She took up a position three doors down from the children’s home on the other side of the street. Mirabelle thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t worn her red dress. The brown, glazed cotton she’d chosen in a hurry that morning blended into the grey brickwork and the summer foliage that dripped over the wall. Inside the convalescent home there was little movement at the windows. The children would be having tea and then perhaps it might be bath time for some of them at least. From the direction of the beach, snatches of women’s voices having a singsong floated towards her, and then, after a few moments of silence, shouts on the air from the cricket ground as a player was bowled out late in the match, followed by a scatter of applause. Noise travelled differently in the summer. Everything seemed easier in the warm weather.
It had been a year since she’d taken on something extra like this. A curiosity. A case. She pondered how she could possibly have missed an occupation as dull as surveillance but, she concluded, she had. It was as if she had been sucked into Vesta’s domestic bliss but without the domestic bliss. There was no harm in waiting here and watching. She knew she wouldn’t be satisfied if she didn’t at least try to figure out what it was that didn’t sit quite right. In the past, Mirabelle had been branded a busybody – on those occasions the people who had called her that had been wrong. She wondered if that was what she had become now. A nosy poke. A troublemaker. Or someone who just wanted a little girl to feel safe. She’d been bored for months, she realised. Debt collection, baby Noel, the balmy summer weather and nothing of her own – no knots to unravel and nothing to stand up for.
People were beginning to make their way home from the beach. Families carried picnic baskets between them. Their clothes crumpled and their hair in disarray. Rosy-cheeked children with buckets and spades trudged along the pavement and now and then a car slid past crammed with the detritus of the afternoon – windbreaks and tartan rugs packed snugly between the passengers. This, Mirabelle noted, made for better cover. Not that Father Grogan was in an observant state of mind when he finally appeared.
It was just after half past six. The old priest looked neither to his right nor his left as he barrelled up the stairs of the home, even more set than usual on his destination. He looked as if he’d have stepped over a dead body to get where he was going. Is he angry, Mirabelle wondered. She’d see. Nurse Frida had said he didn’t visit the home on a Sunday, so whatever news had arrived just before Vespers must have been important. He fumbled in his pocket for a key and let himself in – that was unusual, she thought, surely. The hallway was a black hole in contrast with the dusty street, still bright in the fading light as the priest’s frame disappeared inside.
Mirabelle listened carefully but the old houses had thick walls and the windows to the street were closed. Further along, the cricket ground began to empty. Upstairs in the home, a little boy’s face appeared at the window. He smiled, betraying a large gap in his teeth, and then disappeared. Around her, a few electric lights snapped on as the sun began to fade. She wondered where Lali was. In the garden behind her, a rose bush released its scent onto the evening air.
Father Grogan emerged shortly after eight o’clock. He seemed, Mirabelle thought, unsteady on his feet, and he grasped the wrought-iron railing as he came down the steps before turning in the direction of Norton Road. He stumbled but recovered his balance, and she wondered if he had indulged in the communion wine. If Father Grogan drank she sensed he’d do so to get drunk. He was a man for the destination rather than the journey. She fell into step on the other side of the street at a safe distance. As he rounded the corner, she noticed he held on to his hat. Then he paused in front of the priests’ house. A light burned upstairs but the lower floor was in darkness. The priest’s hands moved to his torso. She wondered if he was catching his breath before he continued through the front door which, a few seconds later, closed behind him with a decisive click.
Mirabelle took up her old position outside the hardware shop on the corner. Only one electric light was lit upstairs in the priests’ house – an overhead bulb in the bedroom of the younger man, she guessed. Then a lamp flickered momentarily in the front room – the study. It clicked off again. After a few minutes, she crossed the road and peered down the side of the house, but all the windows on that elevation were in darkness. It appeared Father Grogan had gone upstairs to bed, climbing the stairs without any illumination. It was early still. She’d wait. Of course she would. Behind her Jack and Sandor loomed, but she decided not to pay them any mind. The street was quiet now. On Sundays the bus service finished early and most people stayed at home, or close. Around her, along the main road above the closed shops, lights snapped on in the flats, and windows were left open like squares of yellow butter icing on a dark cake. The sound of big band music on the wireless rolled like a blanket over the rooftops. After the heat of the day, the silky darkness was fresh on her skin. At half past nine the single light clicked off upstairs in the priests’ house.
She left only a minute before she sneaked across the road and peered through the letterbox. The hallway was silent. The door to the study closed. What had he done in there, in and out with such haste? Mirabelle’s stomach jumped as a clock in the hallway ticked loudly, like a heartbeat. She regained her composure and stepped cautiously on to the flowerbed in front of the study window but she couldn’t make out anything different in the room. Nothing had changed since that afternoon – no telltale papers on the desk or an address book left open. Still, she’d like to have a look. The window was painted shut.
Quietly, Mirabelle sneaked down the side of the house. Far off, a cat squealed and two dogs were barking. Upon inspection, the back door was bolted on the inside, so her lock picks would do her no good and the windows on the lower floor had benefited from the attentions of the same painter all the way along. It wasn’t until she got to the frosted bathroom window at the rear that she found a way in. Of course, she thought, everyone wanted bathroom windows that opened. If she wanted to find out what Father Grogan had been up to in the study, this was her best chance.
She hesitated. There was, she thought, still time to go home and read the newspaper. Was she going too far? She imagined arriving at the office the following morning and embarking on another week. What would it be like not knowing, not being sure what had piqued her interest? What would it be like not knowing she’d done everything she could?
This decided her, and she pulled up the frame. It was an old sash and case and the wood creaked. She waited but nothing stirred in the house. Then, gingerly, she pulled herself over the sill and dropped on to the floor. Beneath her feet, it was uneven – not tile or carpet but some kind of bundle. Mirabelle wondered if she had landed on a pile of laundry and tried to step off it, but she tripped and only just managed to right herself by grasping the side of the bath. In temper she kicked the laundry, more to get it out of the way than anything, but her foot hit an obstruction and her heel got caught. She bent down, peering through the darkness, trying to release it. And that was when she made him out.
A thin slick of yellow vomit ran down the old priest’s cheek. His face was the wrong colour – it was difficult to tell in the darkness but his skin looked livid. His dog collar had become detached. A stone dropping in her stomach, Mirabelle checked for a pulse and quickly realised he was gone. The smell of sweat and vomit rose towards her and, before she could stifle it, a scream had escaped her lips. It was the shock, she realised as she gasped for breath. She glanced at the open window, regretting her decision, but it was too late for that now.
Slowly, she tried to get up, but her knees were shaking. Then there was a hammering sound and the bathroom door crashed open with such force it rebounded off the bath. Out of the darkness, a shout sounded. ‘What the hell?’ It was a man’s voice. Mirabelle made it to her feet. There could be no explanation, she realised, but she took a breath to try, when out of the darkness a cricket bat hit her hard in the face. She reeled and fell what seemed very, very slowly. For a second she was
aware that the electric light had been switched on, and then darkness engulfed her.
Chapter Four
Alibi: a form of defence wherein the accused attempts to prove that he was in another place at the time an offence was committed
Sound was the first thing to return. Before she could move or speak or open her eyes, Mirabelle could hear. Her nose ached and her head pounded. She wanted to tell them to be quiet, but she couldn’t get the words out. Instead she tried to focus on the voices – a man giving instructions and another man talking about injuries sustained. Slowly, she realised the second man was talking about her. With an effort she opened one eye just a sliver. The light was like a paper cut. She snapped her eye shut. ‘There,’ the voice said, ‘she’s coming round.’ She could smell something acrid but it cleared her head. Then, she steeled herself for the pain and opened her eyelids so slowly, it felt she was prising up the lids. She was still on the bathroom floor in the priests’ house, lying between the toilet bowl and the end of the bath. Above her, a man put a cap on a bottle of smelling salts. He had startling blue eyes.
‘Miss Bevan,’ he said, smiling, as he held up one hand. ‘Can you tell me how many fingers I’m showing you, please?’
‘Four,’ she said.
The man’s brow creased.
‘And a thumb,’ she added.
He smiled. ‘She’s fine,’ he announced, looking over his shoulder.
From the vicinity of the wash hand-basin, Inspector Robinson came into view.
‘Good,’ Robinson said. ‘Well, if you’re sure she’s all right, Doctor. Mirabelle Bevan, I am arresting you for the murder of Father Sean Grogan.’
Mirabelle tried to lift her head but the room began to swim.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Father Grogan was dead on the floor when I came in.’
‘Through the window in the middle of the night? Broke in, you mean? Yes, I wondered about that.’
‘It wasn’t even ten o’clock, Inspector,’ Mirabelle objected. ‘Hardly the middle of the night.’
‘You’re saying it was a social call? Visiting a priest by climbing through a bathroom window is perfectly normal, is it? Come on, Miss Bevan, what on earth were you doing?’
Mirabelle thought she might be sick. Her stomach turned as she tried to raise herself on to her elbows. The doctor put out a hand to help her get up. She hadn’t eaten all day, she realised – not since Lali and the toast. That seemed a long time ago. Her empty stomach retched as she got to her feet and dropped the doctor’s hand. He gave an apologetic smile and picked up his case. ‘I’ll be off,’ he said. ‘I have to attend to the body.’ He disappeared through the door.
‘So?’ Robinson pushed her. ‘I’m sure you have an explanation.’
‘You think he was murdered?’ Mirabelle managed to get out. Her voice sounded weaker than usual.
Robinson folded his arms. ‘Yes I bloody do. Poisoned. That’s what the doc says. You’d better fill me in. It’ll be better for everyone.’
Her mind swam. There was no question of not cooperating, no matter the bad blood between her and Robinson. She’d forgotten how unpleasant he could be – a caricature of a policeman; all the worst traits of the law. She felt hopelessly confused.
‘I followed Father Grogan home. I wanted to see if I could find something in the study.’
‘Why would you do that?’
Mirabelle sat on the toilet seat. It struck her that there was no dignity in this process of coming to. ‘I can’t remember exactly,’ she said. ‘I suppose I was suspicious of something. I must have been right. He’s dead, after all.’
From the hallway she heard a voice saying something in Latin. The doctor had left the door partially open and the young priest was kneeling over Father Grogan’s body, which lay on a stretcher. The cricket bat that had knocked her out was propped next to the body. Behind that, the doctor was waiting while the young priest said his prayers. At the Amen, the priest made a cross above Father Grogan’s head. When he raised his eyes in Mirabelle’s direction, they were angry. Robinson crossed to the door, made a gesture as if to say, leave this to me, and closed it.
‘I’m taking you to Bartholomew Square station,’ he announced.
Mirabelle checked her watch. It was now almost eleven o’clock. She desperately wanted to close her eyes again. ‘On suspicion of murder?’ she managed to ask.
‘Charged with murder.’
‘I had no reason to kill Father Grogan. None at all.’
‘So what were you doing here?’
‘I followed him from the children’s home on Eaton Road.’ It was coming back to her.
‘Why?’
The day was a jumble. Mirabelle remembered Nurse Frida and the blood in the lavatory. Pete on the terrace. The organ music in the church. And something about a missing cardigan. Something wrong. The smell of roses on the evening air. Bath time. Lali and her friend, running hand in hand towards the garden, through a yellow-walled room. The sunshine had been blinding.
‘He was up to something. There was something amiss.’
It was all she could get out. Robinson snorted. Then the bathroom door opened and Superintendent McGregor walked into the room. Mirabelle startled. She wobbled on the toilet seat and put a hand on the end of the bath to steady herself. She hadn’t seen McGregor since the year before. She hadn’t forgiven him either. It had never been the kind of love she’d had for Jack – starry eyed and magical – but they had become close before she’d seen him for what he really was.
‘Miss Bevan patently needs medical attention, Robinson,’ McGregor said.
‘The doc gave her the all clear,’ Robinson sounded smug. ‘I’ve arrested her.’
‘Well, you can un-arrest her.’
‘She’s the prime suspect, sir.’
‘No, Robinson. She was in the room.’
‘It’s a woman’s weapon,’ Robinson objected. ‘Poison.’
‘Not this woman,’ McGregor said sternly. ‘If Mirabelle Bevan decided to kill somebody, she wouldn’t have a screaming fit over the body and raise the household from their beds. Guaranteed. Go and trace Father Grogan’s movements this evening and stop being so bloody lazy.’
Robinson adjusted his collar. ‘Just cos she’s your bit of stuff doesn’t mean—’
‘I’m not,’ Mirabelle cut in. ‘I’m not the superintendent’s piece of stuff.’
Robinson grinned. ‘Of course not,’ he said.
McGregor held open the bathroom door. Robinson hesitated. ‘Go on,’ McGregor prompted him. ‘That’s an order.’
Once Robinson had left, McGregor closed the door behind him.
‘It wasn’t a screaming fit,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I just got a fright. That’s all.’
‘I’m sure.’ The superintendent looked well – he’d lost a little weight since she’d last seen him and the long, hot summer had left him with a tan. Mirabelle blushed. She had forgotten the sound of his voice – his Edinburgh accent. The manliness of him – the hairs on his wrist and the slight smell of amber when he moved. She tried to avoid her own reflection in the mirror, but didn’t quite manage. She had a bruise coming up on her forehead and a mark on her cheek. Her hair was out of place and her skin was unhealthily pale. The collar on her dress had turned in on itself. This wasn’t how she’d have liked him to see her. Dishevelled and struggling to stay upright on a toilet.
‘I’ll take you home,’ he offered. ‘You probably ought to rest.’
‘One of the uniformed officers can do it,’ she objected. ‘I don’t want any help from you.’
‘Don’t be like that, Mirabelle. I’ve missed you.’
She felt anger rise in her belly. Momentarily, it overtook the nausea. He wasn’t being fair. She’d seen him at his worst – a negligent police officer and a disloyal lover. Did he really think that she’d forgotten?
‘I’ll go with one of the bobbies, Alan.’ She struggled to her feet.
‘I’m going to need to question you. Tomorrow,
if you like. But you’ll have to answer some questions. I can drop by, if you’d prefer.’
She nodded. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll be in the office.’ Then she stumbled past him into the hallway. McGregor put out a hand to steady her but she pushed him off and made her own way through the front door. Outside, McGregor opened the door of a Black Maria with a constable at the wheel.
‘All right, miss?’ the man checked once McGregor had given him the address. ‘Quite close that, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think I could walk it,’ she admitted.
‘Wait till Miss Bevan is inside. Make sure she’s all right, Jenkins,’ McGregor leaned through the open car window. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mirabelle.’
The Maria began to move. The cool air through the open window was refreshing. McGregor went back into the house. An ambulance was waiting to take Father Grogan’s body to the morgue, but the superintendent would need to release it first. He was the senior officer. She watched him disappear as the car took off smoothly down Eaton Road. The lights in the children’s home were out as she passed. They’d all be asleep by now, Mirabelle guessed – the children and the nursing staff. Some of the nurses must live in, she thought, and nobody would have told them what had happened. Not yet. Father Grogan poisoned. Lying in a pool of vomit. She had expected a child was being beaten or a nurse was selling food from the kitchen. Something minor. Small. Not this – the leaden, scarlet-skinned body of a murdered man.
On the Lawns, the officer pulled up and switched off the engine. The sound of the sea on the pebbles washed towards them as he walked her to the door and waited as she fumbled with the key. ‘I’ll be all right from here. Thank you.’
Indian Summer Page 4