London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘What makes you say that, Miss Bevan?’

  ‘I can see her as Puck in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Can’t you? And Lavinia as Titania, now I come to think of it. Gosh, we should stage it, shouldn’t we? In the Quad this summer?’

  Blyth couldn’t quite put his finger on whether she knew or not, but his neck had flushed a vivid shade of purple. He stared at Mirabelle, his eyes completely devoid of all expression. Then he dismissed her.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re at St Hilda’s, Miss Bevan. It’s a comfort to think that when the girls get back you’ll be there to look out for them. I shall recall you to them when I next go down to Sussex.’

  ‘Oh, are you in Sussex? I had no idea. How lovely.’

  ‘Will you be returning to Oxford tonight?’

  ‘I expect so,’ Mirabelle lied. ‘I only hung on because I wanted to reassure you, Mr Blyth.’

  Paul Blyth looked anything but reassured. He toyed with his cigarette. ‘Thank you, but if you don’t mind I have another engagement.’ He stood up and rang for service.

  ‘Ah, of course. Yes.’

  The butler appeared, holding her jacket, and Blyth moved towards her.

  ‘So unfortunate about Rose. It may be she is a woman who has twisted her last smile …’ Mirabelle continued to babble.

  ‘What did you say? What do you mean?’

  ‘Dylan Thomas, Mr Blyth. The poetry book on your desk. I couldn’t help but notice it. Let us hope, of course, that Rose will smile again. I’m sure she will.’

  The man clearly had no idea about Thomas’s poetry. Whatever was that book doing here?

  ‘Might I take a cigarette after all?’ she ventured. ‘It’s such a cold night and smoking warms one, doesn’t it?’

  Paul Blyth Sipped open the silver box on his desk. ‘Be my guest,’ he said curtly.

  In the hallway she couldn’t hear anything from upstairs. Wilson opened the front door and bid Mirabelle goodnight. There was a great deal to take in. Things certainly weren’t what she had assumed. She moved a couple of doors up the street and lit the cigarette. Through the fog the distinctive figure of a policeman on his beat, in cape and custodian helmet, strolled towards her.

  ‘Good evening, Madam. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Thank you, officer. I’m just waiting for a friend.’

  ‘Cold night, Madam.’

  ‘Yes, very. I hope he won’t be long.’

  The officer continued up the street, rattling a set of railings that appeared insecure. Mirabelle managed a wry smile.

  As Belgravia’s most active cat burglar she really ought to have been carted off in handcuffs. The police really were hopeless. She took a draw on the cigarette and breathed in deeply. Things were nowhere near as cut and dried as she’d expected. Far from it.

  Chapter 25

  Experience is the most brutal of teachers.

  Harry emerged from the Blyth residence twenty-two minutes later. He skipped down the steps oblivious to the figure on his left, who put out an elegant and uninjured right ankle to trip him up. As Harry sprawled on the pavement Mirabelle towered over him with the streetlight behind her so he couldn’t make out her face. She had used the twenty-two minutes wisely and certainly had a more coherent theory in mind than when she’d entered the Blyth residence. It had been simple, really, once she’d turned the suppositions upside down.

  ‘At first I thought it might be you who had Rose,’ she said.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Mirabelle lifted a gloved finger to her lips. ‘Then I realised what was really going on. I misjudged you. Easily done with an arrogant young man, if you don’t mind me saying. Do you think you might be able to give me a lift, Harry? It would really help. Come on, get up. I’ve got your attention now, haven’t I?’

  The boy picked himself up and inspected his trousers.

  ‘Who the blazes are you?’

  Mirabelle took charge, walking round to the passenger side of the Aston Martin. ‘Best not discuss that here. I’ll tell you all about it on the way,’ she promised.

  ‘If you think …’

  She opened the door. ‘Oh yes. Thinking is my best quality. Well, you want Rose back, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t need you to get Rose back.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ she insisted. ‘Or at least you might. I certainly advise you not to bet your cousin’s life on it. Come along now. I’m chilly. Do you think we could stop somewhere to get a cup of tea?’

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ Harry regarded her warily but he swung into the driving seat and started the engine nevertheless.

  ‘Head for Park Lane,’ Mirabelle directed.

  They drove through Belgravia until they reached the corner of Hyde Park where there was a chip stand. Harry pulled over and bought two cups of tea, which they drank in the car. He took a slug of brandy in his and offered the hip flask to Mirabelle who declined.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘you saw them take Rose, didn’t you?’

  ‘What the hell has this got to do with you anyway?’ Mirabelle sipped her tea. ‘I’m your best chance, Harry.

  Really. And my name is Miss Bevan.’

  ‘Do you work for the police?’

  ‘No. My interest is in Lindon. You remember him? The musician the police wrongfully arrested. They did wrongfully arrest him, didn’t they? And you didn’t come forward.’

  Harry nodded. He’d tried asking questions as they’d driven but Mirabelle simply sidestepped everything. It had dawned on him that the woman appeared to know it all anyway and he had settled down to what seemed set to become a confession. It was hard to admit but it felt good to get things off his chest.

  ‘I couldn’t come forward. They had Rose. I thought we’d be able to do something about him after I got her back. I didn’t know he was going to do what he did, poor fellow. Vinny set us up. I didn’t know she had it in her. It seemed like a perfectly normal evening, you see. We went to the jazz club and got a bit squiffy. Then we went outside, intending to leave, and Rose got rid of that saxophone fellow who was a bit of a pest. And then, wham, these two hoodlums came out of nowhere. Big chaps. They grabbed Rose. I couldn’t fight them off. Vinny took charge. She said her father made her do it. I expect he did, the bastard. She even apologised afterwards. Anyway, they took Rose away in a car. Vinny calmed me down – she explained how it would all work and that if I went to the police her father would have Rose killed but if I did what they wanted it would all be fine. Then she phoned Mr Blyth to say everything was all right. I had to go along with it. She even made me go back into Mac’s and dance with her. We both had to have an alibi, she said. Perhaps I should have resisted more, but Vinny said it was the only way to get Rose back … and I was a bit drunk. She kept saying if I just did what her father wanted everything would be all right.’

  ‘And the guy on the door? Barney?’

  ‘He must have been in on it. He took Lindon back into the club before Blyth’s men took Rose. Afterwards he lied to the police about seeing Lindon get into a taxi with Rose, and so did we. We had to. The sax player was just Blyth’s fall guy. I didn’t see the doorman or the musician again. They weren’t around Mac’s when we got back from the phone box.’

  ‘So it was Paul Blyth who kidnapped Rose. And he did it because you had pictures of Lavinia and Deirdre. How did Blyth find out you had them?’

  ‘How the hell do …’ Mirabelle said nothing.

  ‘I don’t know how he found out. I think Vinny must have given something away. It wouldn’t have been Didi. The snaps were a bit of fun but he went mad, of course. Said it could ruin the girls for life, which it could if the photographs ever got out. They weren’t for that, though – we were just messing about. I explained that to him when he asked me for them a couple of weeks ago. Demanded, really. I thought
it was funny he got so wound up.’

  ‘But you didn’t hand them over.’

  ‘No. I told him I had them and I wouldn’t use them for anything, but I wasn’t giving them to him on principle. The girls had been willing and the pictures were mine. Bloody stupid mistake. I feel shabby as hell about it now.’

  ‘But Blyth knew if he took Rose, you’d have to give him whatever he asked.’

  ‘He’s ruined her reputation. I mean, Rose’ll never get married now. Not married up, anyway. She could have had a title by next year – some people say she was set to be a duchess. I’ll end up marrying her I suppose. Not that I mind. He tried to frame me, too, you know. Cold-hearted bastard.’

  ‘Yes. He sent you her dress.’

  ‘If the police found that there’d have been some explaining to do. He said he could have me arrested whenever he liked. I said I’d do whatever he wanted. He likes Sexing his muscles, doesn’t he?’

  ‘And your behaviour isn’t that of an innocent. He’d have succeeded, I imagine. I thought it was you for a while myself.’ Harry looked hurt, but Mirabelle pressed on. ‘So this evening you handed over the photos and the negatives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he waiting for?’

  Harry stared straight ahead and drank his tea. ‘Bloody money, of course. He said it was to teach me a lesson. It’s like he’s pissing on the gatepost, really. He wants his pound of flesh. Every last drop of blood. The bank doesn’t open until tomorrow. I’m to deliver to him at lunchtime. Sounds almost civilised, doesn’t it?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two thousand. It’s the most I can raise. My trust fund doesn’t allow for …’

  ‘And then you get Rose?’ Harry nodded.

  ‘You don’t read poetry, do you, Harry?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Louis MacNeice and the T.S. Eliot books came from Blyth?’

  ‘How did you … Yes, they did. He has this stupid bloody obsession with code. There are …’

  ‘Tiny pinpricks that spell things out. I didn’t see them – I think my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. It’s an old trick. Has he sent you the Dylan Thomas?’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘So that will come tomorrow with your final instructions.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll set her free, Miss Bevan?’

  Mirabelle considered. ‘He might. He didn’t expect Lindon to die, you see. I think what he does will rather depend on Rose. He’ll have to be certain she’ll be able to lie convincingly to her family and to the police about where she’s been. And she mustn’t crack. Paul Blyth has excellent information sources, and judgement. Do you think Rose will be able to convince him he can trust her performance?’

  ‘She’s going to say she was drugged and doesn’t remember anything after she left the club. She just woke up somewhere or other, tied up, and eventually managed to get out. She’ll be set free in the street and told to make her way home. She’s to be a blank canvas – that’s what he called it.’

  ‘Is she capable of that? Capable of lying, I mean? Even under pressure?’

  Harry nodded. A wry smile played around his mouth.

  ‘She’s made of stone. She’d withstand questioning by the bloody Gestapo.’

  Mirabelle turned sharply. ‘Really? Do you know what the Gestapo used to do to people?’

  Harry’s head dropped. ‘No. Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. Rose is dependable, though. She’s a smart dependable girl.’

  ‘Well, if you’re right and Blyth believes that, he’ll let her go. It’s his easiest way out now Lindon is dead. The police will assume Lindon drugged her and left her somewhere, and they’ll accept the witness statements as they stand. He isn’t implicated in any way. As long as he believes Rose is reliable then she’ll be fine.’

  ‘And if he decides that he can’t trust her?’

  ‘He’ll take your money and the negatives and he won’t risk his reputation.’

  ‘You mean he’d kill her?’

  ‘Yes. Paul Blyth is as cold as they come. I can guarantee that. And then, of course, there’d be nothing to stop you telling, so he’d come after you, Harry. Quick and sharp. He’d probably try to frame you in the process. Had you considered that?’

  The boy didn’t answer for a few seconds. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I’ve known Paul Blyth for years.’

  ‘Has he done this kind of thing before?’ Harry’s voice was incredulous.

  Mirabelle shrugged. She didn’t like to say that he’d done similar and worse for his country. It made her heart sink that everything seemed so much less than it had been. Blyth had never been a pleasant man but he’d worked for the greater good. Now he was reduced to bullying children over dubious photographs. Even if those photographs could ruin his family’s reputation, it was a step down from fighting for right. Blyth had always been arrogant and egoistic – a natural bully – and the disgrace should the snaps come out had clearly been more than he could bear. Belgravia was unforgiving in the matter of a chap’s daughters – Harry’s photographs could blight Vinny and Didi for life and the rest of the family by association. She could see why Blyth would come down hard. He’d have to be sure nothing would come out. ‘How does Blyth know you won’t double-cross him as soon as you’ve got Rose? You could simply go to the police and tell them everything.’

  ‘What bloody good would that do? Rose’s reputation is ruined already and all I’d do is duff up mine. Enter Harry Bellamy Gore the pornographer! It’d be a terrific scandal for the press and what would we get out of it? Rose and I can’t prove much – the key witness would be Vinny and she’s not going to blame her father. We don’t have anything that ties him to Rose’s disappearance apart from her word. No, I don’t want any more scandal. My parents would die. They’d blame me for what happened to Rose – they always blame me. It was bad enough getting caught with those snaps at school. There was a time, you see, when …’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Mirabelle dismissed the story. ‘I see what you mean.’

  Harry fell silent. He was beginning to think of Miss Bevan as a considerably more stylish version of his nanny. In fact, he rather liked her.

  They finished their tea and Mirabelle gave him directions. They drove towards Marylebone until they turned right past Daunt’s and pulled up round the corner on Moxon Street.

  Harry gestured at the bookshop. ‘Do you think Rose might be here?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘Come along, and bring that torch you have in the boot,’ said Mirabelle, to Harry’s astonishment.

  The pair walked towards the shop. It seemed an unlikely prison. The lock on the door was considerably heavier than those at the Oxford and Cambridge Club. Mirabelle extracted another hair pin. I’m going to look like a fright by the end of this evening, she thought as she applied herself to the mechanism. It took a few moments but she caught the tumbler and the door clicked open. Harry looked suitably impressed. Inside, he scanned the bookshelves with the torchlight. Mirabelle made for the cash desk, which yielded only stationery, a pile of bookmarks and a ledger.

  Grabbing the torch, she turned to the rear of the shop with the ledger in her hand to minimise the light visible from the street. She checked the columns of figures. Every month the shop paid eighty pounds in rent to Paul Blyth!

  ‘Well, there you have it,’ Harry said. ‘He owns the place. That’s why he got the books here.’

  ‘Yes. But why?’

  ‘Because he’s the landlord. He wouldn’t buy the books elsewhere.’

  ‘No. Why does he own it? Why do they pay rent to him directly? Not a trust fund. Not a solicitor. Not a collection agency or a property agent. Not a bank. This won’t be the only property Paul Blyth own
s. Not by a long shot. Yet they pay him, directly, don’t you see?’

  Harry cast his eyes over the shadowy bookshelves, lost for words. ‘Why not?’ he managed weakly.

  Mirabelle ignored him. She worked her way around the walls from the front to the rear. She checked the toilet, the kitchen and a cupboard full of cleaning supplies. Then she started on the floor, working from back to front. About halfway down there was a square of worn carpet. She pulled it up, and sure enough there was a trap door.

  ‘Here.’ She motioned to Harry, who turned the latch and pulled it open. A Sash with the torch revealed a low-ceilinged cellar reached by a wooden staircase.

  ‘Rose!’ Harry called out hopefully.

  ‘Oh really!’ Mirabelle popped a book beside the hinge so the trap door couldn’t close. Then she carefully made her way down the steps.

  The cellar had stone walls and no windows. It didn’t smell damp, but there was a faint odour of candle wax and sulphur. The otherwise empty space housed three large trunks stored off the floor on heavy wooden tables. Harry looked as if he might burst into tears. Mirabelle scanned the area behind the stairs to see if there was a key.

  ‘We need the keys,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Can’t you do that thing you did before?’

  ‘The locks are too big. I’d need a proper pick.’

  ‘I’ll go and look upstairs.’ Harry disappeared.

  Tentatively, Mirabelle tried to open one after the other, but it was no good. She could hear Harry moving overhead and then his footsteps coming down the stairs.

  ‘I couldn’t find a key,’ he said, ‘but how about this?’ He thrust a half-brick towards her.

  ‘You’re the brawn,’ Mirabelle grinned, and motioned towards the first trunk.

  It took him less than a minute to smash the locks. ‘They’ll know we’ve been here now,’ said Harry.

  ‘They’ll know someone has been here,’ Mirabelle corrected him.

  Together they peered into the first trunk. It was full of books, each one individually wrapped in brown paper. Harry took one and tore open the wrapping to reveal an unmarked blue hardcover. He flipped the book open.