Sara Sheridan was born in Edinburgh and studied at Trinity College, Dublin. As well as writing the popular Mirabelle Bevan Murder Mysteries, she also writes a set of historical novels set between 1820 and 1845, including On Starlit Seas which was shortlisted for the Wilbur Smith Award. Fascinated particularly by female history, she is a cultural commentator who appears regularly on television and radio. In 2018 she remapped Scotland according to women’s history and the resulting book was included in the David Hume Institute’s recommended reading for 2019. In 2014, she was named one of the Saltire Society’s 365 Most Influential Scottish Women, past and present.
Sara tweets about her writing life as @sarasheridan and has a Facebook page at sarasheridanwriter.
Praise for the Mirabelle Bevan Mystery series
‘Mirabelle has a dogged tenacity to rival Poirot’
Sunday Herald
‘Unfailingly stylish, undeniably smart’
Daily Record
‘Fresh, exciting and darkly plotted, this sharp historical mystery plunges the reader into a shadowy and forgotten past’
Good Book Guide
‘A crime force to be reckoned with’
Good Reads
‘Plenty of colour and action, will engage the reader from the first page to the last. Highly recommended’
Bookbag
‘Quietly compelling … plenty of twists and turns’
Shots
The Mirabelle Bevan Mysteries
Brighton Belle
London Calling
England Expects
British Bulldog
Operation Goodwood
Russian Roulette
Indian Summer
Highland Fling
Copyright
Published by Constable
ISBN: 978-1-47212-713-6
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Sara Sheridan, 2020
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Constable
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
About the Author
Praise for Mirabelle Bevan
Also by Mirabelle Bevan
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
This story is for the thick and
thin of us – those who have
seen me through with generosity
and kindness. Thank you.
Chapter 1
It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil
Wednesday 22 January 1958
Mirabelle checked her lipstick in the small mirror fixed to the maple-wood door. The train jerked and she put out a hand to steady herself. Through the window she could just make out London as it whizzed by, shades of grey in the driving rain. ‘The weather from here only gets worse,’ Superintendent McGregor had said solemnly as they dashed from the taxi into the station past two boys selling newspapers, one on each side of a large board that proclaimed ‘If Khrushchev wants a shooting match, let’s give it to him’. The Times was feeling punchy.
‘It’s beautiful up north but there’s no disguising it’s colder,’ McGregor continued.
Mirabelle rolled her eyes. ‘And wetter. And every other Scottish stereotype.’ She liked teasing him.
‘It’s geography,’ he insisted. ‘There’s no stereotype about it. It’s a shame it will be dark as we go through Edinburgh. I’d like to have shown you my home town.’ She had thought that was particularly sweet of him. Once they’d found their cabins, McGregor had discreetly left her to unpack.
Mirabelle hung up her tailored, mustard-yellow coat. Shrouded in brown kid gloves, the engagement ring made her finger look lumpy, but she decided not to remove the gloves. Above, the uplighter on the wall glowed orange, casting peachy light on to the plush velvet seating, which would later be converted into a bed. She had an overnight case, but until the bed was turned down it seemed odd to take out her things, so now there wasn’t anything else to do except watch the vague grey shapes of the buildings as the train sped north. The rap on the door saved her.
‘Yes?’
It opened and a young steward in a white jacket stood in the frame. ‘Miss Bevan? Mr McGregor asks if you’d like to join him in the Pullman car?’ She must have looked eager. The boy grinned. ‘It’s four carriages along.’ He pointed, his greased-back hair glistening in the diffused light from the foggy windows.
‘Thank you. I’ll come directly.’ Mirabelle scrabbled in her handbag, sprayed a mist of L’Air du Temps in front of her and stepped into it. She replaced the tiny lid with its swooping doves, dropping the bottle back into her bag and closing it with a satisfying click.
The Pullman car was only half full. She counted three tables occupied by men dressed in various muted shades of tweed, all nursing tumblers of whisky and smoking cigarettes. Two were mostly shielded from view by the Financial Times, the entire front page of which was dedicated to the possibility of Russia’s missile superiority over America. Mirabelle sighed. Khrushchev’s attempt at nuclear one-upmanship had been going on for months. Everyone was exhausted by it. It was, as Mirabelle’s friend Vesta had commented, ‘Worse than the bleeding Blitz.’ Potentially, it was certainly more dangerous. Schools organised drills. City councils considered reopening wartime bomb shelters. Only last week an alarming public information leaflet had been posted through Mirabelle’s door advising her to remain calm.
McGregor smiled from the table near the bar. Beside him, a bottle of champagne was already on ice. He got to his feet and kissed her on the cheek as if they hadn’t already come up to town on the Brighton Belle and shared a meal of steak and sautéed mushrooms followed by inky, bitter coffee in tiny cups. The bartender popped the cork and poured two crystal saucers, which frosted immediately. Mirabelle watched the bubbles clinging to the side.
‘To us.’ McGregor lifted his by the stem.
Mirabelle toasted, clicking her glass against his. ‘Our first proper holiday,’ she said. ‘Not just a weekend.’
‘I can’t wait to get away.’
‘We are away.’
‘You know what I mean. I’m as tired of dead bodies as I am of politics.’ McGregor’s eyes flashed with wry humour as the bartender pretended he hadn’t overheard. ‘It’ll be good for us – fresh air, a bit of exercise and no grievous bodily harm,’ McGregor said. ‘You’re going to love Scotland.’
‘How long is it since you saw your cousin?’
‘It was before the war – �
��37, I think.’
‘Is he like you?’
‘A little. My mother always said he was the big brother I never had. He’s six years older. He won’t have changed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bruce’s been the same since we were children. He’s the closest family I have.’
Mirabelle let the icy champagne slide over her lips. She was glad McGregor didn’t come with a full platoon of brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces. Family felt as if it would be an encumbrance to their relationship. She had nobody left on her side and was slightly relieved that now she and McGregor were engaged, she didn’t have to drag the poor man around the country introducing him to a succession of relations. Still, the prospect of a holiday was pleasant. He’d promised open fires and games of cards. When she’d asked if they might hear the bagpipes, he had laughed and said, ‘I’m sure we can manage that. We won’t be far from Inverness and the pipes are almost mandatory in that neck of the woods.’
She put down her glass. ‘It’s very nice of your cousin to invite us.’
‘I think it’s because he got married so recently himself – they tied the knot a couple of years ago; a quick wedding at the register office in Edinburgh. I had no idea, but weddings make you think about family, don’t they? He hadn’t been in touch, but when I rang him to tell him about our engagement, it poured out. Her name is Eleanor. I think she must be younger than he is – he said she’s changed the entire household.’
‘There must be something in your family that makes the men wait so long before asking the question.’
‘In Scotland we call that canny.’
‘Maybe that’s it.’
‘You are happy, aren’t you Belle?’
It was a question more than one person had asked over the last few days. An engagement was supposed to be an occasion for celebration but Mirabelle, quite honestly, felt that they had done what they ought to do. Perhaps that was harsh. It might be kinder to say that she and McGregor were meant for each other, not in the airy-fairy, romantic sense portrayed in books and at the cinema, but in the way that their lives dovetailed, that they could trust each other and that they already had a life together. They were a team and, after all, that was the nature of marriage. Mirabelle was too old for romance – these days all that seemed foolish. She’d had an affair of the heart many years ago and one or two dalliances since. There was no doubt that she loved McGregor, but you only had the magic of first love once. And Jack was long dead. ‘I’m happy. But I’m not eighteen again, Alan. Even getting engaged isn’t going to manage that.’
He reached for her gloved hand and pulled it to his lips. ‘I knew the moment I saw you,’ he said.
‘In the graveyard at the Church of the Sacred Heart?’
It had been after a funeral. McGregor had been chatting up another woman, as she recalled, who was visiting her husband’s grave. The woman had offered to cook him dinner, which was more than Mirabelle ever had.
‘Was it the graveyard? That’s too grim. It can’t have been.’
‘It was the graveyard. You told me to keep my nose out of your case.’
He relented. ‘It sounds like me. Did you ever dream you’d end up with a policeman?’
‘A detective? I could only have hoped.’
McGregor refilled the glasses. ‘Here’s to us,’ he said.
By Peterborough it was dark outside. Neither of them was hungry after the steaks so they nibbled bar snacks and drank more champagne. Mirabelle regaled him with the tale of the day she’d told Vesta about their engagement and Vesta had screamed so loudly that the staff from the next-door office came bursting in to see what was the matter. ‘We made tea and one of the girls from Halley Insurance fetched biscuits,’ Mirabelle reported. ‘It was fun. Everyone was talking about dresses.’ She didn’t tell him that after the insurance girls had gone back to their own office, Vesta had asked if Mirabelle was happy and that she had given the same answer she’d just given McGregor. ‘And you won’t give up work?’ Vesta had checked. Mirabelle had duly promised she wouldn’t dream of it and no, they hadn’t set a date, but they were going to Scotland to visit McGregor’s cousin and were considering buying a house. Barely restraining her excitement, Vesta had managed to restrict herself to an excited squawk. ‘About time,’ she pronounced. ‘If you need help with the house, you know where I am.’
Vesta was a far better housekeeper than Mirabelle had ever been. She had a knack of putting things together. ‘And the dress,’ she’d added. ‘Count me in on that shopping trip.’ The bloody dress. You’d think the whole thing was about the dress or, if not the dress, the ring, though in the case of the latter, three days after she’d accepted his proposal, McGregor had surprised her with an unusual pale pink, emerald-cut diamond of just over two carats, mounted in yellow gold and nestled in a dark blue velvet box. It was an unexpected choice and she loved it.
The beds had been turned down when they stumbled back along the corridor, swaying with the motion of the train and dizzy from drinking the entire bottle of champagne. McGregor was booked in the next-door cabin. ‘That isn’t necessary,’ she’d said when she saw the tickets, but he had insisted. Always considerate, he hadn’t wanted people to judge her. Now they kissed as Mirabelle opened the door and pulled him into her cabin.
‘We’ll never both fit on that bed,’ McGregor said, nuzzling her neck. ‘I bet when we get there, Bruce will put us in separate rooms and we’ll have to sleepwalk. Let’s wait.’
‘You quitter.’ Mirabelle took off her gloves and undid the top button of her blouse without taking her eyes off his. Her satin brassiere gaped as she leaned forward. ‘Don’t think I’ll let you off that lightly, Alan McGregor.’ She pushed him against the door of the wardrobe. He tasted of champagne and salted almonds as she kissed him, running her hands over all the places a nice girl would never dream of.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he murmured.
She liked feeling his arms around her – his strength. She liked the intensity of his stare as she stepped back and let her skirt slip over her hips on to the floor. He tipped her on to the mattress and it wasn’t too small after all.
Later, the train uncoupled somewhere in the pitch black and Mirabelle was shaken awake naked. McGregor had gone. Her discarded clothes lay in a tangle on the floor, and on the air the faint aroma of aftershave mixed with the tang of sweat and tussle.
In the morning, they changed trains at Inverness. The atmosphere was damp and the air felt heavy as they stalked down the platform and on to a local service. ‘Newspaper, sir?’ the porter offered, his breath clouding ahead of him in the freezing air. McGregor shook his head. ‘We’re on holiday,’ he replied by way of explanation as the porter loaded their cases and McGregor solemnly tipped him. ‘Enjoy your trip, sir.’ Mirabelle marvelled at his voice. McGregor’s accent was mild by comparison. He laughed as the man left. ‘Your face! You know everyone speaks like that up here.’
‘Did you used to?’
‘I haven’t lost my accent,’ McGregor objected. ‘I’m from Edinburgh, you ninny. Up north they’re right teuchters. Aye,’ he said, hamming it up. ‘Up here, we’re closer to Stockholm and Oslo than we are to London. Don’t you know that? And you’re just a pretty wee Sassenach.’
‘Are you saying the Scots are Vikings?’
‘Some of us. Not me, obviously. I’m far too civilised.’
It was a short train journey and even the weather couldn’t hide the beauty of the scenery. The sky was like an oil painting – dark as slate with a froth of white cloud, and as the train continued, a slash of breathtaking blue. Patches of snow peppered the peaks. Mirabelle hovered in her seat, her eyes on the bright window. ‘What do you love the most up here?’ she asked.
McGregor peered through the glass. ‘I think it’s the morning,’ he said. ‘The air feels different – green. Clean. I don’t know, maybe it’ll have changed. I’ve certainly changed since the last time I was up.’ He squeezed her hand.
The station was in good order, Mirabelle noticed, as they pulled in. The window boxes were planted with heather. McGregor was keen to disembark, rushing her towards the door before the train had fully stopped. On the platform, a couple was waiting with a porter in tow. The woman, a strawberry blonde, looked like a magazine model, out of place on the slick cobbles. Her lipstick-lined mouth opened in a sunny smile as she spotted them through the window and raised her hand to wave. The man moved forwards.
‘Al!’ he said as McGregor stepped down. They shook hands. ‘I’m so glad to see you.’
‘Me too. It feels like coming home.’
‘That’s as it should be. We should never have lost touch. And this is your fiancée?’ he said. ‘You’re welcome. I’m Bruce Robertson. This is my wife, Eleanor.’
‘Gee, your coat is wonderful,’ Eleanor grinned and kissed Mirabelle’s cheek. ‘I love the ochre.’
‘You’re American? Alan didn’t say.’
‘Yeah. The Yanks are here to stay. Woo-hoo! You must be exhausted after a night on the train.’ Eleanor threaded her arm through Mirabelle’s and guided her out of the station as the men directed the handling of the baggage.
The car was parked directly outside – a Jaguar Mark IV. Eleanor opened the door. ‘We don’t have a driver,’ she said, ‘but luckily we both like taking the wheel. The roads, of course, are terrible.’ Mirabelle’s eyes were drawn to the view. Beyond the station entrance a huge hill loomed. It was like walking into a painting – rock plummeted into gorse and heather. ‘Wow,’ she breathed.
‘Have you been here before?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Never.’
‘I loved it on sight. The Highlands are kinda dramatic. They feel free. It’s hard to explain.’
Mirabelle laughed. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘Bruce said you’re only staying for ten days but please feel free to stay longer. We love having people around and this time of year the sky is getting lighter and there are some glorious days. In the wood near the house there will be bluebells before we know it. Right now, it’s all snowdrops – they seem to last for ever. January, huh? Do you like whisky? I can arrange for you to see the distillery if you like.’
[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling Page 1