Brighton Belle

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Why did Romana Laszlo need to borrow money?’ Mirabelle asked.

  Bert snorted. ‘You don’t know much.’

  ‘Well, look at it. It’s nice round here. They must have been doing all right. How did she get in touch with you?’

  Bert shifted uncomfortably. ‘Lisabetta. She knew me through Lisabetta.’

  Mirabelle nodded.

  Bert grabbed the handle of the door. ‘Come on, then.’ His tone was insistent. ‘Let’s have a look while it’s good and quiet.’

  They crossed the street and eyed the railings. There was no one around. Bert hauled himself awkwardly over the top and then turned to help Mirabelle. She took off her heels and threw them over and then clambered across the wrought-iron spikes, grabbing his hand to steady her.

  ‘We’re a right couple of crocks!’ Bert laughed.

  Mirabelle ignored him. She hadn’t dressed that morning for gymnastics and was not in the habit of scaling fences.

  ‘I saw Lisabetta, you know,’ she said, starting out across the lawn. ‘In Brighton this morning. With a prostitute.’

  Bert nodded. ‘She runs ’em. You don’t miss much, do you? Wouldn’t have thought a lady like you would have noticed that kind of thing and the sort of girls Lisabetta touts don’t advertise it too clearly.’

  Mirabelle did not explain. ‘She didn’t seem very upset about her sister.’

  A smirk crossed Bert’s face. ‘Them girls don’t feel much, if you see what I mean. Tough as old nails, Lisabetta. Looks like a china doll but she’d survive a nuclear blast. Hiroshimaproof, she is!’

  ‘Is that how you knew her? Because she was running a game? It’s only that, if you don’t mind me saying so, you seemed uncomfortable when you mentioned her.’

  ‘Nah,’ Bert said, ‘I didn’t know her the way you’re thinking. You got a dirty mind, Miss B! I knew a couple of girls, posh birds, who got into trouble with money. It’s been tough for some of them, after the war and all. I put them Lisabetta’s way ’cause she runs them sort of brasses upmarket. They was ever so grateful. Cleared their tabs in a couple of months, both of them. Suppose you could say Lisabetta and I became friends after that.’

  Bert loitered beside three iron steps that led up to tall glass doors with white painted frames. Mirabelle noted that despite his long explanation Bert hadn’t addressed why he had been uncomfortable and now he was standing in an aggressive position.

  ‘I don’t like to pay for it, myself. Takes the fun out,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh,’ he mimicked her, ‘of course, is it? Don’t get all hoity-toity, sweetheart – you’re breaking and entering, you know.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. He had a point.

  ‘Right, then, do you want me to do the honours? I can tamper the lock no problem.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Bert took a flick-knife from his pocket, opened it deftly and drew the blade upwards between the doors. When he reached the lock he manipulated it efficiently to one side. He had obviously jemmied a lock more than once but that was hardly a surprise.

  ‘After you,’ he said.

  Mirabelle stepped inside.

  The room was decorated in a soft duck-egg blue with a matching carpet. There were large luxurious peach sofas with hand-painted silk cushions depicting humming birds in flight scattered along the length. Beside almost every seat there was a brass-trimmed wooden side table with a glass top. All the furniture was arranged around an ornate white marble fireplace. It was a lovely room and very light because of the aspect onto the lush gardens to the rear.

  It suddenly occurred to Mirabelle that she wasn’t sure exactly what to look for, other than a general sense of Romana Laszlo, which was so far not apparent. There were no family photographs, only some coffee-table books – one with Victorian photographs of London and another called The Connoisseur with pictures of fine porcelain. In all Mirabelle counted four onyx boxes of cigarettes and three lighters dotted around the room, as well as a bowl containing half-used matchbooks from every smart club and bar in the West End. On one wall there was a large gilt-framed mirror and a couple of colourful prints of exotic orange flowers, and in an alcove a well-stocked drinks tray with a variety of shiny crystal glasses arrayed around it, except, Mirabelle noticed, running her eyes over the bottles, there was no gin. That must be the only drinks tray in England without it, she thought.

  ‘Have you been in here before?’ she asked Bert.

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, two or three times. I always used to meet Lisabetta at the Kitten in Chelsea, up the road. Bit of a dive but that was her hang-out. She likes clubs does Lisabetta – the dark and the smoke, you know? But Romana met me here a couple of times. Not a party girl like her sister and being in the family way and all. She said she needed a hand and that Lisabetta was out of the country. She had some money she was inheriting. I dunno about that – people will tell you anything, but I knew Lisabetta and I thought that was enough.’

  ‘You handed over a lot of money though, Bert. What was she like?’

  Bert took a cigarette from a box on one of the tables and lit it with a match. ‘Romana? Pretty girl. Like Lisabetta, attractive. Though Lisabetta is sexier. She wears those low tops and all that. A cracker. Romana, she was more your classical beauty. It’s a lot of money, all right! Don’t I know it!’

  ‘Do you know where Lisabetta went when she left the country?’

  Bert thought for a moment. ‘Not really,’ he shrugged. ‘Got the impression of it being family business, or something. But Romana didn’t really say.’

  ‘And they got on, the girls?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ Bert said. ‘Never saw anything that would make me think otherwise.’

  Mirabelle crossed the room and peered into the long dark hallway, which led to the rest of the flat. A small kitchen was fitted through a door to one side with a dining room ahead of it.

  ‘You go on.’ Bert motioned as he lit a cigarette and stood in the bay that led back to the garden, flicking his ash down the steps and onto the pathway. As Mirabelle stalked up the hallway and into the kitchen she could hear him whistling as he smoked. She quickly checked the kitchen cupboards, which were mostly bare, although in one there were several jars of olives and a treasure trove of syrup tins which in one fell swoop was worth weeks of sugar rations. Next she returned to the hall and checked the mail lying on the mat. There were a couple of shop accounts in Romana’s name and some letters for Lisabetta – mostly they looked like invitations. After glancing at the dining room – still no photographs – she took the set of stairs that led to the basement.

  ‘Bedrooms down there, I expect,’ Bert called.

  Mirabelle descended. The bathroom contained only some lavender soap and a jar of faded blue bath salts. Not so much as a toothbrush remained. In both bedrooms however there were abundant quantities of clothes. Mirabelle checked the drawers and noted that one woman favoured black underwear while the other preferred pale pink. There were no clothes, or indeed underclothes, suitable for accommodating a pregnancy bump, though for what must surely be a short time it might be deemed unnecessary to waste money on more than three or four outfits, which probably had gone with Romana to Brighton. Still, something was vexing about the cupboards. The clothes were perfectly lovely, but they niggled. In one of the bedside drawers there was a vicious looking flick-knife with a serrated edge.

  Mirabelle sat on the edge of the bed in front of the closet. She turned the knife over in her hand as she considered this but in seconds she was disturbed by a commotion upstairs. There was a man’s voice shouting and the sound of a table with a glass top shattering. Then came a sudden roar like thunder and she saw Bert’s shoes flash past the sunken window of the larger bedroom as he hared across the lawn, throwing his cigarette to one side as he was pursued by the boots of a uniformed policeman blowing a whistle. Her heart sank as she sprang up and made it back up the stairs in record time. Gingerly she peered into the sitting room, ready to turn herse
lf in and come clean about what they were doing. It had been her idea to come here, after all. It was her responsibility. But as she entered, her heart pounding, there was no one there. Through the open door, across the gardens, Bert was jumping the fence with an extraordinary vigour that Mirabelle felt sure would do his back no good. The policeman was in hot pursuit.

  Mirabelle stood away from the window. Weak-fingered, she thought for a moment and then turned back into the flat. There was nothing more she needed to see and there was no point in getting caught as well. Comforting herself that it wasn’t the first time Bert would ever have been chased by the Old Bill, Mirabelle picked her way through the broken glass, turned smartly into the hall, sneaked through the front door and slipped down the steps onto the pavement. There was no one around – not even a shadow in the high windows. She turned away from Bert’s car and walked casually around the corner to the other side of the park. Ahead of her by two blocks, the policeman was racing towards King’s Road, the sound of his whistle intermittent as he ran out of breath. There was no sign of Bert.

  Mirabelle turned in the opposite direction and picked up the pace realising suddenly that she felt hot in her tan cashmere dress. It was so difficult to dress appropriately when the seasons changed – the British weather was nothing if not erratic. Spring was the worst – freezing in Brighton this morning and then practically tropical in Knightsbridge in the afternoon. And all at once it came to her. The clothes in the wardrobe. Of course. One wardrobe was for the winter season and the other for the summer. But did that mean that the sisters shared everything? Mirabelle had no siblings and she really wasn’t sure what was normal. They must have been

  close, she reasoned, they shared a flat, after all. Or, it came to her, more likely, poor Romana had known there was no point in leaving clothes in the flat because she wasn’t coming back. Perhaps she knew she was going to die. Mirabelle shuddered. It felt as if she was looking for a ghost.

  8

  All knowledge begins with experience.

  After some consideration Mirabelle decided to have a look at the Kitten. Bert was long gone and if he had any sense he’d stay away from Cadogan Gardens for a while. He’d said the club was in Chelsea and now it was her only outstanding lead.

  Rather than join the main street she followed a warren of backstreets until she came to King’s Road, far enough from where Bert must have entered that she was sure no one would connect her with a Notting Hill wide boy on the run. It occurred to her suddenly that he’d been a fool to stand about smoking in that suit in full view of every flat in the vicinity and, come to think of it, whistling loudly, too. No wonder the police had arrived. Bert seemed savvy but there was no denying that he’d as good as advertised the fact he’d broken into the flat. Perhaps he’d meant to. As the lightbulb flashed on in Mirabelle’s mind she realised that Bert must have intended it. Her brain began to whir. Was it possible that Bert had already known about Romana’s death? He hadn’t seemed shocked when she told him. More suspiciously he had only answered what she’d asked, rather than posing any questions of his own. That didn’t seem like normal behaviour for someone who made their living by lending money. Mirabelle had met plenty of moneylenders. A healthy interest in other people’s affairs was a tool of the trade – look how many questions Bert had asked when he first arrived in the Brighton office. In London, this time, he had only volunteered the Cadogan Gardens address when she’d told him that Big Ben sent her – and by implication, if he didn’t help, perhaps Big Ben might arrive. And besides that he’d hardly asked a single question.

  Also, he’d been keen to accompany her to the apartment – in fact, he’d insisted – and breaking in had been his idea. Why had he been smoking anyway? Mirabelle had never seen him light up before – not in the office or in the pub. He didn’t carry cigarettes – he’d taken one from the box on the table. He didn’t even carry a lighter. If Bert was involved in some way he might have brought her to the flat hoping it would keep Big Ben away. He knew full well there was nothing much there. Then he’d as good as trumpeted the break-in so that one of the neighbours would call the police. With a sinking feeling she realised how foolish she’d been. Bert Jennings was involved in this up to his neck.

  Damn it, she cursed. She’d been duped. It had just felt so nice to have a man around again. Her heart pulsed with sadness as she realised just how much she had missed that feeling. And here she was now, alone in the middle of something that was turning out to be rather complicated. For a start, if Bert was involved, why had he needed Ben to pursue the money in the first place? Surely he could have gone straight to Lisabetta or found Romana Laszlo himself?

  It was clearly a lot more difficult in the field than in the office, where you could keep your distance and maintain a calculated composure. Being faced with real people was a far tougher call on one’s judgement. The details were a tight knot of information, impossible to draw into easily recognisable strands.

  Feeling as if she’d been a fool, Mirabelle tried to think what Jack would do. On the principle that your left hand should never know what your right hand is doing – she could hear his voice now – she stopped at the first callbox and rang the Red Lion. After over a minute the barmaid answered in her familiar nasal twang: ‘Yeah?’

  ‘When Bert gets back,’ Mirabelle instructed, ‘tell him Miss B says thank you and hopes he’s all right.’

  The barmaid sniffed in a way that seemed to imply Bert needed no thanks whatsoever and would be just fine. ‘Sure, Miss B,’ she said.

  ‘Tell him I’m a bit rattled and planning to go straight home. We had a close call there.’

  ‘Right.’

  The phone clicked and Mirabelle hung up, heartened that she had at least managed a little disinformation. Then she continued in the direction of Chelsea.

  It was warm for April. King’s Road was bustling with residents returning at the end of their working day. There was the smell of cooking and an air of domesticity with more than one man carrying flowers and a bottle of wine.

  Mirabelle told herself she just had to persevere, and her first problem would be finding that damn nightclub.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Mirabelle asked a man in a suit carrying a bunch of yellow roses, ‘do you know where the Kitten is?’

  ‘Sorry no,’ he said emphatically.

  After asking half a dozen gentlemen, Mirabelle began to wonder how the place survived until at last the aghast expression on one man’s face as he denied all knowledge of the club told its own story.

  Where angels fear to tread, she thought as she hailed a cab.

  ‘The Kitten? Not worth the fare,’ the driver told her. ‘It’s only a block away. But you’re early.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not even dark yet. I’m not sure a lady like you ought to be going to a place like that, Miss, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I have to drop off a letter,’ Mirabelle reassured him. ‘A solicitor’s letter.’

  ‘Well, he said doubtfully, ‘you can see the turn-off from here.’

  The lane was downmarket. Despite pretty flowerboxes and well-maintained cobblestones in front of the converted mews houses, it was clear that the dead end contained at least one little casino and two bars as well as the club – none of them currently open for business. The neon signs were switched off – and looked, Mirabelle thought, like strange skeletal winter trees. The Kitten was at the end on the righthand side. Mirabelle quickly ascertained that the door was locked. She rang the bell. No answer. She rapped on the door for good measure. Nothing.

  Finally, she picked her way around the side of the building past the bins beside the back door. There was no bell so, once more, she tried knocking. Still no reply. Then with a shrug she made the decision and crossed the line. Carefully, still wearing heels, she climbed on top of the bins to reach a small window halfway up the wall. Then, with the faintest glimmer of a smile, she withdrew the flick-knife she had found in the bedside table at the flat and following Bert Jennings’ example slid the blade along and
manipulated it to release the catch. The window opened immediately.

  ‘Not that much of an idiot,’ she whispered to Jack, and then slipped carefully through the opening.

  It was a dressing room. Dancers’ costumes hung on a steel rail and feathered headpieces were stacked on two faceless dummies, eerie in the half-light. On the back of the door a riding whip and a feather boa hung on a hook. The place felt grubby, as if it had never been cleaned. Spots of stray make-up dotted the dressing table, which was covered with a light dusting of talc. The contents of an ashtray spilled over onto the floor. Mirabelle looked back at the open window a moment before she decided to continue. Then she tried the door, which opened onto a passageway to one side. It was ship-shape out there. There were three locked storerooms, two with iron bars instead of doors. A quick glance confirmed they were full of bottles and kegs. Mirabelle turned in the other direction. She needed to find the office. She might be able to trace Lisabetta and Romana if there was a list of members or guests – even an address book and an accounts log would be wonderful. She pushed a black door and entered the main room of the club. It was cleaner in there though it reeked of stale smoke. The chairs were piled on the tabletops and the floor gleamed – one of many shiny surfaces that glinted in the blackness as the light entered in her wake. The only non-reflective form she could make out was a tiny square stage against the back wall. Mirabelle wedged the door open with a chair to let in the light and crossed the dance floor towards the bar. Perhaps there was something behind there. But as she leaned over, a shape sprang towards her out of the pitch-black. A tray of glasses was knocked from the bar and shattered. Mirabelle screamed as she was wrestled to the floor and a yellow beam of torchlight shone in her face, blinding her.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ a male voice said in a broad Australian drawl. ‘Who are you?’

  Mirabelle tried to strike out. ‘Get off me!’ she screamed.

  The man laughed. ‘Right,’ he said, holding her down even more tightly. ‘I said: who the hell are you?’