Brighton Belle

by Sara Sheridan

  Vesta shrugged. ‘Depends on how much money he’s got.’

  ‘Well, leave it to me,’ Mirabelle promised.

  As Vesta reached the door she halted in her tracks and spun round. ‘You know anything about cars? I got a guy coming at half ten to cover his new Ford. It’s one of those rotten Zephyrs – brand new and due on order any minute. 1951 registration and custom white paintwork – flashy! He’s all excited and we get good commission on those fancy vehicles. Look after him for me, will you? Just get the licence details and write down his insurance history. I’ll ring him back with the quotation when I get in.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Mirabelle and wondered how Vesta’s lazy idiom had managed to get inside her head.

  12

  Never was anything great achieved without danger.

  Father Sandor entered the vestry to change into the appropriate garb for the funeral. This set him thinking about his encounter with Mirabelle. The poor woman had been troubled, clearly, and he had wanted to comfort her. Now he realised that his need was personal – selfish even. Mirabelle Bevan was the only connection with his former life that had surfaced in the six years since he’d come to Brighton. The horror of what he had witnessed, the bodies piled in the woods, the starving Roma children, the sunken-eyed Jews, the decimation of the countryside held no romantic attraction for Sandor. He was glad the war was over. The SS men he’d ministered to in Paris had been at once the most evil and most tortured souls he’d ever encountered. These days Father Sandor was glad to live in uninteresting times though he followed the War Crimes Tribunals in the newspapers as they tailed off and the war seemed to recede. England suited him. Still, now Jack was dead, aside from dusty notes in a file, it was likely that only Mirabelle knew exactly what he’d done for the Allies. There was something about that which was still important to him. He wondered if he was succumbing to the sin of pride. He must pray.

  Sandor slipped into his vestments and checked his watch. The doctor had said it would be a small funeral. They only wanted something simple. ‘Poor Romana, she didn’t know a soul here apart from Lisabetta and me. We’ll see her off,’ he’d instructed with a boyish expression.

  The sealed coffin had arrived the night before and the gravediggers had prepared its stand. Father Sandor turned the iron handle on the vestry door to enter the church. As he did every day, he swore to buy some oil and see to the creaking catch. Every day he forgot by the time he reached the altar. Today he stopped on the way and scooped up a prayerbook from the shelf beside the front pew. Sandor knew the funeral service by heart but he usually held a book anyway. It gave him something to do with his hands. The gravediggers were coming at ten sharp. They’d carry the coffin outside then.

  As he approached the altar Father Sandor stopped. There was a plump black woman in a long dark coat with her back to him. She seemed frozen as she bent over the coffin so he hadn’t noticed her immediately. As Vesta turned and smiled, her teeth shone in the gloom of the church.

  ‘Father,’ she said, ‘this coffin is closed. I had hoped to pay my last respects properly.’

  ‘Did you know Romana?’ Father Sandor asked gently.

  ‘No, not really. I’m from the life insurance company,’ Vesta replied. ‘The Prudential. We sometimes attend.’

  ‘I see. The coffin arrived closed.’

  ‘Is that normal?’ Vesta enquired.

  ‘Sometimes. Look, this isn’t a good time, Miss. The poor woman’s sister will be arriving any minute. She has lost not only a sister but a nephew as well. Please show some respect.’

  Vesta cast her eyes to the ground. This encounter was not going well. ‘You’re Father Sandor, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Vesta leaned towards him conspiratorially ‘Well, I’m a friend of Mirabelle,’ she whispered.

  Sandor felt himself standing up straighter. ‘Mirabelle sent you?’

  ‘She’s kind of my boss,’ Vesta replied, ‘if you see what I mean.’

  ‘You need to see inside this casket?’

  Vesta crinkled her nose. ‘Uh-huh, that’s what she wants me to do.’

  At that moment there was the echo of high heels and Lisabetta appeared on Dr Crichton’s arm in the doorway of the Church. She was wearing a tight-fitting black suit with slingbacks and a tiny black hat made entirely of feathers. Vesta took a step back and hung her head. Lisabetta was carrying a white handkerchief that stood out against her mourning garb and she sniffed repeatedly as she walked towards the front of the church.

  ‘Father Sandor,’ she said, staring at Vesta with naked interest. ‘Who is this?’

  Vesta stepped forward with her hand held out. ‘Vesta Churchill. Prudential Insurance. Our condolences on the death of your sister.’

  Lisabetta nodded gracefully but did not touch Vesta’s outstretched fingers. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her eyes lingering, taking in every detail. ‘Romana had only recently arrived here. She knew few people in England and none in Brighton save myself and Dr Crichton. I’m afraid the funeral is only for us.’

  ‘I understand,’ Vesta said. ‘You’d like me to leave?’

  Lisabetta brought the handkerchief to her nose. Vesta noticed that Dr Crichton touched her arm very slightly and stepped in. ‘I think what Lisabetta means is that this will be a very humble funeral. Please don’t feel you have to stay out of a sense of duty.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ Vesta said firmly. No one looked at her like that. It had been an inspection and an insult all at once. ‘I’d like to.’

  The coffin bearers arrived and the little party proceeded outside to the churchyard. There was no sign of rain as they walked between the gravestones to a newly dug plot. Sandor nodded at Vesta and opened the book at a random page. He began the funeral service while Lisabetta sniffed quietly and Dr Crichton hovered protectively over her tiny frame.

  ‘Our sister, Romana, came from a tiny village. A village I knew well. She travelled a long way and was poised on the verge of taking on the new role of motherhood with all that has to offer a young woman. It was an exciting time and tragically the Lord took her in her prime. We commend Romana and her dear child now to the earth.’

  Here he began to talk in what Vesta at first thought was Latin but quickly realised was Hungarian. Lisabetta held the handkerchief to her face and kept crying. Dr Crichton’s face froze. After a minute or two the Hungarian gave way to what sounded like a prayer. Vesta bowed her head. The coffin was lowered into the ground and Lisabetta threw in a clod of earth.

  ‘I will organise a nice headstone,’ she sniffed, ‘perhaps black with gold lettering.’

  ‘Not now,’ Dr Crichton put his arm around her. ‘Don’t worry about that now, my dear.’

  Sandor led the party to the church. The gravediggers hung back. They would fill the plot when the grieving relations were out of sight. Despite the fact that mourners often threw in a handful or two of earth or even some flowers, there was something about actually watching the top of the wooden box disappear that made mourning women inconsolable. It was the custom to wait for everyone to leave before the men with the spades finished the job.

  ‘We will go home,’ Lisabetta announced and reached out regally to shake Vesta’s hand. Dr Crichton discreetly disappeared to fetch the car.

  ‘A tragic loss,’ Vesta said. ‘We lose fewer women in childbirth nowadays. I’m so sorry your sister had to be one of them.’

  ‘She had a little boy, you know,’ Lisabetta volunteered. ‘He was dead when he came out. She always said she’d name a little boy Dominic.’

  ‘Awful.’

  Lisabetta touched Sandor’s arm lightly. ‘Thank you, Father. Such a comfort.’

  The car pulled up at the kerb and Crichton leapt out to open the door.

  ‘Do you always come to the funerals of your clients?’ Dr Crichton asked as Lisabetta ducked into the front seat.

  Vesta shook her head. ‘One in four,’ she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, before adding, ‘and she was so young and it seemed such
a shame. We pick out anything unusual. Did you know her well, Doctor?’

  ‘Not as well as I know Lisabetta. Romana had only just arrived.’ He closed the door. ‘She lived in Paris until her husband died recently. Poor Lisabetta is alone now. Utterly alone.’

  Vesta noticed that Lisabetta did not appear to be the kind of woman who ever had to be alone if she didn’t want to be. She couldn’t work out if it was only jealousy of the other woman’s beauty but she didn’t like her one bit. That was unusual – Vesta was in the habit of giving everybody a chance and the poor woman was bereaved after all. She and Sandor waved as the Jaguar drove away from the front of the church.

  ‘Come along,’ Sandor said without taking his eyes from the road as the receding car turned the corner. ‘We will stop them filling in the earth.’

  Back in the graveyard the diggers were smoking a shared cigarette before they started.

  ‘Please, gentlemen,’ Sandor asked them, ‘could you give us some privacy?’

  ‘You want us to leave it open, Father?’

  ‘I will shovel in some earth myself when Miss Churchill is finished. Come back after lunch and you can do the rest.’

  The men sloped off between the graves.

  ‘Have you known Mirabelle long?’ Sandor asked.

  Vesta shook her head. ‘Two days. You?’

  ‘About ten years,’ Sandor admitted. ‘I knew her during the war.’

  Vesta had been a schoolgirl when Sandor was sneaking details of Nazi campaigns through the Vatican’s channels.

  ‘Mirabelle is a very brave woman,’ Sandor said. ‘An intelligent woman. The man she worked for is buried here. She loved him, I think.’

  He nodded at a grave set beside a cypress bush. Vesta, her interest piqued, walked over and read the carved sandstone: JACK DUGGAN 1900–1949. MISSED GREATLY BY HIS DEVOTED WIFE MARY AND DAUGHTERS LILIAN AND ISLA

  Mirabelle was turning out to be more and more interesting. She didn’t seem the type to get involved with a married man.

  ‘Did he love her back?’ Vesta wondered out loud.

  Sandor shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but bravery does not always necessarily mean battle.’ He drew out a Swiss Army knife from the folds of his vestments. ‘Keep a look out,’ he said and dropped silently into the open grave.

  Vesta looked around. The church was silent and the graveyard empty. There was nothing to look out for – the churchyard was quieter than a rainy Monday in Margate. Her stomach was churning but Sandor was so matter-of-fact that it was far easier than if she was alone. In fact she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to manage this without his help. She stared at the priest taking the screws out of the coffin lid. The cheap wood was easy to work and it wasn’t long before the top was loose.

  ‘Help me out,’ he directed.

  Vesta leaned over and heaved Sandor back to the surface. His robes were streaked with yellow mud. She was very glad she hadn’t had to get hands-on with the coffin – the idea of jumping into a grave gave her the creeps. Inspecting the corpse would be bad enough. These older people who had gone through the war seemed to be made of sterner stuff and Vesta wondered what Mirabelle had actually done to bring her into contact with this stolid Hungarian pastor. It was interesting. Sandor picked up the spade the diggers had left and leaned back into the hole to lever the coffin lid open.

  ‘You’ve done this kind of thing before, haven’t you?’

  Sandor blushed. He felt proud of himself for the first time in years. The adrenaline was surging through his bloodstream and he liked the feeling, pride or not. Reaching down as far as he could he got the spade in place and swung the lid of the box upwards as Vesta peered down beside him.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, as the interior became visible. Looking at a corpse wasn’t as terrifying as Vesta imagined. But this was, without question, the wrong corpse.

  ‘Who in heaven’s name is that?’ Sandor said as he flipped the lid closed again.

  Vesta remained silent. She was trying to remember. She’d seen him before somewhere.

  ‘We need to ring Mirabelle from the phone in the vestry. Really, I ought to call the police. It’s illegal to bury ...’ Sandor stopped. He could feel cold metal on his neck, right at his jugular.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Vesta.

  There was a shock of searing pain for no more than a second and they both blacked out.

  13

  The facts of a person’s life will, like murder, come out.

  Mirabelle checked the clock. It was quarter past eleven. The funeral must be over by now, she reckoned. Vesta would be back soon. The mail was done and the plates and cups washed up. Back at her own desk Mirabelle stared out of the window as a line of sunshine worked its way slowly up the street in the approach to midday. It was the perfect weather to have lunch on the beach, but somehow she didn’t feel like it today.

  Mirabelle sat up in her chair. There was the sound of the door to the street opening in the hallway below, though the footfall that Mirabelle heard coming up the stairs was definitely not Vesta. Only a man with nothing to hide could make that much racket, she smiled. Behind the frosted glass a tall shape approached and the door opened.

  ‘Is this Ben McGuigan’s office?’

  Mirabelle looked up. ‘Mr McGuigan is out. Can I take a message?’

  Detective Superintendent Alan McGregor scowled, his blue eyes intense. ‘Where would I find him?’

  Mirabelle sighed. ‘I don’t know. He’s out. Working. What was it regarding?’

  ‘I’d like a word, that’s all. Is he out most of the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s the mark of a good man in his line of work.’

  Mirabelle nodded.

  ‘When do you expect to see him?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  Mirabelle hesitated and McGregor felt in his pocket for his warrant card. She carefully read the details, which, McGregor noted, was unusual. Most people only gave a cursory glance to police identification.

  ‘Yesterday morning, Detective Superintendent,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He had a bad cold and went home to nurse it.’

  ‘I thought I might catch him at home before work, but he wasn’t there,’ McGregor admitted.

  ‘That’s odd. What time?’

  ‘Half past eight. On my way to Bartholomew Square.’

  ‘I can take a message, if you like.’

  McGregor paced a little, his policeman’s mackintosh open except for one straining button at the waist. ‘This was found,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and laying a black leather wallet on Mirabelle’s desk. She reached to open it but before she did she already knew it belonged to Ben McGuigan and her fingers were tingling with anxious anticipation.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ she said.

  ‘The racecourse. Near the men’s toilets.’

  The wallet contained very little. Some money and a couple of betting slips for races that took place, she noticed, yesterday afternoon after Ben became ill. Mirabelle took a mental note of the bookmaker. M. Williams. How peculiar. She had never known Ben to gamble.

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  ‘I wondered if he might have someone who owed him money? Someone dangerous?’

  Mirabelle turned the ledger towards the policeman. ‘Everyone and his wife owes Ben money,’ she said. ‘Or rather they owe his clients money, though generally people consider it the same thing. If something has happened to Mr McGuigan I’m very glad that there is a detective superintendent on the case, but that isn’t normal, is it, sir? For lost property.’

  McGregor didn’t explain Robinson’s habit of referring everything to his superior, but in this case he was rather glad that Ben McGuigan’s wallet had come his way. He’d only met McGuigan twice, both times at the bar in the Sussex, but he’d liked him.

  ‘I know Ben,’ McGregor said. ‘I’ve met him a few times. And this isn’t like him, is it? He’s an army ma
n – everything ship-shape and accounted for.’

  The policeman flipped through the pages of the ledger. His eyes lit on Romana Laszlo’s entry but he didn’t say anything.

  ‘That job came in after he’d left,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘He didn’t know anything about it.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen him for two days. What time was he last in the office?’

  ‘Lunchtime. About one.’

  ‘And would he have owed anyone money, himself, do you think?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  McGregor paused. He doubted it, too, but he had to ask. ‘Do you have a recent photograph of Ben?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I can give you a detailed description,’ she offered.

  ‘No, that’s all right. I have his army records – height, weight and so on. I can use that and I can submit a description myself. Nothing works as well as a photograph though. If he turns up, have him ring me at the station. May I ask your name?’

  ‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan. But, isn’t it unusual for the money still to be there? In the wallet, I mean?’

  McGregor turned in the doorway. She was a smart cookie, this one. ‘Yes, it is, Miss Bevan.’

  As the sound of McGregor’s feet on the stairs receded Mirabelle had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was very wrong. She was tempted to run up East Street after the detective superintendent and beg him to keep her informed but instead she reached for her coat and hat, scribbled Vesta a hurried note and left the building.

  Big Ben McGuigan had a small house on Kensington Place. He’d lived there, in a two-up, two-down on the terrace, since he left the army. The house was painted white – the only neutral colour on the row, which was a faded pastel selection reminiscent of a child’s drawing. Perhaps Ben had some pretensions to family life, because the house was really too large for a man on his own, but whatever his reasons any plans he’d made had never come to fruition. Mirabelle had never been there before. Her arrangements with her employer were strictly business, but she had all his details in the office file. She passed the Pedestrian Arms, noting that this was the closest pub to her employer’s home, and made straight for Big Ben’s front door where she knocked twice and waited. No answer.