‘Oh, Harry, you are a dog!’ Mirabelle whispered.
Working in a methodical fashion and staying absolutely calm, Mirabelle opened the wardrobe and checked for hidden compartments. She looked under the bed and lifted the rugs. Obviously, she hadn’t expected to find Rose here – a house full of family servants would be an impossible hiding place – but she felt disappointed. There was still no indication of Rose’s whereabouts. At least she knew what he’d done with the dress even if she hadn’t yet figured out why.
Checking the hallway, Mirabelle slipped back down the way she’d come, darting into an alcove as she heard a door open on the first floor. It would soon be time for the household to dress for dinner. In the downstairs hallway there was movement. She waited. A black spaniel puppy lolloped up the staircase and barked in her general direction. She kept stock-still and simply stared at the little creature.
‘Come along, Pong,’ said a female voice. ‘Up you go! Up, up, up!’
Pong hesitated, sniffled and continued on his way upstairs, immediately followed by four of his siblings. One started to make its way towards Mirabelle.
‘Polly! No! Go up!’ the female voice insisted and a hand appeared to guide Polly upstairs.
Mirabelle held her breath. She waited until the hallway was quiet again and then smoothly slipped out of the shadows, down to the entrance hall and into the day room. She shivered as she opened the French windows and proceeded into the garden. A cold fog was descending. She felt proud of herself. She’d spent less than ten minutes in the house – a professional job. You simply had to get into the right frame of mind for these things. She’d managed at least to gather a little more information. Mirabelle wondered momentarily what she would have done had she been caught and assured herself that she would have thought of something. She’d made it to the garage roof when she caught a flash of movement in the lane. It would never do to be caught now! Prostrate against the asphalt she peered over to see what was going on below and was delighted to see Harry approaching his car. He flung the brown manila envelope she had just seen onto the front seat and the engine roared into life. As the car disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes, Mirabelle lowered herself carefully onto the cobbles. She brushed her coat with her gloved hands to remove the small leaves that were clinging to the tweed. Somehow her hat had stayed firmly in place.
Harry was in the annoying habit of disappearing just as she got close, she noted. But she was building up a picture – not an entirely pleasant one, but a picture nonetheless. She turned towards the main road with the revelation that, really, she was beginning to enjoy snooping and, better still, she was becoming accomplished at it. Relief flooded through her. She was going to find Rose!
She strode out as best she could in the direction of Paul Blyth’s house on Upper Belgrave Street. Surveillance work, after all, was about following one step after another. Figuring the whole picture out would simply take more information. Lavinia Blyth, now Mirabelle came to think of it, was involved in rather too many of Harry’s activities. Was the girls’ father aware that his daughters had posed for Harry, she wondered? If he had found Lavinia’s outing to a jazz club unacceptable, heaven knows what he might do if he discovered the photographs in Harry’s possession. Daughters who modelled half-naked, even in the style of a Titian painting, were not socially acceptable. There was no question that Paul Blyth couldn’t hope to marry his girls well if it were discovered. The links between the Bellamy Gores and the Blyth girls seemed set to prove pivotal to what had happened to Rose. The families lived in a close-knit world, and now there were at least two major connections between them. It was unlikely that was coincidence.
Mirabelle turned onto Upper Belgrave Street and noticed that Paul Blyth’s house was now occupied. The lights on the first floor were on. Still feeling confident, Mirabelle decided to check the rear. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. She looked at the little houses that made up the mews. There was copious wrought ironwork that appeared to have escaped melting down during the war. It would act, she decided, like a climbing frame. It made for a more difficult climb than she’d had at Harry’s because here there were two storeys, but still, possible. She began to scale the front of the building and then carefully and with some effort she hauled herself over the top. At this stage it almost felt routine.
From this vantage point, the house seemed busier at the back than it had at the front. Smoke poured from every chimney and there were lights blazing along the bedroom floor. Where might she gain entry though? Unfortunately, unlike the Bellamy Gores, Mr Blyth had not installed French doors. Here, it was more like a back yard, probably used only by the staff, with a vegetable garden and a long washing line. The only door was at the bottom of a staircase that led to the basement. Through the barred windows Mirabelle could make out a bustling kitchen – a cook stood at the range, Blyth’s dusty old butler was readying bottles of burgundy for dinner and a maid was peeling potatoes dejectedly at the table. There was no chance of getting in unseen by that route.
The washhouse was her only option. It would give her access to two sash-and-case windows on the ground floor. Thinking on her feet, Mirabelle dropped into the garden and climbed a small bank of earth from which she hoisted herself onto the sloping roof, edging carefully towards the main building. The first window was locked. The second, however, slid open noiselessly and she launched herself over the sill and landed as quietly as she could on a wooden floor covered with a thick Turkish carpet. Even in the dark it was clear the room was a library. It smelled of dusty paper and old leather bindings, and oak bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling. From her place on the floor Mirabelle felt momentarily as if they might topple on top of her.
She shrugged off the feeling and got up. On the desk lay a paperback – a copy of Dylan Thomas’s poetry bookmarked at ‘All That I Owe the Fellows of the Grave’. The bookmark bore the same address as those in Harry’s paperbacks – Moxon Street. There was clearly an extraordinarily thriving trade in second-hand poetry. Suspicions aroused, Mirabelle tried to remember the location of Moxon Street. The bookshop now merited a visit. If she remembered correctly it was just off Marylebone High Street, near where they used to hang prisoners in the days of the old Tyburn jail. She shivered involuntarily and turned her attention back to the desk. There was nothing much else of interest. In one drawer there was a chequebook (a highly exclusive private bank, Mirabelle noted) and an address book that read like a who’s who of the English upper classes, and in the other some paperclips and an India rubber. It was too dark to inspect the shelves properly, and besides she wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. With the ground mapped, she decided it would be better to speak to Paul Blyth face to face. If she could coax him to tell her more about Lavinia and Deirdre, that would be all to the good. She may even be able to broach the subject of why he had called the police so quickly on the evening of Rose’s disappearance. Putting Rose’s reputation in danger before contacting her parents was mystifying. Increasingly she realised, the lives of these two families were held together somehow.
Mirabelle slid silently back out the window and retraced her steps. When she reached the main road she checked her appearance as best she could in the gloomy light from the gas lamps. These kinds of manoeuvres were tricky in a skirt. It was just as well she had removed her stockings at Duke’s. A new pair would have been ripped to shreds by now. She powdered her face, and then swallowed a painkiller with a little difficulty.
Reinvigorated, she braced her shoulders and walked towards the stucco columns of the Blyth house. It took her a second to register the car at the kerbside. Harry’s Aston Martin. She laid her gloved hand on the bonnet – yes, the engine was still warm. Mirabelle checked the front seat. The envelope wasn’t there.
Was the boy blackmailing Blyth? Was he hell bent on putting not only the life of his cousin into jeopardy but also the good names of Lavinia and Didi? Was he really that much of a cad? F
or someone so young he appeared to be wreaking an extraordinary level of havoc. Still, Mirabelle reminded herself. Jack always said that difficult people had their uses. She tried to keep an open mind.
She climbed the steps to Paul Blyth’s front door. There was only one way to find out.
Chapter 24
Chess is ruthless.
Mirabelle’s heart was hammering as she waited for the door to be answered. How peculiar that breaking and entering hadn’t fazed her, but making a social call (granted, a tricky one) set her pulse racing. It seemed to take an age before the door opened and the familiar butler peered into the gloom.
Mirabelle smiled and stepped into the light. ‘It’s Mirabelle Bevan. I’d like to speak to Mr Blyth, please.’
The butler paused and frowned as he caught sight of Mirabelle’s bandaged wrist. ‘May I take a card?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t have one with me.’
‘Please wait here. I informed Mr Blyth of your previous call,’ he said and closed the door.
Mirabelle peered over the railings. The shutters were closed on the servants’ quarters downstairs. The room to the right of the front door was unoccupied. Paul – and presumably Harry – must be upstairs in the drawing room. She was about to step backwards to see if she could catch a glimpse of what was going on up there when the butler returned.
‘Please come in,’ he said and ushered her into the hallway.
‘May I take your jacket, Miss Bevan, while you wait in the library. Mr Blyth will see you presently.’
The butler clicked on the electric light as he led Mirabelle into the room she’d vacated only a few minutes before. Now at least she’d have an opportunity to examine the bookshelves properly.
She handed her jacket to the butler, thanked him and waited for him to leave. Scanning Paul Blyth’s bookshelves in the light she noticed there was not a single novel or volume of poetry. The collection was composed entirely of reference material, from general encyclopaedias and atlases to several medical works on anatomy and pharmacology. Mirabelle was sure Paul Blyth didn’t have a medical background. She contemplated having another quick look through the address book but before she had time, the door to the room opened and in breezed Paul Blyth.
He was just as she remembered him – a handsome man with dark wide-set eyes and regular features. He seemed only slightly older than during the war – his hair had greyed and receded partially. However, anyone who worked with him would have recognised him in an instant. Although he no longer wore a uniform he might as well have. His sense of purpose and authority was tangible.
‘Miss Bevan. You wanted to see me?’
‘Mr Blyth.’ Mirabelle held out her left hand to shake his outstretched right hand. ‘I don’t know if you recall me from your service days?’
‘Of course I do. You worked for Jack Duggan. I was very sorry to hear of his death. Must have been dreadful for his family. Might I offer you a drink? Don’t tell me – I have an uncanny memory for drinks orders – whisky, wasn’t it? Single malt? Or would you prefer some tea?’
‘Thank you. Whisky would be lovely.’
Somewhere in this house Blyth had Harry waiting for him. His mind, no doubt, was on that meeting and on the reputation of his daughters. Yet he had decided to receive her immediately. That was interesting. She scanned his face for signs of anxiety but found none. Paul Blyth had never excelled at small talk and as he attended to their drinks it felt to Mirabelle as if each question and answer somehow had a double meaning. Or perhaps she was just imagining it. His eyes flickered towards the ceiling as he handed the drink to her.
‘So, please, sit down. What can I do for you? I haven’t seen you for some time, Miss Bevan. The years, I see, have done little harm to your sense of style.’
Mirabelle perched on a Jacobean chair upholstered in red velvet.
‘Yes. It’s been a while. And your daughters are at Oxford now. Such lovely bright girls.’
‘Is that where you wound up? Oxford? I can see that being just the thing for someone like you!’ His laugh was slightly cruel. It reminded her of the things his secretarial staff used to say about him – difficult to put a finger on why he had upset them so much, but sometimes it was the small cruelties that hit home most. ‘I wish he’d just pester me about going out with him like the other officers,’ she remembered one of the secretaries complaining. This barbed politeness was more difficult to deal with than open hostility.
Blyth had taken a seat behind the writing desk rather than in the chair across from Mirabelle. He wants to intimidate me, she thought. She decided not to correct his assumption about where she lived.
‘Yes. Oxford. And I understand we’re not to have Lavinia back for Hilary term.’
‘No. I’m afraid not. Family duties come first.’
‘I heard she had witnessed something rather awful. That’s why I thought I’d pop in, Mr Blyth. First, to check the poor dear is all right and, second, to assure you that there would be a great deal of support for Lavinia if she chose to come back to college. She’s so bright and very popular. A credit to you, Sir, if you don’t mind my saying. They both are.’
‘Wilson, that is, my butler, was under the impression you were working for the constabulary, Miss Bevan. Either that or for a newspaper?’
‘Really? How amusing. I can’t imagine what might have given him that idea.’
Mr Blyth let the comment stand. He reached into a silver cigarette box and offered Mirabelle a Dunhill before lighting his own. After a moment he decided to push the point further.
‘In fact, Wilson was under the impression you felt there was something underhand about this whole business with Rose.’
Mirabelle took a moment before she answered. She sipped the whisky. It was very good. ‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘I did suggest something along those lines. Something seems wrong, don’t you think? That fellow going to Brighton. Well, that makes no sense. Felons usually make for the continent. There were so many other places he could have gone if he wanted to escape … One never gets over examining the detail, does one?’
‘The detail? Do you think the war is still on, Miss Bevan? What nonsense! There’s no subterfuge here. There’s no greater plan. The fellow was clearly guilty. Didn’t you hear? He killed himself. We received the news by telephone. I can’t say it isn’t better that way, either. At least we shan’t have a trial. No washing of dirty linen in public. It’ll be far better for the Bellamy Gores, and Lavinia, of course, by association.’
‘Did you know the boy, Mr Blyth? A musician, wasn’t he?’ she tried. It crossed her mind that talking to Paul Blyth was like fencing or playing a complex game of chess. At some point soon she would have to ask him something more direct about his daughters. She wasn’t sure how he might react.
‘The Claremont fellow? Never met him. I understand he played the saxophone. I’m strictly a classical music man, Miss Bevan. Opera by choice. Do you have a box at Covent Garden?’
‘Oh, I don’t run to that, I’m afraid! Not these days. Well, the Bellamy Gores must be frightfully concerned. I hope they find the girl.’
‘Do you know them?’
‘No. Not personally. Only in passing. It all seems rather tragic. It must be awful for you, being so close to the family. And one does feel for Lavinia, being caught up in it.’
‘A witness. My daughter was a witness.’
‘Have you ever been to a jazz club, Mr Blyth?’ Mirabelle opened her eyes wide and feigned innocence.
Paul Blyth knocked back his whisky and stared at her. ‘Me?’ he snorted, his temper rising. ‘Almost gave Lavinia the hiding of her life, little fool. Bloody jungle music in some sleazy dive in the middle of the night. Those Bellamy Gore children are trouble. I’ve known that for years. Lavinia was rather seduced, as I understand it, by their bohemian lifestyle. Young people today have i
t far too easy, don’t you think? Values have changed. She was tempted but she won’t be tempted again. Shame it took this for the girl to learn her lesson.’
‘And you were the one who alerted the police, I understand.’ Paul Blyth stood up. ‘What is it that you’re implying, Miss Bevan? What precisely are you doing here?’
‘Me? Nothing. I was simply in London. I heard about the girls and thought I would take the opportunity to pop by. Please, don’t concern yourself. Things must be worrying enough as they are. And it’s just as well you called Scotland Yard. Quick thinking.’
‘Well, one is used to making decisions. One never forgets how to do so. It was Lavinia’s voice, you see. She telephoned from a public phone box. She’s just a young girl, of course, but she isn’t a panicker. I knew the minute she came on the phone.’
‘What?’
‘I knew that man had done something to Rose. Lavinia was almost in tears.’
‘At a time like that, of course, a girl just wants to come straight home, doesn’t she? To her family. How disturbing for Lavinia.’
‘Quite. Well, she’s at home now. Safe.’
Mirabelle paused momentarily. Lavinia had, of course, not come straight home and Mr Blyth must know that.
‘Well, I just hope the police come to a conclusion soon.’ Mirabelle sighed and took a final sip of whisky. She wanted to see what would happen if she sailed very close to the wind. ‘And if Deirdre has gone to the country as well, at least Lavinia will have her sister for comfort. I must say, I do rather admire Deirdre’s wonderful haircut. She looks like some kind of magical creature – a fairy or a nymph or something – don’t you think?’
Paul Blyth paused for a split second longer than would have been natural. It sounded like an innocent comment, but Mirabelle could tell he was shaken and that meant he’d seen the photographs. When he finally spoke his voice sounded calm but beneath the surface there was an air of menace.
London Calling Page 18