England Expects

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Can’t we leave it?’ she pleaded, picking up her pace. ‘Let’s not discuss this in the street – wherever there’s a quarrel there’s a crowd. That or a body.’

  ‘Vesta, sometimes you are weird, girl.’ Charlie laughed, but seeing her eyes steady and serious he decided not to push the point. ‘Let’s leave it for now.’ He grasped her hand again and squeezed it firmly.

  It wasn’t often that Vesta practically broke into a run as she approached Brills Lane. After pecking Charlie on the cheek she took the stairs at a lick, her red summer coat disappearing into the building like a magic trick. She hammered up to the office and threw her coat onto its peg.

  ‘Morning,’ she gasped.

  Mirabelle looked up. The girl was chewing her lip as she skimmed the morning’s mail at such speed that Mirabelle doubted she could possibly be taking it in. Mirabelle reached over and flicked on the kettle. ‘Everything all right?’ she said quietly.

  Vesta dropped the papers and sat down with a bump. ‘Mirabelle, if I get married, I don’t have to give up work, do I?’

  Mirabelle’s lips parted in a delighted smile. ‘Married! But that’s wonderful news, Vesta. Congratulations!’ Her eyes fell to the fourth finger of the girl’s left hand.

  ‘He bought a ring but I can’t . . . He says he wants to be a family. A family!’ Vesta let the tears trickle down her cheeks and she began to sob, unable to look Mirabelle in the eye. ‘I . . . I don’t want to spend all day keeping house. Every day. Even if it’s a nice house. And kids! He wants kids – not straight away, but still. If you’re married and you don’t have kids everyone gets sniG y. It’s not that I don’t like children, but I’m enjoying things the way they are. It’s nice that Charlie wants to look after me, but I don’t want to be a housewife with no money of my own. I couldn’t bear to be stuck indoors all the time, just cleaning and cooking. Oh God. You understand, don’t you, Mirabelle? Marriage is just so . . . boring.’

  Mirabelle sighed. ‘Gosh,’ she said, passing Vesta a clean handkerchief from her handbag. The truth was, she didn’t understand. Vesta had been lucky enough to find love and here she was rejecting it. Mirabelle cast her mind back. All she had wanted, years ago when she had the chance, was to live with Jack. She gave up her job in a heartbeat to be with him when she moved to Brighton after the war. She hadn’t been very good at keeping house but she’d done it. Her cooking was so terrible that Jack had come to an arrangement with the grocer’s wife who, for a few shillings a week and the coupons, delivered a whole week’s worth of home cooking straight into the refrigerator at the smart flat Jack bought for Mirabelle on the front at The Lawns.

  ‘We can’t starve,’ he had exclaimed, ‘and, darling, you heat things up perfectly. The main thing is that you pour my whisky just as I like it.’

  A finger of Scotch and the same of water was not a taxing requirement, Mirabelle had joked. ‘I should’ve gone to finishing school instead of Oxford.’ She didn’t mean it, not entirely. And neither did he, when he said, ‘Well, thank God you’ve got other talents,’ and pushed her onto the bed.

  Now Mirabelle laid a comforting hand on Vesta’s shoulder but she found it diffcult to speak. McGuigan & McGuigan had been her last choice of occupation. The truth was she was here by default. If Jack was alive she’d never have taken the job. Not in a million years. She’d have been with him – every minute. Or at least she’d have been waiting for him to come home. The idea of being a family was heartbreakingly, tantalisingly marvellous.

  ‘Vesta, do you love Charlie?’ she enquired tentatively.

  Vesta’s eyes opened wide. She stopped crying. ‘I adore him. It’s not Charlie. It’s all this other stuff.’

  ‘You want to have your cake and eat it, you mean?’

  Vesta nodded. ‘Why not?’ She sounded cross. ‘Why can’t I keep my job? My nice life? He gets to. Why’s it always the woman who has to give up everything? It’s not fair.’

  Mirabelle considered this. It had never occurred to her. Vesta was certainly very modern. Perhaps that was what the war had done for young women.

  ‘If you marry Charlie and you don’t want to leave, I won’t make you resign,’ she said. ‘It’s custom and practice. It’s not the law. I can’t see how anyone would be able to take your place. I’d hate it if you went.’

  ‘Really?’ Vesta’s eyes were bright. She flung her arms joyously around Mirabelle’s frame, hugging her tightly. ‘Oh, thank you, Mirabelle. Thank you. This girl I know was a teacher at Whitehawk Primary and they told her she had to go as soon as she got hitched, and one of her friends was a librarian and she got engaged at the same time and they chucked her out, too. But after the wedding the librarian was miserable and in the end she turned up to work every day voluntarily. She helped run the library till she popped her first baby. I don’t know what happened after that. Women just disappear once they’ve had a baby. Missing persons – that’s what it’s like. And Charlie’s in such a rush. He thinks he’s being patient, but it’s all so quick.’

  Mirabelle held up a hand. Sometimes talking to Vesta was like directing traffic. It was extraordinarily easy to end up on a side road, miles from where you started. ‘Well, if you want to stay at work, you’ll be paid, of course. But I urge you to think about it.’ Mirabelle realised her tone was that of an old spinster. I sound about ninety, she cursed inwardly. ‘Look, Vesta, if you don’t want children and Charlie does, it’s bound to cause trouble. If you have reservations, you must be careful. Love is about making sacrifices. It’s about changing your life for someone. At least a little.’

  Vesta nodded. She dabbed her cheeks, blew her nose and solemnly returned Mirabelle’s hankie. ‘I know. It’s such a big change. It’s not that I don’t want kids but maybe we could get a nanny? Can you imagine how that would go down?’ She hooted with laughter. ‘A black woman with a nanny!’

  Mirabelle had a sudden and incongruous vision of a pale-faced woman in a Norland uniform taking orders from Vesta. Not that a Norland nanny would dream of taking on a black infant. They had a code, Mirabelle seemed to recall. There were rules, unwritten and otherwise. And Norland was a costly exercise. There must be other kinds of nanny, she thought.

  ‘If I were you I’d speak to Charlie about it soon,’ she said. ‘It’s the sort of thing you have to agree on.’

  Vesta looked out of the window. A slice of sunshine was working its way up East Street. ‘I wonder where he went. He’s not working until lunchtime and he walked me into town. On a nice day like this perhaps he’s sitting on the front. He likes it by the Aquarium. Charlie’s a sucker for fish.’

  Mirabelle smiled. Maybe Vesta loved the boy, after all. ‘Why don’t you look for him?’ she suggested. ‘You could see if he still has that ring.’

  Vesta grabbed her handbag and pulled on her coat. ‘I can’t talk to him about it. I just can’t. Thanks, though,’ she said, her dark eyes shining. ‘I hate parting on bad terms. I won’t be long. I’ll just give him a cuddle and then I’ll come back.’

  Mirabelle kept an eye on the street, watching from a height as Vesta hurried to the front. A wave of sadness washed over her as she stood by the window. She’d trade in everything for one more kiss, never mind the chance to get married.

  Everyday things were reminders. Each time she drew the curtains at home she pictured how they’d sat in the window in the dark staring at the stars with only a bedsheet wrapped round them. Or last Christmas there was a snow scene in the window of the art gallery on North Street and day after December day she had thought how much Jack would have loved it. If only he hadn’t died.

  As Mirabelle sank into her chair she spotted the morning paper on Bill’s desk. Without thinking she flipped it over and examined the sports pages. Sure enough there was a boxing match that evening – the reason the man who died had been in town. Brighton had a crack junior squad that had won every one of its bouts this year. The boys were being touted as boxing stars of the future. There was a picture of eight stocky teenagers, their han
ds swaddled in bandages, gloves hanging round their necks. They clustered around their coach – a fellow in a white vest, dark hair slicked back and a towel slung carelessly over one shoulder.

  ‘My boys are unbeatable,’ he was quoted. ‘Individually or as a team, no one’ll ever match them. What we have in Brighton this year is unique.’

  Mirabelle smiled. Now that was confidence. Tonight’s bout, which would feature two of these unbeatable Brighton youngsters, was set for 7 p.m. at the Crown and Anchor on Preston Road. If that’s where the murdered man had been heading he’d certainly arrived in Brighton in good time.

  It’s not that far to Preston Road, Mirabelle thought, her curiosity stirring. She could nip up this evening and take a look.

  Chapter 3

  Boxing is show business with blood.

  6.30 p.m., Crown and Anchor

  The man on the door shifted uneasily as Detective Superintendent Alan McGregor flashed his warrant card. The pub was already filling up, and McGregor noticed that in addition to the usual Brighton crowd, there were a few faces he didn’t recognise. Most of them were far too well dressed to be relying solely on ration coupons. Plenty of men would travel to watch a decent fight, and Brighton had hosted the top junior action of the season so far. Commentators were making wild claims for the future careers of the young crop of Brighton fighters. It put on undue pressure, McGregor reckoned. Still, he was keen to be here, and not only because it was where Joey Gillingham had intended to spend the evening. The Superintendent decided he might hazard a quid on the second bout. He liked a bit of hand-to-hand.

  Inside, the pub was shabby but well kept. A clean smell of hops emanated from the bar. The front room was set out like a normal pub and that’s where most people were congregated. McGregor knew it wouldn’t take long before the crowd began to filter into the back room where a ring was pegged out with a few benches around it. At the bar, a man in a sharp suit with a dolly bird on his arm was trying to order a bottle of champagne, much to the barman’s surprise.

  ‘Don’t you got nuffink decent?’ he said, his East End accent thick as treacle.

  ‘There’s beer on draught and we got spirits.’ The barman pointed sheepishly at the gantry.

  The dolly bird pursed her startlingly pink lips and made do with a gin and bitter.

  McGregor scanned the rest of the crowd. He eyed a huddle where illegal odds were being offered and then he turned his attention to the punters cheerily greeting each other as they arrived. It had been a hell of a season for the Brighton boys. Some of the men had brought their sons to the match. A group of kids in short trousers and long socks were drinking Vimto from the bottle as they headed outside. The boys were excited – rattling on about the fight and taking good-humoured pot shots at each other. There was nothing suspicious here, or at least nothing McGregor immediately felt related to the murder that morning. One or two of the men were spreading the news about Joey’s death. He’d been well known in Brighton, particularly in these circles, so, McGregor reasoned, perhaps he’d be able to pick up something of use. Background.

  The Superintendent sidled up to the bar and ordered a half-pint and a whisky chaser before he noticed Mirabelle. She was flushed from the sunshine, wearing a pale peach summer dress cinched at the waist with an elegant tan leather belt. As ever, she took his breath away as she removed her sunglasses and glanced around the pub, her hazel eyes adjusting to the low light. Her hair was down this evening – he hadn’t seen it that way before. It looked silky as she shook it. Normally reserved, it was as if she’d relaxed in the sunshine. He’d hardly seen her since they’d had lunch at the Savoy last year after an inquest hearing. McGregor wanted to repeat the experience, but Miss Bevan always seemed so cool towards him that he’d ducked out of asking her again. There was nowhere like the Savoy in Brighton anyway, and after London’s finest nothing else seemed good enough. At heart the Superintendent was actually rather shy. He lifted a hand in greeting.

  ‘Miss Bevan. I had no idea you were interested in boxing. Might I buy you a drink? A whisky, isn’t it?’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it a wonderful day?’

  McGregor’s knee-jerk reaction was to say ‘Not for Joey Gillingham’, but he stopped himself just in time, telling himself that Mirabelle Bevan wouldn’t want to hear about the case he was working on. What had been on McGregor’s mind most was the unprofessional behaviour of some of his officers. His deputy, Robinson, had ordered Gillingham’s body removed from the crime scene before he’d had a chance to inspect it.

  ‘Cut and dried, boss,’ Robinson had sniffed. ‘I reckoned it was best to get on.’

  By the time McGregor got there all that remained was one traumatised barber, a vermilion spatter and a napkin soaked in Joey Gillingham’s blood.

  ‘There’s no question about the cause of death, is there?’ Robinson defended himself. ‘It’s hot, and there were kids on the way to school. I decided to get the corpse back to the mortuary. Seemed for the best.’

  McGregor didn’t doubt it, but he liked to see a body in situ. It was the usual protocol.

  ‘No more slap-happy stuff,’ he’d warned Robinson. ‘I’m the DS. We do it my way, by the book.’

  ‘You’ll have had a busy day, Superintendent?’ Mirabelle cut into McGregor’s thoughts, lifting her drink for him to clink the glass. ‘Talking to the Express, were you?’

  ‘How did you . . .’

  Mirabelle pointed to a man sitting on a bar stool. He was reading the Argus and Joey Gillingham’s murder was headline news. Express Journalist Butchered In Local Barber’s Chair, it read. McGregor blushed. He had been so involved he hadn’t even considered the newspapers would make a meal of this morning’s murder. There’d been too much to do. Now it sank in.

  ‘They’ll play it up for all it’s worth,’ he said. ‘Journalists love journalists. They think their opinions are important.’

  ‘Wasn’t he important?’

  ‘Sports writer? Not groundbreaking individuals as a rule, but every corpse is important, isn’t it? Looks like this one had a few dodgy contacts but then you’d expect that. He was a gambling man. His editor said he was down for this.’ McGregor nodded towards the boxing ring just visible through the back.

  Mirabelle checked her watch. ‘He arrived very early, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps he was hoping to make a day of it.’

  ‘Horrible affair.’

  ‘At least it was over quickly. Poor fellow probably didn’t know what was happening. If I had to choose how to go . . .’ McGregor stopped. What was wrong with him? He sounded like a miserable old sod with a death wish. Mirabelle looked taken aback. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  She smiled politely and sipped her whisky, taking a moment to soak in the atmosphere.

  ‘The boxing is in the other section. They’ve got changing rooms through there, too. It’s a proper professional set-up, though tonight the fighters are junior amateurs. You haven’t been before?’

  Mirabelle raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘You got me.’

  ‘You didn’t know this one, did you? I mean, our victim?’ McGregor’s voice betrayed his nervousness. Mirabelle Bevan was in the disconcerting habit of being on first-name terms with a larger number of people who ended up dead of violent causes than the average member of the population. This, McGregor noted, did not stop him from wanting to become further acquainted with her.

  ‘I don’t read the Express as a rule. I’d never heard of the poor chap. The circumstances made me curious, that’s all.’

  ‘Mirabelle,’ McGregor leaned in, concerned, ‘I don’t know who killed Joey Gillingham, but whoever they are they’re violent, so please don’t go poking about. I’m not sure you should be here at all.’

  ‘All murderers are violent by definition.’ Mirabelle didn’t back down. ‘Besides, the Crown and Anchor is a public place. It sounds as if the fight tonight will be terrific. I had no idea the local team was doing so well.’

>   McGregor downed his half-pint and lifted his whisky. At least he could keep an eye on her. ‘Let’s go through,’ he said.

  In the back room it was quieter. On the bench a fat, white-haired priest sat patiently, a large wooden cross on a chain rising and falling on the vast expanse of his cassock with every breath.

  ‘Two of the kids fighting tonight are from the church youth club. Don’t worry. The old crow’s not here to administer the last rites. It’ll be Queensberry rules.’ McGregor was enjoying showing Mirabelle round. Usually she was so competent he had hardly any part to play but today she was hanging on his words. His heart lifted as she parted her lips to form a question.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘have you found the murder weapon yet?’

  If there was one thing that was good about a sports crowd it made it easy to mingle. A match was always a good conversation opener. By half past nine Mirabelle had ascertained that Joey Gillingham was reasonably popular. He’d been a generous winner when his bets came in. Professionally, the general consensus was that his column had been firm but fair. He’d spent a good deal of time in Brighton this spring, not only on account of the boxing team’s successes but also because of the racecourse.

  ‘Joey liked the gee-gees,’ a drunk man told Mirabelle. ‘He wasn’t a fella for the football. Not really. He preferred the horses and the dogs and, of course, this stuff.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the ring.

  ‘Sounds to me like he had a lot of friends in Brighton.’

  ‘Friends? Everyone’s a friend of Joey Gillingham, ain’t they? Them boys knows what’s what.’ The man laid a sweaty palm on her arm and squeezed. ‘They’ll give you a tip sometimes, know what I mean?’