London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘You fancy a bit of fun?’

  Vesta shifted uncomfortably. She wondered why she’d followed him so readily and eyed the door.

  ‘I’m not really in the mood. I don’t want …’

  ‘No, sister. Nothing like that. I ain’t gonna lay a hand …’ He drew a small cannabis joint from his inside pocket and leaned against the brick wall. ‘Just a little something, okay?’

  Vesta drew on her cigarette. She crossed her arms. ‘You go ahead. Not for me.’

  ‘Awww, sister. Don’t mind me. I’m only trying to keep my head together with all this white music banging on. The Irish guys ain’t bad – the tenor sax is hep enough though he’s a kike, of course. Them Jew boys got a different rhythm, you dig? But it’s rhythm all the same. They’re hipsters. But those lousy English boys on the horns, and, man, who has a white guy on drums? The guy’s from Croydon!’

  He illustrated his point by beating out a dull rhythm on the tabletop next to him. Then he took a draw on the joint and smiled at Vesta through the smoke. ‘You’re one very hep lady.’

  Vesta felt her lip wobble.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you okay?’

  ‘My friend, he was a musician … He died yesterday.’

  ‘Shit. Not Lindon?’

  Vesta nodded. She dropped her hip against the table just for something to lean on. ‘We’ve been friends since we were kids,’ she blurted. ‘Tomorrow I gotta go and face his mama, and I gotta face my mama, and … our folks knew each other a long time.’

  The horn player grabbed an unlabelled bottle of spirits and a couple of grubby shot glasses from a small cupboard.

  ‘Here, have some of this.’

  Vesta sniffed. The reek of home-brewed alcohol assaulted her nostrils.

  ‘Poteen,’ he explained. ‘Now that’s something the Irish can do.’ He downed his shot in one.

  Vesta sipped tentatively. She could feel the liquor kindling a fire in her chest. The warmth was comforting. ‘I just can’t believe Lindon killed himself,’ she said quietly.

  The horn player put down the bottle. ‘No black man ever killed himself in police custody, baby. Oh, sweetheart. I mean, you move like you know something. Those bastards …’ He paused, methodically extinguishing the anger in his voice.

  ‘Don’t think that of your friend, okay? I knew Lindon a little. From the scene, you know. He was a nice kid. Not a pukka cat on the horn but competent, you dig? He wouldn’t hurt no one, and that includes himself.’

  Vesta tossed back the rest of the poteen and then gasped as it took her breath away. ‘Shit,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right, baby. Shit. Shit. Shit. They been treating us bad since the dawn of time, these ghosts, and now’s when it has to stop.’

  Vesta bit her lip. It wasn’t often in male company that Vesta didn’t smile and laugh. Now she stood stock-still, serious and silent.

  ‘I mean, I wasn’t there, sister, but Lindon didn’t leave Mac’s with no white girl. That’s what I heard. The whole band that night were black men. Police just picked one and framed him up good. Could’ve been any one of them. The missing girl just talked to poor Lindon. So when the fingers was pointing, they pointed at him. Hey, where you going?’

  Vesta had placed the empty glass on the table and was heading for the door.

  ‘Thanks,’ she called out. ‘You cleared my head.’

  Back inside the club the beat was still frantic. She could see Mirabelle’s head at the edge of the crowd at the bar scanning the club for her friend. Vesta pushed towards her.

  ‘The barmen won’t talk. It’s too busy,’ Mirabelle shouted as she handed Vesta a shot of whisky. ‘We should try to speak to the musicians when they’re finished. They’ll have known Lindon. Someone must remember something.’

  Vesta downed her whisky and handed back her glass. The girl’s eyes were drawn towards the stage. ‘They won’t know anything. None of them were playing at Mac’s that night.’

  ‘How do you know? Where did you go just now?’ Mirabelle asked.

  Vesta didn’t answer. Her eyes were wide open. ‘We should get back to the hotel,’ she said. ‘This is a waste of time. This isn’t what Lindon was into, and we need to get some sleep before tomorrow.’

  Chapter 12

  True genius resides in the capacity for evaluating uncertain, hazardous and conflicting information.

  The receptionist was absorbed in a crime novel – the latest by James Hadley Chase, Mirabelle noticed – and she didn’t even look up as the two women glided through the hallway at Duke’s and took the stairs to the second floor. Vesta held her drink remarkably well, thought Mirabelle. Last year, Vesta would never have had the guts and strong-mindedness she had displayed this evening. The girl had learned a lot and she seemed to be coping with Lindon’s death reasonably well. Mirabelle was impressed. At least the girl was being practical. She put a hand on her empty stomach. It was probably too late to order something to eat and she didn’t have the energy or the inclination to walk over to Piccadilly to buy chips. Despite the ideas whizzing around her mind Mirabelle felt utterly exhausted and was looking forward to disappearing into the darkness for a few hours. ‘Goodnight,’ Vesta nodded as she put her key into the lock.

  ‘Goodnight.’ Mirabelle continued down the hallway. Mirabelle hadn’t unlocked her room when a terrific crash emanated from behind Vesta’s half-open door and a high-pitched squeal cut through the silence. Mirabelle rushed towards the noise, bursting through the doorway. Two shadowy figures were discernible in the corner of the bedroom. Mirabelle snapped on the light. Vesta – armed with a wooden chair – had a man pinned against the wall.

  ‘Eddie!’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I think I’m in the wrong room,’ he apologised frantically as Vesta slowly lowered the chair. ‘Ah, thank heavens, Mirabelle. There you are. The girl on the desk said 212. I’m so sorry, Miss. I didn’t intend to alarm you.’

  The cigarette in his hand sent a trail of smoke in his wake as he tried to guide Vesta away.

  ‘Vesta, this is Eddie Brandon,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Eddie, this is Vesta Churchill, my business partner and Lindon Claremont’s friend.’

  ‘I’m lucky to be alive! So, you’re Mirabelle’s connection to this case.’ Eddie gave a charming smile as he offered Vesta a cigarette. ‘They said Mirabelle had gone out but they didn’t say she was with anyone so I thought I would wait. They’re too damn discreet by far round here.’

  ‘’S all right.’ Vesta sat down on the chair. ‘They think I’m the maid, is all.’

  Eddie looked at her quizzically. ‘I could order some drinks, if you like,’ he offered. ‘Some cocoa perhaps?’

  Normally Vesta jumped at the offer of any kind of sustenance but tonight she shook her head solemnly.

  Mirabelle couldn’t resist though. ‘Cocoa’s a good idea. And toast if it’s not too late.’

  ‘They’ll do it for me.’ Eddie lifted the telephone and ordered, adding a double brandy for himself. ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything?’ he whispered to Vesta before hanging up.

  ‘I’ve lost my appetite.’

  Mirabelle perched on the end of Vesta’s bed and crossed her legs. ‘Well, Eddie,’ she said, ‘you didn’t come here for a midnight feast.’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know what transpired from my enquiries. I went looking for your key players. The Bellamy Gore girl is still missing in action as it were. The police story is that she left the club that night with Lindon Claremont, got into a cab, of which the police can find no trace as yet, and she hasn’t been seen since. Lavinia Blyth panicked and phoned her father from a nearby phone box. Paul Blyth contacted the police, and, given who he is, they went looking immediately.’

  Vesta listened keenly.

  ‘Well, that’s rather odd, for a start,’ said Mirabelle. ‘For three r
easons. First of all, I heard that Blyth was furious that Lavinia had got the police involved. Lavinia’s sister told me. But he can’t have been if he called them himself. Secondly, if Paul Blyth rules his house like he used to rule his office, I’d have thought that Lavinia would have done anything not to let him know what she was up to, sneaking out at night and frequenting jazz clubs. She didn’t hurry home, either. It’s odd. And the third thing is, well, why on earth did he call the police? Belgravia operates within its own circles first and foremost. If I was Paul Blyth and I got a phone call in the middle of the night to say Rose had got into a taxi with a man, I’d call the girl’s father before I called the authorities. The Blyths and the Bellamy Gores know each other. They’ve been neighbours for years. To get hold of the police immediately would risk a scandal. The girl has only just turned eighteen, and she certainly shouldn’t have been out in a seedy jazz club, but she wasn’t overtly in any danger, was she?’

  ‘Except,’ Eddie pointed out smoothly, ‘it looks like old man Blyth was right, and so was his daughter. Rose was missing. She’s still missing. The police didn’t get anything out of Lindon Claremont. They still have no idea where the girl is. Regardless of the process, I think we can say she was genuinely in danger. They can’t rally the staff and the villagers to search the outhouses in London, which is what they’d do on a country estate. If he was taking it seriously he would have to have called the police.’

  Mirabelle frowned. ‘Still,’ she said, ‘not straight away. He should have called the girl’s family first.’

  ‘Well, that’s what happened,’ continued Eddie. ‘Next up is our chap Chief Inspector Green. To describe him as young is an understatement. The chap is a shade under thirty and looks like a child. He’s known as Babyface Green on the force, though that’s behind his back, I should imagine. He did his duty with the Royal Pioneer Corps during the war but didn’t make it out of the rank-and-file. He’s handy with a spanner though – a first-class engineer. Started on the beat with a tour of duty in the East End where he exposed some black-market operations. Then promoted through the ranks. He got his big break for his part in the George Mitchell murder case in 1947 and that took him out of uniform. He didn’t solve it, of course, but apparently his performance was highly competent. As far as I can make out he isn’t previously acquainted with any of our players, which isn’t that surprising – he came up the ranks after all.’

  There was a sharp rap on the door. A waiter appeared with a covered tray, which he laid carefully on the dressing table. Mirabelle thought she detected the shadow of a smirk on the fellow’s face – a gentleman in a bedroom with two ladies after midnight was an event at Duke’s, but he said nothing of course and left the room.

  As Mirabelle sipped the sweet creamy cocoa and crunched the toast she began to feel more alert.

  Eddie lit another cigarette to enjoy with his brandy.

  ‘That’s all very interesting, Mr Brandon,’ Vesta said quietly, ‘but Lindon was killed in that man’s custody.’

  Eddie caught Mirabelle’s eye. ‘Do you know that?’

  ‘We have to consider the possibility,’ Mirabelle agreed, dabbing her lips with a thick linen napkin. ‘But we don’t know yet. You might be right, Vesta, though one imagines it would entail a very complicated conspiracy. Lindon was extremely nervous when he was taken into custody in Brighton. He may simply have panicked and harmed himself. I’m sorry. But that’s the truth.’

  Vesta’s eyes flashed with anger but she didn’t say anything.

  ‘What I can say is that some of these details are fascinating,’ Mirabelle continued. ‘I mean, perhaps Green is the reason they questioned Lavinia Blyth so carefully. I heard they simply released Rose’s cousin Harry and focused on Lavinia alone. But perhaps Green was as suspicious as I was about how this whole thing had been reported. He wanted to find out why Lavinia had rung her father. That would explain why they held her for so long and didn’t keep Harry.’

  ‘Which brings me to the last jewel in my crown before bedtime,’ Eddie interrupted. ‘The aforementioned cousin, Harry Bellamy Gore. Society chap. Gentleman about town.’

  ‘Good-looking, wealthy, debonair, owner of a sports car and hardly worth questioning …’ Mirabelle mused.

  ‘It’s too absurd. Our Harry has a record, albeit an unofficial one.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s quite sweet, actually. Harry was at Eton, of course, and, oh, it’s too marvellous. He’s a pornographer!’

  Mirabelle choked on her cocoa. ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yes! Isn’t it a wheeze! In his schoolboy days. He was almost expelled although, of course, the Belgrave set stepped in. He was distributing dirty pictures – actually not so much distributing as, well, selling them. He’d got hold of photographs somewhere up in London and took a supply back to school. Ladies in negligees and some girls playing tennis in a state of unwholesome déshabillé. Apparently he made almost one hundred pounds and cleared out the annual allowances of several of his customers. He was only thirteen at the time! Quite the entrepreneur. Anyway, his parents sent him away for three months to Canada. The family have relations there.

  He went back to Eton a reformed character the following term and it was all hushed up.’

  ‘The police weren’t called?’

  ‘Of course not. Housemasters at Eton would rather swallow their own tongues than get the constabulary involved. However, the legend lives on. I know a couple of ex-Eton chaps. And it does say something about his nature, I suppose. From the boy groweth the man and all that. He’s now at King’s reading art history and expected to go on to work at the National Gallery or similar. He’s especially interested in Renaissance sculpture, I hear. The human form is still his stock in trade,’ Eddie laughed. ‘All very amusing.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Vesta leapt up. She strode over to the window and peered out into the darkness, arms folded. When she turned to face them again her eyes were filled with tears. ‘Lindon is dead. This isn’t a joke! I don’t believe Lindon killed himself. I won’t believe it.’

  Eddie lowered his eyes and took a sip of the brandy. ‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Mirabelle laid down her cup and saucer. She went over to Vesta and put an arm around her shoulders.

  Vesta pulled away. ‘You didn’t think it was funny last year when Sandor died,’ she pleaded. ‘Lindon has two sisters and two brothers, parents and aunts and uncles. He might have been too young to save anyone during the war or anything like that but he was a decent guy and he has people who care about him. We grew up together!’

  Eddie stood up. ‘I apologise unreservedly. I’m sorry. It’s a dreadful habit that people who work with difficult cases get into. It was a silly piece of information, it isn’t relevant to the case and I’m sorry I made fun of it. Your friend shouldn’t have died. It was disrespectful of me.’

  Vesta sat down wearily.

  Mirabelle was intrigued. Eddie had made quite some apology. Ex-SOE officers rarely apologised for anything. Their knee-jerk reaction was generally denial.

  ‘Thank you, Eddie. You’ve cut out our work for us. Well, my work, anyway.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ Eddie stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’ll leave you to it. You know where to find me.’

  He picked up his hat and pulled on his coat. ‘Ladies, I bid you goodnight.’

  The door clicked shut.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mirabelle. I know he was only trying to help.’

  ‘No need to be. Do you think you’re going to be able to handle this?’

  Vesta nodded. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Good girl. Come on, I expect we both need some shuteye. We’ve a lot to think about and a long day ahead of us.’

  Chapter 13

  Be ready for opportunity when it comes.

  There was a note under Mirabelle’s door n
ext morning. Vesta would meet her in the evening. Outside, London remained grey. Mirabelle heard the bells of a church up on Piccadilly chiming for Sunday service and wondered if it was St James’s. It was a long time since she had been in a church. She’d stopped going in 1940, increasingly disillusioned by the spiralling death toll. Since then she’d only ever attended funerals and memorial services, of which during the war years there were too many.

  Shaking herself from those dark thoughts, she filled a basin with hot water and washed her face. It felt late, maybe ten o’clock, but her watch had stopped overnight. She pulled on her clothes and hurried downstairs.

  Time was marching on, so Mirabelle settled the bill and set out towards Westminster. London felt like a ghost town. The buildings here felt overbearingly grey and heavy. Down a side street round the corner from the Yard, a pub was just opening its doors. Mirabelle decided to duck in. Policemen drank in local bars and it seemed a good enough place to start. Besides, the walk had sharpened her appetite.

  ‘A sherry, please,’ she ordered. ‘And do you have anything to eat?’

  ‘We might manage a ploughman’s for you,’ the barman offered. ‘There’s always a roast on a Sunday but it’s not ready yet. It’s not so good neither, truth be told.’

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘A ploughman’s would be fine. I’m heading round to the Yard. A friend of mine died there yesterday morning.’

  ‘That darkie?’

  Mirabelle took a deep breath. ‘He was my friend.’ The barman ignored the remark and headed to the kitchen.

  He returned with a plate of fluffy white bread and a sliver of buttery yellow Cheddar and laid a small glass of sherry in front of Mirabelle. In one corner of the plate a teaspoonful of chutney had been unexpectedly fashioned into a quenelle. The barman fished a pickled onion out of a jar with a long spoon and popped it delicately to the side of the meal, with a splash of dark vinegar.