Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  He started to deal – one hand for Mirabelle, one for the man and one for the house. ‘I’ve given you two sevens and smash, you got three twos. But the house has four tens. Nothing flash, see. Hope is interesting. It makes people do all kinds of things. Now, miss, if you give back three cards, not the sevens, mind.’ Mirabelle obliged, sliding the cards across the table. ‘Now, I’d deal you a sneaky third seven and an ace. The ace doesn’t do nothing, but people like them. They think they’re lucky. You’ve got to give the punters enough to keep them betting. Three sevens is a good hand. This lady thinks she’s winning.’

  ‘I can’t see how you’re doing it,’ one of the men complained.

  ‘’Course you can’t, son,’ the driver snarled. ‘That’s what you’re here to learn.’

  Mirabelle stared at Billy. She couldn’t see how he was doing it either. ‘What do I do now?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, if you were sensible you get out. Walk away.’ Billy looked her directly in the eye. He wasn’t talking about the cards. ‘But you won’t, will you? People like to gamble. So probably you’ll up your stake.’

  ‘And I’d lose?’

  ‘Over the course of the night I make sure of that. We set up one or two big winners but the biggest winner of them all is Her Ladyship. The house, I mean.’

  ‘Oi,’ the driver objected, as if stating it so baldly was going too far.

  Billy didn’t reply. ‘So, now you’re betting on each round and you’re confident so you’re betting big. There’s, say, the full fifty guineas in the pot. And—’ he flipped over his cards to reveal his run of four tens ‘—the house wins.’

  A murmur of satisfaction assailed the table. Mirabelle folded. ‘How do you do it?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve always been able to do it. I see the numbers. I have done since I was a kid. But it can be taught.’ He pulled out fresh decks and handed them to the men, who eagerly tore open the packs. ‘Thank you, miss,’ he said, dismissing her. Mirabelle slipped off the seat. Roberts held the door. ‘Pays your wages,’ he said sagely, almost as if it was a threat. ‘Pays all our wages.’

  Billy’s eyes were still. He seemed resigned.

  ‘Will you be working tonight, love?’ Roberts asked, eyeing Mirabelle as she passed into the main gaming room.

  ‘I think so,’ she replied. ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Well, I best get on.’

  ‘I’m going to the lav,’ Billy announced. ‘You lot shuffle. I want to see your pivot cuts. That’s the first thing.’

  ‘Pivot cuts,’ one of the men complained, as if this was too basic.

  ‘Oi,’ said Roberts again.

  Mirabelle remembered this was Vi’s speciality. Billy had been impressed with her when they first met. It seemed sad now. She walked past the empty tables in the main room and wondered if the roulette wheel was loaded. Of course it was. Out in the hallway, Billy rounded on her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘These men killed Helen Quinn, didn’t they?’

  ‘Of course they did.’

  ‘They killed her because they wanted you.’

  Billy sighed. Then he came clean. He owed her the explanation. ‘We thought we’d got away. I had a job. Nothing much, but it was out of this. It was good for a while. But these people . . . when they found me . . . I didn’t want to come back, you see. You should get out of here, Miss Bevan.’

  ‘They were trying to scare you, weren’t they? To make you work for them. That’s the motive.’

  ‘They scared me all right. Look, there’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘And they stabbed Helen Quinn in the stomach because Vi is pregnant. It was a warning. But it wasn’t aimed at Phil Quinn. That’s where we all went wrong. It was for you. God, you must have been terrified.’

  Billy didn’t answer.

  ‘You need a safe house, Billy. You and Vi. I’ll see if I can . . .’

  ‘No. They’ve made it clear what’ll happen.’

  ‘But Vi must be beside herself.’

  ‘Vi hasn’t figured it out yet. And I’m not going to tell her till after the baby arrives. Look, you should get out. You’re in danger. If they find out why you’re here . . .’

  ‘But the police . . .’

  Billy snorted. ‘Don’t you understand? The police won’t tackle this. You don’t know who she entertains in her place in London – judges and MPs. There’s actors too – a bit of glam. Half the room’s got a title any night of the week. People of standing. They call it the establishment. They like her and they aren’t going to put her away. She’s got too much on them. Don’t you see?’

  ‘Helen Quinn was murdered . . .’ Mirabelle objected.

  ‘Better Helen than Vi. Better Helen than me,’ Billy snapped.

  ‘And what about Phil?’

  ‘The police have got nothing on Phil. They’ll have to let him go.’ Billy dropped his hands by his side as if he had given up. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Don’t you get it? People like this, they love it. They want the thrill. They’d screw the house if they could. And, instead, the house screws them. Everyone wants risk since the war. Luxury and risk. It’s like a drug. There are drugs here too. They get themselves into it because they want to. And there’s so much money that nobody matters, not you, not me and not bloody Helen, that’s for sure.’

  Mirabelle was about to push him further. But, before she could find the words, the front door swung open at the other end of the hall. There was a pause and then the countess wandered into the vestibule dressed in a long mink coat. She was followed by a man. With the light behind them, it was difficult to make them out. It was not the same in the other direction.

  ‘What are you doing?’ The countess’s sharp eyes spotted Mirabelle and Billy immediately, out of place.

  ‘I’m giving the girl directions,’ Billy said. ‘She’s new.’

  Mirabelle bobbed a curtsey. The countess clearly didn’t recognise her, but then why would she?

  ‘Well, get on then.’ The woman raised a languid gloved hand and flicked it in the general direction of the interior. ‘Haven’t you got things to do?’

  Billy dropped his head and, with only the merest hesitation, he turned back towards the gaming rooms. Mirabelle watched him. She was about to step on to the stairs when the man behind the countess followed her into the hallway.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said.

  Mirabelle blushed. In the light, she could see the countess’s companion. Ernie Davidson was eyeing her with a look of delight on his face.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The words were out of Mirabelle’s mouth before she could stop herself.

  ‘I’m visiting the neighbours, as it were. But you know all about that. I thought I’d come and see the new establishment,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘You know this girl?’

  Davidson hesitated. He winked. ‘She used to work for a friend of mine,’ he said. ‘She showed promise, as I recall.’

  ‘Brighton. So small.’ The countess removed her mink coat and gestured Mirabelle to take it. As she did so, Davidson patted Mirabelle’s bottom and handed her his hat. A seam of outrage flashed through her gut and she struggled to control her temper. It felt as if all the evil in Brighton was converging on this grand house and there was nothing she could do.

  The countess stalked towards one of the public rooms. ‘It’s not nearly finished,’ she drawled.

  Davidson leaned in. ‘Our little secret, Belle.’ He winked. ‘I’ve got you now.’

  ‘We need discretion, you can see how it is . . .’ the countess continued, her voice disappearing as she walked away.

  Davidson followed, leaving Mirabelle alone in the cavernous hallway with the mink draped over her arm. Which one of these men murdered Helen Quinn? she wondered. Who had come up with such a cruel, horrible idea? The only decent soul was Billy, she realised. She’d misjudged him. He didn’t want to be caught up in this, but there he was,
fighting for his life and for his wife and child, and all anyone else seemed to care about was money.

  Chapter 26

  No one can give you better advice than yourself

  Scouting the upper floor, Mirabelle was joined by another maid. The girl was boss-eyed and her auburn hair was tucked untidily under an old-fashioned, white cap. Her uniform fitted her perfectly though and Mirabelle eyed it jealously.

  ‘I didn’t know there was going to be two of us,’ the girl said proprietorially.

  ‘Well, it’s a big house.’ Mirabelle ran a palm over her ill-fitting skirt. ‘There may be more yet, don’t you think? What with the party.’

  The girl shrugged and removed a pile of linen from the cupboard, wrinkling her freckled nose. ‘You better pull your weight. Mary? Isn’t it? I’m Louise. Come on, we’ll tackle it together.’

  The countess’s room smelled of perfume. A large, cut-glass bottle, identical to the one in her suite, sat on the dressing table. Mirabelle wondered if the woman had these in each of her houses – in Belgravia, here and who knew where else? It seemed somehow careless. Even kings and queens used to travel with their personal possessions rather than strewing them around a succession of homes.

  Louise pulled the curtains. The room overlooked the back garden. ‘You take that side,’ she directed, opening a linen sheet and flinging the edge across the mattress. During the war, Mirabelle had been trained by the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry and she knew how to keep the corners tight.

  ‘Do you know what goes on here?’ Mirabelle asked.

  Louise nodded. ‘Why do you think the pay’s so good?’

  ‘It’s not only gambling.’ Mirabelle was hoping for an ally.

  ‘That’s not my business. Nor is it yours.’ The girl’s gaze was stony as she squared off the sheet. ‘I’d keep my head down and save up if I were you. Someone told me there’s tips. I’ll check the lavatory,’ she announced and walked off.

  Through the window, Mirabelle noticed the countess and Davidson walking down the lawn. The countess had fitted a cigarette into a long, amber holder and Davidson was solicitously lighting it. She waved her hand elegantly as if demonstrating the view, then took off in the direction of the copse of trees and the little cottage. Mirabelle threw a last pillow into place. She contemplated the receding figures and then, keeping an eye out for Louise, she slipped across the hallway and back downstairs. Biding her time at the kitchen door, she waited until the cook nipped into the pantry and then, careful not to be seen, she sneaked into the garden.

  Down the lawn, at the copse of trees, in the shade, the cottage door was open, just a slice. The ground felt soft under her feet, as she strained to see. Inside, two rooms led off a tiny hallway. One was set up as a bar with comfortable chairs, beyond which there were French doors on to a small patio. It was empty. Mirabelle slipped round to the rear where she discovered the second room was shuttered. She put her eye to a tiny chink, but she only caught a glimpse. Davidson was standing with his back to her. She could hear his voice but not what he was actually saying. With a shrug, Mirabelle completed her circuit, making for the open front door where she hoped to make out the conversation better. As she rounded the corner, she pulled back just in time. The other man, the one she recognised from the car that morning, was heading towards the cottage. The trees made it easy for her to hide. He pushed the door wider as he entered and Mirabelle moved forward and strained to hear.

  Inside, the countess was laughing. It was a throaty sound and quite unaccustomed. Davidson’s voice, by contrast, came in snatches.

  ‘And you think there’s a demand?’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes. I’m certain. People will pay.’ The countess’s tone was serious. ‘We’ve tried it already. Sit down,’ she invited him. ‘Sit.’

  There was the sound of a chair scraping across a tiled floor. A moment later it seemed Davidson must have got to his feet, because there was the sound of it scraping again.

  ‘No. Sit.’ The countess sounded like she was talking to a dog. ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Any man would be afraid.’

  ‘I’m not. I will sit,’ she rebuffed him. ‘Are you too scared to sit with me?’

  The chair scraped more slowly this time, but it seemed he gave into her. After a short silence there was a mechanical click and Davidson’s voice raised again. This time he sounded panicked.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You think you are some big man with your stable of mediocre whores?’ The countess’s voice was set once more at its usual timbre as she laid into him.

  ‘No!’ Davidson sounded as if he was pleading.

  ‘Why did you think I brought you here? A social occasion? Friends between thieves they call it?’ She sounded as if she was spitting the words. ‘And you want a cut? Some business from me? As if I couldn’t find a mediocre whore if I needed one, without the help of a man such as you.’

  ‘Look . . . this is my patch . . .’ Davidson’s breathing was shallow. He didn’t get any further.

  There was the sound of a scuffle, a shout and then a loud bang. Mirabelle jumped. She curled her fists into balls and forced herself to keep listening.

  ‘Oh, really,’ the countess’s voice drawled. She had gone back to complaining. ‘Have you thought what you will do with him this time? Because that other one has been found, you know. I had to make several telephone calls.’

  ‘I’ll do what I always do,’ said the third voice. ‘That’s what the Downs are for. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Well, bury him properly this time,’ she said, as she got to her feet.

  Mirabelle’s stomach churned. She pulled back as the countess stalked out of the cottage in the direction of the house. From inside, there was the sound of something heavy being dragged. She watched as the man emerged and followed the countess across the lawn. Then, carefully, Mirabelle edged along the front of the cottage. She stiffened as she caught sight of Davidson’s body slumped in the hallway. Tentatively, checking over her shoulder, she sneaked across the threshold and expertly checked for a pulse but there was none. His skin was still warm and clammy from those last moments of terror. She shuddered, pulling back her hand as a smear of blood disappeared into the black material of her blouse. It had happened so quickly. There had been nothing she could do. Glancing behind his body, she could see the room was tiled floor to ceiling like a hospital operating theatre. Along one wall, behind a mahogany table that was set with six chairs, the splatter of blood told its own story. She hovered in the doorway. This was a killing room – a place of execution. Easy to clean.

  ‘You were greedy,’ she whispered, ‘but you didn’t deserve that.’

  She found she couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry. Not quite. She wondered if Jinty might cry. The girl had shown a marked lack of emotion about Helen Quinn’s death, but then she hadn’t relied on Mrs Quinn for her living. Davidson’s murder might be different. Then, from the direction of the house, the man stepped back on to the grass with another fellow. Mirabelle looked round frantically. There was no way out now without being seen so she slipped across the hallway and crouched behind the bar in the other room. Her breathing became shallow as the men blundered in.

  ‘She’s got it in her head, Harry,’ the second man said. ‘I mean, the other night, the six of them were delighted. One poor bugger copped it, but the rest were as high as kites, mad bastards.’

  ‘Too afraid to kill themselves any other way.’

  Mirabelle held her breath.

  ‘Well, who’s going to clean up this then?’

  ‘Why do you think I came to get you?’

  ‘I thought you needed a hand with the body.’

  ‘This time I’ll be coming with you to make sure you don’t just dump him.’

  ‘All right. All right.’

  There was the sound of fumbling and Mirabelle realised they were turning out Davidson’s pockets. ‘Cash,’ one said, sounding satisfied. The notes crinkled. ‘And I’ll t
ake that signet ring and all.’

  ‘You’ll get identified with that. That’s the lovely thing about cash. No one knows where you got it. Take the ring, but we’ll have to dump it. Or melt it down.’

  Mirabelle heard footsteps as one of the men came closer. Above her, he leaned over the bar and poured himself a drink. The scent of whisky settled on the air cutting through another, more animal smell of blood and sweat. Mirabelle’s heart began to pound again. She could feel it rising in her chest. She closed her eyes. She read somewhere that’s what people do, when they don’t want to be seen. Illogical. But she found herself doing it. The man sniffed. He put down the whisky. Her heart sank as she realised that if she could smell him then he could smell her. The lavender soap, if any of it lingered on her skin, or maybe the scent of the linen cupboard.

  ‘What’s this then?’ she heard him say.

  She opened her eyes just in time to see his hand reaching out to grab her so she sprang backwards, knocking the bar and jolting his whisky on to the floor. He grabbed her arm and slapped one hand over her mouth as he pulled her upwards. She tried to bite his skin but he was too large for her to get any purchase. Instead, she kicked frantically. All she kept thinking was Vesta doesn’t even know where I am. I just walked off. Then the man pinned her against the wall using his knee. He stared, nodding for her to be quiet as he raised a thick finger to his lips.

  ‘Now,’ he said, loosening his grasp. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was sent down to clean the bar,’ Mirabelle said, her voice shaking. She wanted to be braver, but her body appeared to have taken over.

  The man laughed. ‘You were just here? Unlucky, like?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything. I only heard. Why did she kill him?’

  ‘Oh she didn’t kill him, love. I did. On orders. You don’t want to know, though, do you?’