Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  Mirabelle shook her head.

  ‘Have you ever seen a dead body?’

  It was a lie but she shook her head again. It was what he wanted to hear and what was most likely to get her out of here alive.

  ‘That’s what I call bad timing,’ he said. ’Who’d have thought it?’

  He removed his leg from where it was jamming her into place and Mirabelle slumped.

  ‘Clear that up.’ He motioned to the fallen glass. She fell to her knees and picked up the shards, dabbing the whisky with her apron as he made for the door. The other man hoisted Davidson’s body over his shoulder. ‘Well, what are we going to do?’ he whispered.

  Still low to the ground, Mirabelle backed towards the French doors and flicked the catch that locked them. She slipped on to the patio and turned, throwing the glass on to the grass as she began to run. She had no idea what was at the bottom of the garden. There was no time to think that far ahead. She got perhaps twenty yards before they called out and started after her. By then, Mirabelle was into her stride. The lawn tailed off in a patch of mud and three Victorian rollers, covered in moss, were propped against a high, brick wall. She scrambled up one and tried to pull herself over, but she wasn’t fast enough. The man caught her leg and hauled her down. Landing with a thump, she felt the cold earth, musty against her body. Her jaw ached where she’d hit it. Then her scalp stung as he pulled her up by her hair.

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ he said. ‘You just lost your job.’

  She was forming the words to reply, because you had to go down fighting – that was her nature – but then, quite suddenly, there was a searing pain and the words turned into a deep gasp that spiralled into blackness.

  Chapter 27

  What you seek is seeking you

  Vesta hadn’t only managed to procure Mirabelle’s clothes from the staff changing room at the Grand, she had also sneaked out four rock buns and jam (not Hartley’s). Now, she parcelled two of the buns in a paper bag for Bill to take home when he called at the office at the end of the day. The remaining two she arranged on a plate. She broke off a craggy outcrop of sugar and raisins and slipped it into her mouth. Ideally, she’d like to brew a pot of tea and have a natter with Mirabelle as they tucked in together, but Mirabelle had disappeared.

  Vesta wasn’t perturbed when she emerged into the sunlight at the service entrance of the hotel and discovered Mirabelle had gone. She hovered, hopefully, for a moment and then walked to the front of the building and peered in both directions. Mirabelle may have decided to head back to the office, she told herself. Or she might have gone home. She had looked as if she could do with a freshen-up. Vesta had never seen her friend look so faded. In extremis Mirabelle usually sparkled, but this case was taking its toll. Murder was always harrowing, but when the victim was a woman, Mirabelle took it worse and this time the crime had been so violent.

  Vesta returned to the service entrance. Sometimes Mirabelle left a note – some kind of clue – but this time there was nothing. She peered around the side of the old bins and stared at the tyre marks on the tarmac, trying to recall if they had been there earlier. Then she shrugged and returned to the office where now, sitting at her desk, she leafed through the papers in front of her. McGuigan & McGuigan’s affairs didn’t hold her attention for long and she soon turned to the newspaper. Charlie’s suggestion was on her mind. The prospect of moving to America was tantalising. It would certainly put paid to Vesta’s worries about her mother becoming overbearing when the baby came. But then Vesta felt that she was British and that she belonged here, no matter what people sometimes intimated about the colour of her skin. England was home.

  Gradually, the clock ticked towards lunchtime. Her tummy gurgled. She broke off another piece of rock bun and smeared it with jam as she stared accusingly at Mirabelle’s empty chair. Perhaps Mirabelle had gone home and fallen asleep. Perhaps something had come up. Perhaps . . . It was no use. Popping the last of the bun into her mouth and licking her jammy fingers, Vesta put on her coat and locked the office door. She turned down the street and headed on to the front. It was almost like summer. The sky was searing blue, streaked with wisps. Some of the souvenir shops had put postcard stands on the pavement. Vesta wondered how large her stomach might get and how quickly it might happen. Would she need new summer clothes and, if so, what might she choose? She considered her favourite red summer frock and wondered if she would be able to alter it.

  At the Grand she hovered. The most likely thing was that Mirabelle had gone back to her flat, but still. The doorman eyed her as she loitered on the pavement and Vesta approached him, waving to stop him opening the door.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Were you on duty earlier this morning?’

  The man’s blue eyes sparkled beneath his well-brushed top hat. ‘Well, I saw you, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘I’m looking for a friend. Same height as me. Auburn hair. She was wearing a black dress. She was with me, but she left on her own. Just before I came round, probably.’

  ‘Darkie too, was she?’

  Vesta restrained herself from the sigh that twisted in her throat. ‘She’s a white lady. Like you.’

  The man’s lips puckered. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t recall anyone in particular, but then a lot of people go by.’

  Mirabelle’s outfit might have been remarkable to anyone who knew her, but it was commonplace if you didn’t – far less noteworthy than her usual clothes. Vesta knew she was the one everyone noticed. ‘Thanks.’ She walked back on to the pavement and was about to check around the back of the hotel again, when she noticed the taxi rank. This, she thought, was exactly the kind of inquiry for which the police used Hove Cars. Perhaps she ought to follow their lead. There were three cars waiting, two of the drivers smoking and enjoying the sun and one reading a newspaper.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Vesta kept her voice breezy. ‘I wondered if you’d seen a woman this morning who came from the back of the hotel? She was white, wearing a black dress.’

  One of the smokers nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘The chambermaid? Owes me the fare.’

  ‘She got into your taxi?’

  ‘Two shillings and six-worth.’

  Vesta scrambled in her handbag and withdrew three shillings, which she thrust into the man’s hand. ‘Here,’ she said.

  ‘She said the police would pay. Some bloke called McGregor,’ the driver objected.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll cover it. Where did you take her?’

  ‘Out to the suburbs,’ the man said mysteriously.

  Vesta opened the car door. ‘Take me,’ she said, as she scrambled inside. ‘Wherever it was.’

  The street came as a shock. Vesta had never been out here before. This part of town was poorly served by buses and there were no shops – only a few streets of grand houses set in their own grounds. As she stepped on to the pavement, she was aware that few visitors must arrive unannounced and hardly any of them black.

  ‘Here?’ she checked with the driver.

  ‘You want me to wait?’

  Vesta considered this. ‘Did Mirabelle want you to wait?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘No then. Thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure? She was positive she was on to something to do with that murder. I was thinking perhaps I should go to the police anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure Mirabelle has it in hand. We work with the police. You can go,’ she said and turned away.

  Walking up the drive was daunting. Vesta hovered between the gates as the car turned along the road. Then she took a deep breath and headed up the drive. There was no point in ringing the doorbell. If Mirabelle was here, she’d have to find out under her own steam. Just as Mirabelle had done a few hours before, Vesta peered tentatively through the windows at the front and then made her way along the side of the house. It was, without doubt, the most palatial house Vesta had ever seen. Like Mirabelle, Vesta thought of the day they had broken into Brighton Pavilion. Now, the building had been open
ed as a museum, but then it was uncared for – an easy target. Here, the house was undeniably posh and even appeared to be occupied. At the back, linen had been hung out to air and the door to the conservatory lay gaping. Vesta loitered at the corner as a dumpy maid, her hair tucked into a white cap, emerged to check the drying laundry. The girl ran a hand down the damp tea towels and aprons and returned to the house.

  Vesta edged towards the conservatory. The view through the glass was shielded by rows of plants, some of them exotic. She wasn’t much of a gardener. Mirabelle would know the names – she took more of an interest in that kind of thing. At least the greenery provided some kind of cover. As Vesta stepped inside, the warm air closed around her like a winter coat. A few wicker chairs were grouped around a table. Someone had sat here recently – the ashtray had been used. Vesta checked the stubs – Dunhill – suitably upmarket. A solitary glass sat beside them and there was a whiff of scent on the air, despite the cigarette smoke. That meant expensive perfume.

  The conservatory led on to a sitting room, through which she passed into the hall. Ahead of her, the same maid who had checked the sheets trotted efficiently around a corner and headed upstairs. Vesta waited for the girl to disappear. Then she sneaked into the dining room and then, hearing a woman’s voice, she turned towards what looked like a study. Boxes of books were stacked beside empty bookshelves, the place in disarray. At the desk, the countess was on the telephone, her voice cutting the air into snippets.

  ‘We’ll start later in Brighton. It’s so déclassé to game early. Nothing before nine-thirty, perhaps even ten. I mean, people have to have dinner.’

  Vesta detected a smug note in the woman’s voice. She liked dictating what would happen. Vesta leaned in to hear more.

  ‘The house is adequate. Once I have it running properly I can move in.’

  Vesta smiled. There was something ludicrous about considering this beautiful house unready for occupation. She’d passed paintings stacked against the walls and pots of paint piled ready for use, but it was lovely here. She wondered what the countess might make of the tiny house where she and Charlie lived. The front door had needed fixing for weeks and Charlie kept saying he would buy a refrigerator, but, when it came to it, they hardly ever ate at home. This thought reminded Vesta that she had missed lunch and her stomach turned. Then she was brought back to the situation by the click of the telephone being hung up. She took a step backwards, wondering if she would be safer ducking into the dining room, but before she could move she was tapped sharply on the shoulder. An old woman in a white apron gasped as Vesta turned. She let out a cry of dismay and dropped a piece of paper on the floor as she jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  ‘I won’t have it,’ she said, keeping her eyes on Vesta’s face. ‘The agency can’t expect me to work with darkies. Madam.’ The cook swept into the study and laid the paper on the countess’s desk. ‘I won’t do it. I won’t have them in my kitchen.’

  The countess peered over the cook’s shoulder. ‘Who sent you?’ she enquired languidly.

  ‘The agency, madam,’ Vesta found herself saying.

  ‘And how did you get in?’

  ‘The door was open.’

  ‘I won’t have a darkie in my kitchen,’ the cook repeated.

  The countess perused the menu the cook had put on her desk. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Serve the little sausages. The English seem to like them.’ Her fingers flew elegantly towards the telephone handset. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I want to speak to the Silver Service Agency.’

  Vesta’s palms started to sweat. ‘I’ll just go,’ she said, backing out.

  The countess made a gesture as if she was swatting a fly. ‘Hello,’ she snapped down the phone. ‘Hastings Hall. You have sent us a maid. A black one.’

  Vesta took another step down the hall. She raised her eyes to the front door as the countess spoke into the handset.

  ‘I don’t know how many girls they think we need. What with the other two. It’s a kitchen maid I could really do with,’ the cook murmured.

  The countess replaced the telephone. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘they don’t seem to know anything about you. Though we will be getting a housekeeper shortly.’

  ‘There must have been some kind of mix-up. I’m sorry. I’ll just let myself out.’ Vesta cast her eyes towards the door.

  ‘You can’t go out the front,’ the cook said. ‘Who do you think you are?’ She made a gesture to direct Vesta towards the kitchen. It was the kind of movement you might make towards an animal you didn’t want to touch and of which you were slightly afraid.

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ Vesta breathed gratefully, as she turned down the hall.

  The countess appeared in the frame of the study door. ‘No,’ she said. She stalked on to the carpet. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before.’

  ‘I doubt that, madam,’ the cook said. ‘A girl like this.’

  The countess’s eyes were determined, her gaze steely. ‘I never forget a face,’ she said.

  Vesta thought of that lunchtime in reception at the Grand Hotel. She had got up and followed the countess outside, eavesdropping on her spat about the taxi. The countess’s eyes narrowed as if she was honing in on the same incident.

  ‘You were at the hotel.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Vesta felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. Slowly, a feeling of nausea spread across her chest like a stain.

  The countess took a step towards her. She reached out and grabbed her arm, the carefully manicured nails like talons, the touch of her skin icy. Vesta pulled back. ‘Who sent you?’ she said. ‘Was it that ridiculous woman from Mayfair? She and her lame little boys are no competition.’ A smile spread across her face though she didn’t look in the least happy. ‘Roberts,’ she called loudly. ‘Roberts.’

  A broad man appeared in the opposite doorway. There was something blunt about him. ‘What do we have here?’ he asked.

  ‘A spy,’ the countess said. ‘I think she is a spy.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. Not me,’ Vesta objected.

  ‘She said she was sent by Silver Service, but they have no record of her. She was snooping around the house.’

  ‘Where did you come from, my lovely.’ The man adopted a sleazy tone. Vesta restrained herself from saying ‘Bermondsey’. ‘I was told there was a vacancy,’ she said. ‘My friend went to the agency and I thought I’d try my luck.’

  The man considered this. Then he snatched Vesta’s handbag and opened the catch. He rifled through her purse, the pen Charlie had bought her for Christmas, two clean handkerchiefs and a five pound note secreted in the inside pocket. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Rich pickings for a maid.’ Then he took out a business card – Vesta always kept a few handy. ‘Debt collectors, eh?’

  ‘I’m owed money. I was going to engage them,’ Vesta tried.

  ‘Curious,’ the man continued, as he drew a McGuigan & McGuigan business card from his pocket. ‘I found another of these, earlier today. Another lady who was snooping around.’

  The countess looked like a cat about to pounce. The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘Find out what is going on, Roberts,’ she said.

  The room was at the top of the house and to the side. At one time it must have contained servants’ quarters. The ceiling cut through it in a sharp coombe. As Roberts pushed Vesta ahead of him, she cracked her head off the low plaster and reeled, losing her footing. Not for the first time. She’d fallen twice as he pushed her up the stairs. As she stumbled over the threshold, there was a shout and she looked up to see Mirabelle reaching towards her from the corner. Her face was badly bruised. Vesta gasped. She’d never seen Mirabelle look so damaged. The black dress was smeared with mud and her hair fell about her face.

  ‘I came to find you.’ Vesta managed a smile.

  ‘No.’ Mirabelle’s eyes filled with tears. Then she drew herself up. ‘Let this girl go. She’s having a baby. You have to let her go.’

  Roberts laughed. It
sounded like a rattle being shaked. ‘No one’s being let go. I want to know who sent you two? What are you doing here?’

  ‘No one sent us.’

  He pulled the business cards from his pocket. ‘McGuigan & McGuigan? Maybe I should get in touch with them.’

  ‘We are McGuigan & McGuigan, you idiot,’ Mirabelle spat.

  Roberts replied with a sharp jab to her jaw. She fell backwards on to the floor. ‘Don’t try my patience,’ he snapped. ‘Debt collectors? You two?’

  Mirabelle put her hand to where he’d hit her. It ached. ‘Our client is owed money,’ she tried. ‘That’s what we’re doing here.’

  ‘The countess doesn’t owe anyone a penny.’

  ‘You don’t understand. The guy who owes our client is coming tonight. He’s one of the countess’s guests. We’ve had trouble getting hold of him so we went undercover.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Name of Jenner,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Him and his wife.’

  Roberts cocked his head as if considering this. She had gambled. Jenner, like Whiteside or Thomas, was one of those names that always sounded familiar. Jack had a list he used. ‘I’m here to see Mr Cunningham,’ or ‘Mrs Falconer sent me,’ were standard responses that always sounded plausible.

  ‘We’re out of our depth. You’re right.’ Mirabelle tried to shrug, but her shoulder wasn’t stiff any more, it was actually painful. ‘It was a stupid idea.’

  ‘Who’s your client?’

  It seemed to be working, at least. ‘Mr Cunningham,’ she trotted out. ‘He runs a game in Norwich. That’s why he engaged us. He didn’t want to come all the way down here to deal with it. He’s small-time. We’re small-time. We shouldn’t have troubled you.’

  Roberts snorted. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t. It’s a shame, really.’

  ‘Do you think the countess might consider . . .’ Mirabelle let the sentence linger.

  Roberts stared. ‘You’d be a looker, you know,’ he said, as if he was noticing her for the first time.

  ‘Well, I’ve been told I’m not bad when I’m brushed up.’ She managed a smile. It didn’t sting too much. ‘Why don’t you ask her? Please? We’re sorry. We’d happily disappear if you’d let us.’