British Bulldog

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Mirabelle Bevan,’ she said.

  ‘Miss Bevan, I’m calling because I received your letter.’

  ‘Yes, and I must apologise,’ Mirabelle cut in. It would be best to get that out of the way. ‘When I wrote to you I had no idea of your previous engagement to Flight Lieutenant Caine, Mrs Bradley. I discovered what had happened only after I had posted the letter. You must have had a horrible shock when you read it. I’m most dreadfully sorry.’

  ‘“Discovered” my previous engagement? What on earth do you mean? What kind of “horrible shock”? Miss Bevan, it sounds as if you have been investigating my private life like some kind of seedy snoop. There is nothing underhand here. I want to make it clear I have absolutely nothing to hide. None the less, I don’t appreciate your deciding to poke your nose into my business. I don’t appreciate it at all.’ The woman sounded furious.

  ‘Major Bradley asked me …’ Mirabelle began, but Mrs Bradley cut her off, clearly more intent on what she had to say than on Mirabelle’s response.

  ‘That is exactly what I want to talk to you about, Miss Bevan. Matthew was quite unsettled at the end, I’m sad to say. He wasn’t in his right mind. In the circumstances it seems best to discuss the matter in person. I would like to see you at four thirty this afternoon.’

  ‘Four thirty?’ Mirabelle was confused. ‘Where?’

  ‘I came down at once, don’t you see? This sort of thing can’t be allowed to fester. I’m staying with an old family friend in Hove. The house is called Moorcroft, at the end of Selborne Road. I won’t have it, you know. You can’t cast aspersions and rake people’s names through the mud in this derogatory fashion. There was absolutely nothing that wasn’t respectable about my engagement to Flight Lieutenant Caine. Lots of girls have more than one beau. My late husband must have been confused. I simply can’t imagine what he meant by all this.’

  ‘Look, I’ve decided not to accept the Major’s bequest in any case.’

  Mrs Bradley didn’t appear to be listening. ‘Four thirty,’ she said decisively and hung up.

  Mirabelle sank into the chair behind her desk with the telephone in her hand. She looked at the mouthpiece in dismay. This wasn’t what she had had in mind for the afternoon. Vesta pulled two ham rolls from her bag and set them on the table.

  ‘You’ll need lunch,’ she pointed out. ‘Mrs Bradley’s here, is she?’ Vesta retrieved the telephone from the older woman’s grasp and hung it up. ‘Why on earth do you think she came down?’

  Mirabelle shrugged her shoulders. Surely a newly bereaved widow must have more on her plate than hightailing it to meet a woman her husband had asked to deal with a matter well over a decade old. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to go and see her, I suppose.’

  Vesta picked up one of the rolls and handed it over. ‘Go on,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll make us a brew.’

  Chapter 9

  My past is everything I failed to be.

  Selborne Road stretched south to north into the heart of Hove. Mirabelle knew the street. The houses just up from First Avenue had been built in Victorian times. Near the main road some of them had been converted into shops and flats, but as the road continued it quickly became residential and the villas were occupied by the same sector of the population they had been intended for decades before – Brighton’s well-to-do. Though the architecture wasn’t as swanky as some of the white stucco terraces that had been erected in the town’s Georgian heyday, the houses were popular as family homes.

  The pavement led steeply uphill. The light was already fading, and it would be dark soon. When Mirabelle was halfway to the top, the lamps clicked on up the left side of the street, leaving the right-hand pavement in relative darkness. It was difficult to make out the name plaques on the houses. Mirabelle’s heart raced as she peered through the gloom, scanning the front doors for a sign saying Moorcroft. Towards the end of the road all the houses had names rather than numbers – a sign, she thought, of the residents’ aspirations.

  Mirabelle crossed the tarmac several times, peering at the nameplates on either side. Three or four vehicles were parked in the street, obscuring some of the names. Eventually, dodging one way and another, she located the correct house. Moorcroft was well maintained. The gate didn’t squeak as Mirabelle pushed it open and looked up at the building. Inside, the lights were on; smoke drifted from the chimney and disappeared instantly, subsumed by the clouds. Over the door the fanlight glowed gold. At least it looks warm, Mirabelle comforted herself as she approached. She was expecting to be berated and only hoped the visit needn’t last too long. To her left the tiny front garden was frozen, a few laurels and a brittle rosemary bush holding out against the chill. In the gloom she rang the bell without looking. Inside, nothing shifted for a moment and then a maid appeared.

  ‘Mrs Bradley is expecting me. I’m Miss Bevan.’

  The girl stood back and Mirabelle slipped past, handing over her coat. Something is wrong, she thought. There’s something I haven’t noticed. Oblivious of Mirabelle’s unease, the maid laid her things on a chair and led the way upstairs. ‘The ladies are in the drawing room.’

  Mirabelle followed, trying to ignore the niggling feeling that pulsed in her brain. Instead, she attempted to focus on her surroundings. The hallway was papered in peach with garlands of white and yellow flowers. Above an oak dresser a couple of well-executed landscapes hung on the wall. A pair of brass candlesticks stood on the table in case there was a power cut. The stairs were carpeted in green, held in place by polished brass rods. A hundred other houses on this road and those round it must look the same. There was nothing extraordinary about it. And yet her skin prickled.

  Upstairs, the maid opened the door into the warmth of a comfortable room with a bay window. It was decorated in pale blue with an impressive number of colourful paintings on display, many of which were quite modern. The room was in sharp contrast to the more traditional hallway. Someone in the family must be a collector. A fire was roaring in the grate, and on a sofa in front of it, partly obscured by the inordinate number of cushions stacked along its perimeter, sat two women. One was dressed in a dark brown suit set off by a slim red leather belt. She was smoking a cigarette in an amber holder and holding a cocktail glass in her other hand. She rose to her feet, and Mirabelle’s nagging unease resolved itself in a flash of horrified recognition. Her fingers began to tremble as Jack’s widow greeted her with a thin smile.

  ‘You must be Mirabelle Bevan.’

  The women had never met, but Mirabelle had seen Mrs Duggan a few times over the years, though always in the distance. The woman’s tone was cool and superior. She was not in a rush. Her hair had been cut short, Mirabelle noted. It suited her, curling around her ears like an elfin cap. She seemed younger in widowhood – more vibrant. Would Jack have said she looked like a beautiful imp?

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded weakly. ‘Mirabelle Bevan. That’s me.’

  ‘Mary Duggan.’

  Mirabelle took in the room in a whirl as it finally sank in that she was standing in Jack’s house. She had never been here – never even been close. She was not the kind of woman who stalked her lover, who hung around outside his family home, but she had known he lived in Selborne Road. He had even told her the number, but all the way along the pavement she had focused solely on the names, as if she was determined not to notice the only thing about Selborne Road that mattered. How had she not realised that this had been Jack’s home? Her mind flew back to the moments she had stood on the doorstep. There had been no number, she was sure of it, and no family nameplate – only the name of the house. But here it was – the place where Jack had died. His sudden heart attack struck out of the blue on the street outside the front door. With a stab, she realised that she’d walked past the spot without even noticing. He had set out that morning to visit her, as he did every day. But when he died no one came to tell her because no one knew she was there, waiting for him. Mirabelle tried to stay calm. I must get out of here quickly, she thought.

&nb
sp; Her eyes were drawn to the mantelpiece, which housed an ormolu clock and a stack of formal invitation cards. It appeared Mrs Duggan was a sought after guest. There was a photograph of two girls – Jack’s daughters. Twins. In the picture they were outside, laughing. It was sunny. The image almost took Mirabelle’s breath away. One of the girls looked particularly like Jack – or a slim, younger version of him. Above the photograph, in pride of place, was an oil painting of an old man. Mirabelle wondered momentarily who he might be. He didn’t look like Jack at all – perhaps he came from Mrs Duggan’s side of the family. She felt giddy.

  ‘This is Caroline Bradley.’ Mrs Duggan indicated the other woman – a smartly coiffed blonde with hard eyes, wearing mourning dress.

  Mirabelle struggled to control her emotions and realised that she felt sick. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Bradley,’ she managed. ‘I want to say, first of all, that I had no idea when I wrote to you that you had any personal connection to Flight Lieutenant Caine. And I also want to be quite clear that I made no arrangement with Major Bradley. I hardly knew him. I was shocked to hear that he had left this bequest in his will. I hadn’t expected it.’

  Mrs Duggan stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘You worked for my late husband, didn’t you, Miss Bevan? When he was in London. Poor Jack.’

  Mirabelle could only nod. Mrs Duggan sized her up.

  ‘Perhaps I ought to have been in touch with you before. I could have done with some secretarial assistance after Jack died. He left our affairs in a dreadful mess.’

  Mirabelle bit her tongue. There was no point in keeping her own counsel all this time only to lose her temper now. She didn’t want to hurt Mrs Duggan, or, more important, her daughters. The girls were, after all, the reason Jack had waited before pursuing a divorce. He wanted them to have finished their education, or at least be living away from home before he caused what would have been a family scandal. Nevertheless, the idea that he might have left his personal papers in some kind of mess was inconceivable. Jack was highly organised.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she got out. ‘I hope you found a way to sort things out.’

  ‘It was a grim business.’ Mrs Duggan waved a hand in the air as if flicking away a fly. ‘One finds out such a great deal once everything is over, as Mrs Bradley is discovering. She is disconcerted to say the least, aren’t you, Caroline? Might I offer you a drink, Miss Bevan? Please.’ She indicated a chair.

  Mirabelle dropped into the cushions like a ball caught in a large leather glove. Out for six. Mrs Duggan turned to the drinks cabinet and began mixing a cocktail. There was a display of flowers on a side table – all out of season. Then Mirabelle realised they had been dried. The chrysanthemums and hydrangeas must be crisp. She met Caroline Bradley’s eye.

  ‘I don’t want to take up the Major’s bequest,’ she said. ‘I decided last night. This really has nothing to do with me. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.’

  Caroline Bradley inclined her head. ‘Yes. Matthew was ill. He became unreasonable at the end. It does no good to go digging up the past. But I understand from your letter that you started to investigate, Miss Bevan. I’m curious. Did you turn up anything?’

  The tiniest pause hung in the air, hovering in the space between the women – a strange unequal triangle. Then Mirabelle found she couldn’t help herself. ‘Nothing more than I told you … but, Mrs Bradley, do you have any idea what happened to Flight Lieutenant Caine? I must say, it does seem odd that he just disappeared.’

  The widow’s eyes blazed. ‘Well, of course not,’ she snapped. ‘I was horrified when I realised what Matthew had done. No good can come of it. All this time I assumed Philip was dead. He must be dead. Everyone said so.’

  ‘Did they? I wondered, you see, if Mr Caine had a family. Siblings? Parents?’

  ‘No. Not really. They’re all long passed now. Even his brother died. He was RAF too, 52 Squadron. He was shot down in Burma and that was that.’

  ‘But Philip Caine flew in Europe?’

  ‘Yes. The 51st. That was their father’s squadron. In the Great War. The old man was obsessed by Zeppelins. Philip was a career flier – not like Pete, his brother. When the squadron was re-formed Phil jumped at the chance to fly with the 51st. He patrolled U-boats for a while. Then he was chosen for bombing raids – pilots with experience were in demand, you see. That’s when he was shot down.’

  ‘And his father is dead too? Both his parents?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Old Mr Caine died after the Great War. His mother died shortly after Philip didn’t come home. Missing in action. Losing two sons – it doesn’t bear thinking about. I suppose there might be some cousins. Miss Bevan, but you can’t go raking people’s reputations through the mud. I won’t have it.’

  Mirabelle wondered momentarily to whose reputation Mrs Bradley was referring.

  ‘The Bradleys are old family friends,’ Mrs Duggan cut in. ‘I know my late husband would want Mrs Bradley’s wishes to be respected, Miss Bevan. Especially at this difficult time.’

  She handed Mirabelle a glass. Mirabelle sipped slowly. The iced gin slipped satisfyingly over her lips. It was most refreshing. Had there been two Jack Duggans, she wondered? The man who lived here and drank gin cocktails in this comfortable upstairs drawing room and accompanied his wife to at least some of the events denoted by the stack of invitation cards on the mantel. The man whose social circle, unbeknownst to her, included the Bradleys. And her Jack – a man who was indomitable, clever and brave. A man who drank whisky and waltzed her round the bedroom in her silk negligee before laying her gently on the mattress. A man who loved the airy high ceilings down at the front. Mrs Duggan did not look like a lady who waltzed – certainly not en déshabillé.

  ‘It must be difficult,’ Mirabelle said. ‘There really aren’t words. May I ask, how are your daughters, Mrs Duggan?’

  ‘Oh fine.’ Mrs Duggan waved a hand. ‘They have turned out to be career girls. Young women today enjoy that kind of thing. And of course one is so much more resilient when one is younger. Isla is working at Vogue. Lilian found a place at the British Museum. The children are all you have left.’ She directed the last comment to Caroline Bradley.

  ‘Did they go to college?’ Mirabelle asked. ‘I know Mr Duggan was very keen that they should have an education.’

  ‘Yes – they left home almost directly after he died. The graduation was last year. Caroline looked after them a good deal while they were at university, didn’t you, dear?’

  Mrs Bradley finished her cocktail. ‘Durham,’ she said. ‘Fine Art. I’m always happy to keep an eye on a friend’s offspring. Weekends; the odd lunch. It was fun really. Perhaps when Jenny is old enough someone might return the favour. Though the poor thing is a bit of a dummy when it comes to school work. I can’t imagine she’ll go on.’

  ‘How old is your daughter?’ Mirabelle enquired politely.

  Mrs Bradley deposited her empty glass on a side table. ‘Far too young to be worrying about higher education. She’s pony mad at present. I was the same at her age. It’ll be some time before I need to think of her leaving home. So, Miss Bevan, have we persuaded you?’

  ‘Persuaded me?’

  ‘To throw over this ridiculous quest of Matthew’s. Don’t you see? It won’t achieve anything. I think he was out of his mind at the end. And really, it’s too intrusive.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I understand.’

  ‘I can talk to Lovatt and see if we can get you a payment – a sweetener, they call it, don’t they?’ Mrs Bradley offered. ‘But the terms of the bequest, I hope you can see now … it’s simply not on.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I just feel sorry that it’s been so distressing for you.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Mrs Bradley scrambled for her handbag. ‘But you must let me give you something for your trouble.’ She withdrew her chequebook and a fountain pen.

  Mirabelle got to her feet. ‘Not at all. I won’t hear of it. Please. I have to g
o home and get changed for dinner,’ she lied. ‘We’re dining out and I don’t want to be late.’

  The women nodded. ‘How nice to have someone waiting for you,’ Mrs Bradley said as she put away the chequebook and snapped shut her handbag.

  Mirabelle did not contradict her. A sense of relief settled in the room. Jack’s widow refilled her glass and took a sip.

  ‘Don’t let us keep you.’ She reached for the bell. ‘Time is marching on. I’ll have Alison show you out.’

  Chapter 10

  Love never dies a natural death.

  Mirabelle stumbled down Selborne Road in the darkness. The main road was busy – it was rush hour. Buses were crammed with people on their way home from work. Shops were taking in their displays for the night. Mirabelle felt grateful for the cold. It cleared her head – and not only after the gin. The frozen air felt like silk and she kept going, down First Avenue all the way to the front. She didn’t want to go home. Instead, she crossed the road and stood on the grass verge, staring at the vast black ocean and wishing the darkness would engulf her.

  Seeing Jack’s home had shifted something. Mirabelle understood suddenly that his memory didn’t only belong to her. Up till now she had hoarded him. She had considered the Jack she knew to be the only Jack Duggan – the authentic one. This afternoon it had become apparent that Mrs Duggan owned a side of her husband that Mirabelle had never seen. And that man was real as well.

  ‘I was his mistress,’ she said out loud. ‘That was all.’ Jack’s death had left her permanently stranded on the wrong side of everything. But then, if he had left his wife and married Mirabelle, would it have made much difference after he died? She’d have been able to admit her grief publicly, but she’d still be on her own. Sometimes things just didn’t work out according to plan.

  Mirabelle took a seat on one of the wooden benches that lined the strip of lawn. Behind her the windows of the tall buildings on the front glowed jewel-like out to sea, and above her the moon glowed back. Brighton was beautiful. In the distance she could make out the gaudy fairy lights on the pier and the flashing signs outside the amusement arcades. The front had changed. During the war the beach had been mined and everything had been blacked out. For years it was off limits. Now it had been reopened and taken back into the public domain – not only by the tourists but by the locals too. Further along the pebbles there were still a couple of decommissioned bombs on display – blasts from the past, jokers quipped. During the daytime they were generally surrounded by groups of small boys.