Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘You sure you’ll be all right?’ Bill checked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘It won’t take long for a cab to get here. I’ll call one now.’

  As the door closed, Vesta waited to make sure he had gone. Then she picked up the telephone and called the police station.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Superintendent McGregor,’ she said. ‘My name is Vesta Lewis.’

  The WPC tried the line. ‘No reply,’ she said, ‘but I can take a message.’

  It always struck Vesta that over the telephone she was treated differently. People couldn’t see the colour of her skin and it showed in the tone of their voice. ‘It’s an emergency,’ she insisted.

  ‘Well,’ the WPC replied, ‘I can put out a call, if you like. But you’ll have to hold. It may take a while. It’s the end of the day.’

  Vesta reached out to plug in the kettle. A solitary rock bun remained on her desk. ‘I’ll wait,’ she said.

  The phone clicked intermittently for a long time. Now and then, she could hear the movement of a busy office – a murmur of voices and the clatter of a typewriter. She made a cup of tea and sipped it. After a good three or four minutes, there was a loud click and a man’s voice came on the line – an English accent.

  ‘Hello. Detective Inspector Robinson speaking.’

  ‘Good evening, Detective, I’m looking for Superintendent McGregor,’ Vesta announced.

  Robinson sounded short already. ‘McGregor’s out,’ he snapped. ‘Who’s calling?’

  Vesta hadn’t anticipated this. In her mind, if Mirabelle needed help, McGregor would simply be there. ‘My name is Vesta Lewis,’ she said. ‘I work with Mirabelle Bevan.’

  The sound of a long, low sigh emanated from the earpiece.

  ‘It’s an emergency,’ Vesta insisted. ‘Mirabelle is in trouble. There’s an illegal gambling operation and someone involved in it killed Helen Quinn.’

  ‘Helen Quinn?’ Robinson’s tone was flat.

  ‘Yes. And another fellow too. It’s a private house called Hastings Hall.’

  ‘Two murders?’ Robinson’s tone became ribald. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Lewis. Did you say there had been another murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you witnessed this?’

  ‘Not me. Mirabelle. If I could speak to Superintendent McGregor . . .’ Vesta persisted.

  ‘The super had to nip out. He won’t be back today. Funeral, see.’

  ‘Oh I am sorry.’ Vesta’s manners clicked in. ‘The thing is, Inspector, Mirabelle is still there. At the scene. At Hastings Hall. And it’s dangerous. She needs help.’

  ‘Miss Bevan needs help?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, leave it with me, Mrs Lewis. I’ll send down the cavalry. Hastings Hall, you say.’

  Vesta, full now of painkillers and tea, didn’t detect the irony in Robinson’s voice. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Robinson rolled his eyes as he hung up. ‘I don’t know how McGregor puts up with it,’ he remarked to a junior officer. ‘Hysterical, bloody women.’

  Chapter 29

  Evil is easy and has infinite forms

  Surveillance was everything. It was dark by the time Mirabelle returned to the rear of Hastings Hall and settled down in a spot with a good view of the public rooms. The house was lit for the evening and now the sun had set so it was easy to see what was going on inside. Tonight, the moon was almost full and Mirabelle was aware it afforded less cover than she might have liked. Still, she was a shadowy figure at best and people tended not to look beyond the light around them. This was how Marcus Fox had staked out the Quinns’ house.

  At first the vast rooms lay more or less empty. The plump maid padded across the carpet, setting out glasses. There was nothing of any interest to see and, checking her watch and recalling the countess’s comments about the party starting late, Mirabelle decided to take another look inside the cottage. Slipping through the copse towards the building, she put her hand to the cold glass of the window and peered inside. The front door was locked, but the French doors had been left open. She took a deep breath and a wave of nausea broke over her as she recalled what had happened there. Her eyes soon got used to the darkness, the light of the moon casting shadows through the trees, dappling the carpet. She slipped past the bar and hovered in the hallway, avoiding stepping where Davidson’s body had lain. It was only superstition, but she couldn’t help herself. The little house felt haunted. In the tiled room, on the mahogany table, there was a wooden box. Mirabelle opened it. Inside, she found a revolver and a box of bullets. As she lifted the gun, she realised it was one of the weapons Fred had bequeathed to his son. How could she have been so stupid? On the butt were the three notches that had made her shudder. Now, she shuddered again, flicking open the barrel. It wasn’t loaded. Not yet. She’d been planning to throw the weapon into the sea before Marcus took it. Now, she slipped it into her handbag.

  Through the window, she caught a glimpse of movement at the main house. Time was marching on. A bank of staff had arrived to man the card tables and the roulette wheel. The casino room seemed wholesome by comparison to what was on offer in the cottage and she slipped back through the patio doors and took up a position behind a chestnut tree where she could see what was going on. It occurred to her that she always found herself on the outside of things. This would be her second night of waiting. She didn’t, however, have to wait long. Just before ten, the countess’s guests started to arrive. The countess graced the rooms, arrayed in a sky-blue satin evening gown. As she flitted between her customers, she motioned with her amber cigarette holder, upon which she periodically took a draw. Just glancing, Mirabelle thought, you’d think this was a party. A raft of smart-looking waiters served drinks on trays – the dumpy maid had been relegated. Mirabelle wondered if she resented the resulting lack of tips.

  Little by little, she found herself drawn towards the light and the movement. Leaving the cover of the tree, she moved closer. Several tables were in play though Billy Randall was nowhere to be seen. But then, she thought, he was bound to be in a private room, dealing for high stakes. She lingered in the shadows, as, bit by bit, the room filled. A cluster of women gathered on a loveseat. One threw her head back and laughed, another opened her handbag and brought out gambling chips, clearly explaining to her friend what they were for.

  Mirabelle cast her eyes over the array of well-dressed couples, the best of Brighton out to try their luck. Then there were the men on their own, who headed straight for a particular table, more businesslike in their approach. The countess greeted each of them, fawning over someone occasionally and moving them to another room, where, it might be expected, there was a game that would suit them better. The clock struck eleven. And then half past. Mirabelle wondered what she might do. There was no sign of Marcus Fox or Roberts and nobody was making their way to the death house, which still lay in darkness behind her.

  Then, as she peered through Hasting Hall’s long windows, she squinted at a party in evening dress that had just arrived. Three men moved towards a table near the fireplace where five-card stud was being dealt. Tommy Fourcade and Dan Gleeson of Hove Cars had brushed up well and, with them, Alan McGregor, who looked somehow different. Mirabelle’s brow creased as she tried to figure out what it was. Then it came to her. She’d never seen him look so smart. She had no idea he even owned a dinner suit. But she had learned all kinds of things about the superintendent in the last few days. Still, she was glad he was here.

  Nonetheless, the others weren’t police officers. It was a puzzle. She shifted, wondering what the men were doing. Gleeson sat down to play cards, laying a generous pile of chips on a single hand, as the countess fussed over him. She brought a new dealer to the table. Gleeson looked as if he was settling in. A waiter served a drink and he lit a cigar. McGregor and Fourcade wandered over to the roulette wheel. Mirabelle strained to see as they laid a solitary bet on red and lost. Fourcade laid a
nother, but McGregor looked around the room and then headed for the door as the wheel spun. Mirabelle didn’t hesitate. She sneaked across the lawn, making straight for the back entrance to the house, and gingerly turned the handle. It wasn’t locked. As she carefully slipped inside, the smell of pork sausages emanated from the kitchen. She turned in the opposite direction, cursing herself for being in the wrong outfit. It seemed she hadn’t worn clothes that fitted for days and now her blue suit was entirely inappropriate – daywear in a sea of evening dress. She peered into the main hallway, but McGregor wasn’t there. Grateful there was carpet to cover the sound of her footsteps, she headed for the countess’s study and slipped inside just as the front door bell sounded.

  ‘Are we terribly late?’ a woman’s voice drawled, as a waiter took her coat and showed her to the gaming room.

  Mirabelle watched her disappear. Then she checked the surface of the desk, but nothing had been unpacked and the drawers were empty. With a shrug, she sneaked back into the hall, mistiming her entrance so that the waiter with the coat still over his arm almost barrelled into her.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘I’m lost,’ she said. The man didn’t appear to notice the lack of a cocktail dress. A lucky break. ‘I’m looking for the lavatory.’

  He pointed the direction and she set off, aware of his eyes upon her. Round the corner, the door was locked, so she took a moment to collect herself, sitting in a small chair beside the window. It was the spark that caught her attention. It was difficult to see anything outside, despite the moon, but the sudden illumination lit the darkness and, in the flash, she saw figures on the lawn. Two men, smoking. Roberts and McGregor. She edged the chair backwards, aware that she didn’t want them to see her, framed in the light of the casement. Carefully, she reached out and slipped the catch. Then she strained to hear what they were saying.

  ‘My friends enjoy a wager, but I’m not so keen. The dogs, perhaps.’ McGregor’s voice floated towards her.

  ‘It’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?’ Roberts replied. ‘You should go back and have a go. You never know your luck.’

  ‘You do the security then? Much need for that?’

  ‘Not everybody wants to pay up at the end of the night. Though they’re a decent crowd mostly. You just have to deal with things quickly.’

  Roberts sounded practically benign. Mirabelle found her lip curling in outrage. You’d never believe he’d beaten her, knocked her out, killed Ernie Davidson, when it came to that.

  ‘What’s your line of work?’ he asked McGregor casually.

  ‘Me? Well, that’s why I’m here. I’m a policeman.’

  There was the sound of a scuffle and a body dropping. Mirabelle couldn’t hold herself back from peering through the glass. She felt relief wash over her, as she realised that, on this occasion, Roberts hadn’t dealt with his problem quite quickly enough. McGregor was now pulling the man’s body towards the rear wall, where nobody would see it from the windows.

  Mirabelle slipped back through the hallway and outside. McGregor stood beside a rose bush with Roberts slumped behind him. He looked up sharply.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said, holding her hand ahead of her.

  ‘Mirabelle. You have to get out of here,’ McGregor objected, as she approached. ‘Jesus.’ His tone changed as he caught sight of her bruises. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘He got hold of me.’ She kept her tone light. ‘Didn’t Vesta tell you?’

  McGregor turned and kicked Roberts in the ribs. ‘Bastard,’ he spat. ‘No, she didn’t. Are you all right?’

  Mirabelle didn’t reply. ‘I thought you’d come to rescue me,’ she said drily.

  ‘You’ve never needed rescuing,’ he said warmly. She didn’t enlighten him, only nodded as he continued. ‘These people killed Helen Quinn, Mirabelle. And worse. Phil killed himself this afternoon. He hung himself in his cell. It’s been a terrible day. I think he just lost hope. He left a note. It said he had no reason to go through a trial and there was nothing worthwhile afterwards anyway. I blame bloody Robinson and his cack-handed investigation. Phil didn’t stand a chance. I should have stood up to the chief. I should have pushed to be allowed to visit the poor bloke . . . but they kept saying I had to stay away.’

  ‘So you’re here to arrest them?’

  McGregor eyes fell to the ground. ‘Not exactly. I was warned off. The chief got a call from London. I think he’s a gambling man, if you see what I mean. I think there might be a few gambling men on the force. First, he stopped me looking into George Forgie’s death. Now, I can’t bust the house here, but if I can find the fellow who killed Helen, maybe I can salvage one arrest, if we can keep all this out of it and I can get a confession. That’s what I came for.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t.’ McGregor tried to cut her off.

  She ignored him. ‘But that’s disgraceful. They killed Forgie here, McGregor. Or he killed himself. Down in the woods. There’s a house. A private house. It’s for Russian roulette,’ she said. ‘They kidnapped me and Vesta, though we got away. And today they shot Ernie Davidson. You know him, don’t you?’

  In the half-light McGregor looked rough. The scuffle with Roberts had messed his hair. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘Leave this to me, Mirabelle. Please. If I can find out exactly who killed Helen Quinn then there’s a chance of at least making one charge stick.’

  Mirabelle ignored him again. She knew more. ‘I know who killed her. Marcus Fox,’ she said. ‘I’ve been watching the house and I haven’t seen him tonight, but that may be because his father is dying. Roberts appears to be on his own.’

  ‘Fox. Marcus,’ McGregor repeated. ‘Right. There’ll be one or two more monkeys. A place this size. You have to go, Mirabelle. Now. It could easily get nasty.’

  ‘So you’re taking matters into your own hands? Just you and Phil’s friends.’

  ‘It’s what you usually do,’ he snapped.

  ‘You asked me to look into this. You came to me.’

  McGregor sighed. ‘I couldn’t bring other officers. Everyone’s under specific orders to leave this place alone. But Fourcade and Gleeson are good men and now with Phil dead. . . They just want a go at whoever killed Phil’s wife. Killed Phil, if it came to that. And if that’s the price I have to pay to get a confession then that’s the best I can do. At least I’ll clear Phil’s name. Look, I have to go inside,’ he said. ‘They’ll come looking for me if I’m much longer. That’s what we agreed. And Marcus Fox isn’t here, you reckon?’

  ‘His father is in the infirmary. Ward twelve. He’s dangerous – the son, I mean. But he’s your man. I’m sorry about your friend,’ she said softly.

  McGregor ignored the opportunity to talk. He stuck to the case. ‘Do you have proof it was this man?’

  ‘Nothing concrete. He’s the one, though. His father as good as told me.’

  McGregor nodded. ‘Go,’ he said. It was an order, not a suggestion.

  As the superintendent disappeared into the house, Mirabelle stared at Roberts. He was still breathing. She kicked him half-heartedly. Then she sat on the grass and removed the gun from her handbag. After considering for a few seconds, she took aim and fired in his direction, wondering what it would feel like to kill somebody so defenceless. As the hammer hit the empty chamber, she realised she couldn’t do it – not even in revenge. People like Roberts and Marcus Fox should be dealt with by a judge. But the law was hampered. Toothless. Corrupt. Poor Phil Quinn, he hadn’t stood a chance in the face of this tangle of motives, dead bodies and protected interests. Maybe McGregor was right. Maybe he could still salvage an arrest after Fourcade and Gleeson had beaten a confession out of Fox. If Fox cracked, that is.

  Through the window, she saw McGregor whisper in Fourcade’s ear. Then the men moved to the game of five card stud and picked up Dan Gleeson. Together they made for the door. It seemed wrong that they were leaving the premises when Davidson’s killer was right here. When she’d been kidnapped by the same
man, and Vesta too. Roberts shifted in the rose bed. She bent over and tied his shoelaces together. Her thoughts were conflicted. Two wrongs might not make a right but she had to do something. Vesta and she might have died and Mirabelle wasn’t just going to let that pass.

  As the men left by the front door, she made off down the lawn. At the cottage, she slipped across the patio efficiently and threw the gun into the empty fireplace. Then she snatched bottles from the bar, pell-mell, and spilled the contents over the furniture. The smell of alcohol lit the air, as Mirabelle picked up a box of matches. The year before she’d been trapped in a fire and the memory still scared her. Now though, she lit one match and then another, throwing them on to the whisky-soaked chairs. Quickly, as they caught alight, she fled into the garden. As she walked up the grass, the fire took hold in a wall of flame and smoke. Slipping down the side of the property, she saw the back door of the main house open and several waiters run outside. There was the sound of shouted instructions, a sense of panic. Roberts got to his feet and fell over. This was revenge, she thought. It didn’t feel entirely good, but it felt better than doing nothing. And then there was another matter on her mind. A rescue.

  The private game was on the opposite side of the house in the panel-lined room where Billy had given his masterclass. She made it, round the long way. Billy was still at the table. He was holding the countess’s money and only a fool would leave with that. The punters, however, had been distracted by the fire and people had filtered outside. Mirabelle peered through the window and watched Billy counting a pile of five pound notes next to a stack of gambling chips. She knocked sharply on the glass and he looked up.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, slipping the catch on the window. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Marcus Fox will be out of commission tonight and the cottage in the grounds is on fire. If you want to get away from this, now is a good time.’

  ‘Someone’s pinched Marcus?’