The realisation spurred her on.

  Mirabelle checked her watch. It was after three o’clock. She limped slowly up the alley. The main street was deserted. There was never a taxi when you wanted one. She briefly contemplated taking a car from the garage. Some people left their keys under the sun visor. Of course, stealing a car constituted a felony, but it might be worth committing a crime if in following Harry, she could rescue Rose. But it was too late now and the Aston had gone. Besides, with her ankle so badly twisted she would find it difficult to drive. Mirabelle gritted her teeth as the injury began to sting. She inhaled deeply and then coughed as the fog hit her lungs.

  ‘Damn it,’ she cursed out loud.

  She’d been too slow again. She should have kept hold of the parcel. If only she’d had the gumption to jump into a car the minute Miles left. Her injuries had put her into shock, she realised. She’d been in shock before. It slowed you down. In circumstances like this an agent ought to focus on fixing themselves up, she remembered. But Mirabelle felt angry. It had been her best instinct but she hadn’t enjoyed hiding like a coward.

  ‘Sorry, Jack,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I’ll do better next time.’

  Chapter 22

  Go where there is no path and leave a trail.

  Vesta and Charlie were getting cosy at the corner table in Duke’s bar. They were both on their second martinis and had finished a tiny bowl of crackers. Duke’s bar looked the same late at night as it did in the afternoon, which, Vesta realised, made it very intimate. It was easy to lose track of time when she was with Charlie. He was telling her about his service days. He’d joined up young and she’d made the calculations – he was twenty-eight, making him, by her reckoning, the perfect age to settle down. They’d been sitting together for almost an hour, and his proximity still gave her a warm glow. It was as if they’d been there for ever – in a dreamworld.

  When Mirabelle walked in, Vesta didn’t recognise her for an instant. Mirabelle seldom looked dishevelled but her whole demeanour had changed. She was limping, her stockings were in tatters, and she was holding her right arm against her stomach.

  ‘Mirabelle?’ Vesta jumped to her feet. ‘What on earth has happened? You look dreadful!’

  Mirabelle collapsed onto a seat beside the couple. She was deathly pale and looked exhausted.

  ‘Ma’am, I think you need a drink,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Water,’ Mirabelle mouthed.

  The Italian waiter appeared. ‘Perhaps it would be best to help Madam into the back? We have a first aid kit.’

  ‘Do you have iodine?’ Mirabelle asked.

  ‘And we’ll need ice.’ Charlie took charge. ‘Looks like your hand’s taken a blow. Did you hit someone?’

  Mirabelle smiled weakly. ‘No. I fell into a pit.’

  It took a few minutes to get everything organised. The barman called the receptionist who said she would try to find a replacement pair of nylons. Her tone of voice made it clear this was not an easy task on a Sunday. Of all the rationed clothes, stockings were famously the most difficult to get hold of – on or off the black market. In the meantime Mirabelle, Vesta and Charlie removed to the room where Eddie had been working on Friday night.

  Charlie insisted on taking charge of the medical care after explaining that he’d had some experience during the war. He made a cold compress for Mirabelle’s wrist and disinfected the leg wound with iodine.

  Mirabelle eyed this new companion out of the corner of her eye and looked quizzically at Vesta.

  ‘Charlie knew Lindon. He was there on Thursday night,’ said Vesta, ‘but he left before it all happened.’

  As Charlie worked, she described everything she’d found out in detail. Charlie knew Vesta was sharp but now he realised she’d taken in every word, drawn conclusions and tied together what she’d discovered. She had an uncanny eye for detail and remembered every name, time and opinion anyone had offered. He hadn’t thought of the scraps of information as part of a coherent story until now. It was as if Vesta had been piecing together a jigsaw inside her head. It was impressive.

  ‘So, Barney’s the one we need to speak to next,’ she concluded. ‘I mean he kept Lindon’s sax and somehow got it back to him but he didn’t tell anyone that. The guy gave false evidence to the police. He was the last one out of the place on Thursday night or Friday morning – he locked up and walked Tombo as far as Piccadilly. Even more importantly, he was the bloke who told Lindon the police were after him and, basically, encouraged him to take off. Barney knows what really happened, or at least knows more than he’s saying.’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Yes. I think he does. But I’ve talked to him already and I’d say we’d have a tough time cracking him. Why would he come clean? Besides, we’ve bigger fish to fry. I checked Harry’s car. I don’t think Rose is dead, Vesta. Harry has her evening gown. I don’t know why.’

  ‘You mean he’s got the dress she was wearing? Do you think he kidnapped her?’

  ‘The police found a scrap of material from it up at Coram’s Fields. When I saw it in the car boot I should have grabbed the parcel. It all happened too quickly. I don’t know if Harry’s our man, but he’s involved and he knows what’s going on. He’s an arrogant little sod too, but then he’s eighteen, I suppose. The main thing is, Rose is probably still alive.’

  ‘What was Harry doing with the dress?’ Vesta asked.

  ‘Ransom? Either he’s ransoming her or he’s being held to ransom. I don’t know. He’s hard to read. But why ever he has it, at least it means she’s still in the game.’ Mirabelle sighed.

  ‘We should tell the police. How long ago did he leave the club?’

  ‘No, we can’t bring in the police.’

  ‘Why not? I mean, this proves Lindon was innocent, doesn’t it?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘It points in that
direction, and of course we could report it, but imagine what McGregor would be like if we did that in Brighton. The police up here won’t be any different. Everything we’ve found is hearsay. There’s no proof whatsoever. And we’re in London, so they don’t know us. The Met is convinced it was Lindon, and he died in their custody. So they now want it to be Lindon. I’d like to have some solid evidence before we go to them. They’re not going to want to arrest a boy like Harry without a concrete reason. And even if Green is a smart cookie, he’s not going to be there till tomorrow. No, our best plan of action is to look for evidence. Going to the police now will hold everything up. There’s a girl being held somewhere, I’m convinced of it. You know as well as I do, the police only slow you down.’

  Charlie looked sideways at the women. He didn’t like to interrupt. He reached into the first aid kit and brought out some painkillers. ‘Well, Miss Bevan, you’re gonna need these,’ he said, unscrewing the bottle and spilling a pile onto Mirabelle’s palm. ‘Take two at a time. Every four hours or so.’

  She continued talking as he passed her a glass of water. ‘I popped into Scotland Yard this morning, and there was an incompetent toddler in charge of the case. No sign of anyone in real authority. We need to just get on with it.’

  ‘Really?’ Vesta said. ‘Because everything I can think of winds up with Lindon being innocent. Open and closed.’

  ‘Yes. He was. But who’s guilty, Vesta? There’s that to consider. And where is poor Rose? We can’t help Lindon today, not really, and if we clear his name one day or the next, it doesn’t make much difference, with all due respect. But we could save a girl’s life. That means something.’

  Vesta’s eyes were hard, but she nodded slowly. Mirabelle had authority. Her judgement had always been good in the past. Another day wouldn’t make much difference. Mirabelle was right about that. ‘All right. What do you want to do now?’ Mirabelle tried putting some weight on her twisted ankle.

  It felt a little better and her head had cleared. ‘Belgravia. We need to make some house calls. Ones that look social. It’ll be better if I’m on my own.’

  ‘Single-handed?’

  ‘It’ll be easier, Vesta.’

  ‘No. I mean with only one hand?’

  Mirabelle laughed. ‘Yes, single-handed.’

  ‘I hate not being able to help. Not being “acceptable”.’ Vesta sagged in her chair. ‘Can’t make social calls in bleeding Belgravia. Can’t get a room in a hotel without some receptionist checking it’s all right. It’s just can’t, can’t, can’t. I’m fed up with it.’

  ‘Could be worse, sugar,’ Charlie soothed. ‘Where I come from they string you up for sitting on the wrong bus. Take it from me, England ain’t so bad. The food’s pretty lousy and they stare in the street, but I like it here. We can drink in the same bars as the white folks, not just play the music and clean the floors.’

  Vesta sighed. ‘Hmmm, what am I supposed to do while you’re in Belgravia?’

  ‘You said you were coming with me,’ Charlie objected.

  ‘Dinner. Dancing. Jazz. I want to take you to Feldman’s. Remember?’

  ‘Go on,’ Mirabelle smiled indulgently. ‘That’s a super idea. Work and play, Vesta! You might dig up something. See if you can find anyone else who was at Mac’s on Thursday night. Someone saw something that will make sense of it, they just don’t realise it. And keep an eye out for Barney. I’ll meet you in Brighton tomorrow morning. We’ve got the office to run as well, remember. Besides,’ the thought occurred to her, ‘we can hand it all over to the police down there and let them pass it on to the Yard. That might give whatever we find out more credibility. Tonight I’ll dig around where the toffs are and try to get something for McGregor – as far as the Met are concerned he’s the guy who caught Lindon.’

  ‘And you don’t want me to do something with a map? Try to figure out where Rose is?’

  ‘How can we? We have no idea where she might be. I’ll poke about at Harry’s family home on Wilton Crescent. If I come up with anything then we’ll get the maps out. Now, off with you! You and Charlie deserve to have some fun.’

  ‘I bet you haven’t even eaten,’ Vesta sulked.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong! I had pie and mash for lunch,’ Mirabelle said proudly. It was almost true. She’d had a whisky while she pushed the food around her plate.

  Chapter 23

  We’re all detectives in life.

  It got dark a little after six and there was a nip in the air. The capital’s doctors, solicitors, businessmen and bankers crowded the first-class carriages arriving from all directions into London’s main stations – Victoria, Paddington, King’s Cross and Euston. A row of taxi cabs snaked from Victoria onto the main road, ferrying passengers home. Not everyone used the train, but petrol could be hard to come by if you were travelling very far out of town, and for many it was simply more convenient to make their way up and down by rail. Since the war more of the upper class worked for a living – everywhere from the BBC to the Bank of England – and in areas like Belgravia the traditional rhythm of the city had changed as people converged en masse on the capital ready for business the next day. There were certainly more cars on the road this evening, Mirabelle noticed, as she took a route by the palace. The neighbourhood felt occupied now. Occasionally she heard the strains of music or children laughing. Twice she passed footmen walking dogs.

  As she headed towards Belgrave Square rooms were being prepared for their occupants’ return, the first-floor windows were glowing yellow, and the chimneys were smoking. Mirabelle glanced along the sweep of Wilton Crescent and paused for a moment in front of the lamps at the entrance to Harry’s house. She thought better of ringing the doorbell. Instead she made her way to the rear, to Wilton Row, where the mews houses ran along the back of the crescent. The garage directly behind the Bellamy Gore house was marked by Harry’s now familiar green Aston Martin, parked on the cobbles. He was home. After a quick look round Mirabelle opened the boot: the jacket was gone. She stood back to survey the rear of the house at a distance. There were several lights visible on the second floor, all bedrooms – it looked as if the whole family was in residence.

  Mirabelle regarded her high heels. The only way forward was to find out what Harry was up to and that meant going inside. The best way into the Bellamy Gore house was over the back wall but that could be tricky – and painful. It felt as if she had been sneaking around all day but then sneaking around was the only way she stood a chance of uncovering what was going on. She decided that the best way to get onto the property was to scale the smallest garage in the row and make her way into the Bellamy Gores’ back garden from there. Using a rubbish bin to stand on, shoes in hand, she hauled her frame onto the asphalt roof and then with surprising steadiness limped along and dropped as gently as she could onto a rhubarb patch. She put her shoes back on and crept towards the French windows that faced the lawn. The old-fashioned door catch Sipped open easily.

  The room was dark, and the atmosphere stuffy. The place smelled vaguely of wet dog. Squinting, Mirabelle could make out a tray on a stand with a half-finished jigsaw and beneath it a basket with knitting needles protruding. She whistled quietly – she’d broken into the day room and would be relatively safe from intrusion. The family were bound to use the drawing room upstairs before coming down to dinner. Silently, she congratulated herself on keeping her nerve. On her way up the garden and even when she entered the house her heart had scarcely stirred. She was glad she’d got over her earlier panic and grinned as it occurred to her that she was now practically a cat burglar. Being in the field was more enjoyable than she’d expected. She moved to the door, making sure the coast was clear as she slipped into the hallway and proceeded silently up the carpeted stairs. On the bedroom floor she checked through the keyholes. The smallest room to the front was empty. It housed a single bed and a desk, beside which the blue jacket lay
on a chair. She entered. It was vital she work quickly. Mirabelle checked the poacher’s pouch but it was empty. She eyed the fireplace. There was a pile of ash far larger than she would expect. The fires here would have been lit no later than four in readiness for the Sunday-evening return of the house’s occupants. She kneeled in front of the grate and peered at the detritus. The ash had retained a vague shape. It lay in stripes as far apart as the crisscross pattern of the silver threads of Rose’s evening gown. He had burned it here. She was on to him!

  Spurred on, Mirabelle turned her attention to Harry’s desk. There was an address book, nothing notable inside, and some notepaper. A pamphlet by T.S. Eliot was this time marked at ‘The Rum Tum Tugger’ by another bookmark from the second-hand bookshop in Marylebone. The drawer to the left contained a schoolboy jumble of pencils and geometrical tools. The one on the right contained a single brown manila envelope with an embossed crest on the flap and a red cross jotted on the rear. Her curiosity piqued, Mirabelle emptied its contents onto the desktop. Two slim celluloid negatives wafted out. She held them to the light. They were pictures of two girls dressed as nymphs next to a waterfall. Perhaps this was where the indiscernible offcuts in Harry’s room in the club had come from. The images were too small to see clearly, and it wasn’t until she carefully returned them to the package that she realised the envelope also contained prints. The photographs were jammed in so tightly against the back sleeve they hadn’t automatically fallen out when she turned the envelope upside down. Mirabelle pulled them out and gasped. One of the models was Didi Blyth. There was no doubt about it – right down to the blonde pixie-style haircut. The girl was topless and showing a great deal of thigh. Mirabelle didn’t know the other model, but she was certainly very similar to Didi, though she had mousy hair and a slightly plumper figure. The girls’ eyes, however, were strikingly alike. Was the other model in the photograph Lavinia?