London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

As she turned into Pall Mall she sneezed. The winter weather in London was notorious, with half the city suffering from respiratory complaints from October to March. She scrambled in her handbag for a hankie just as she reached the grand entrance of the Oxford and Cambridge Club.

  ‘I was here yesterday,’ she identified herself to the steward inside, blowing her nose discreetly. ‘Miss Bevan, if you remember? I was hoping to see Deirdre Blyth today.’

  ‘I’m afraid Miss Blyth departed early this morning, Madam.’

  ‘Harry Bellamy Gore?’

  ‘He’s gone out, Madam.’

  ‘In that case, is Miles around?’

  ‘Certainly. I’ll find him for you, Madam.’

  ‘I’ll be in the Ladies’ Sitting Room.’

  The room was empty but the clink of cutlery from a few solitary Sunday diners emanated from the Coffee Room as she slipped by the half-open door. Mirabelle warmed herself at the fire before taking a seat by the window where she could stare at the foggy street. It helped her to think and she needed to think quickly. Even though Miles was on his way, she wasn’t yet sure how best to tackle him. She reasoned that in all probability Harry’s man was accustomed to ushering females of several persuasions, jazz singers included, in and out of the club on his master’s behalf. Still, she’d need to think of something plausible to explain why she wanted to see the boy. She put a hand to her hair and checked her appearance in her compact. The tweed suit was holding up fine, though she looked a little tired. Perhaps she could get away with being an aunt again. She looked like one, she realised – a spinster aunt. Mirabelle straightened her jacket. Harry seemed rather removed from the events of Thursday night and she wondered if the police had questioned him sufficiently. She was still lost in thought when a sharp knock cut into her concentration and a bulky man dressed in overalls entered the room. Mirabelle sized him up. He was definitely ex-military, his bearing alone told her that. Part of what appeared to be a regimental tattoo showed at his wrist and there were smears of engine oil on his trousers.

  His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back with Brylcreem. Despite his grubby overalls the man looked smart and capable.

  ‘Ma’am, you asked to see me?’

  ‘Are you Miles?’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  Mirabelle decided to try authority. It usually worked with military men. ‘I’m looking for Harry Bellamy Gore.’

  ‘Mr Bellamy Gore isn’t in the club at the moment.’

  ‘Yes. Quite. But I understand you might be able to help me find him.’

  Miles’s eyes darted around the room as if he was looking for clues. ‘Have you tried him at home?’ he said.

  The man was nervous, a good thing. Gradually he controlled his gaze and focused steadily on the lapel of Mirabelle’s jacket, avoiding her eyes. It was time, she judged, to apply some pressure.

  ‘Please,’ she held up her hand, ‘your loyalty is very touching, Miles, but I know you’ve been helping my nephew with some of his,’ here she inhaled deeply, ‘activities.’

  The man’s shoulders tightened.

  ‘You’ll only make things worse if you prevaricate. Let’s just say Harry comes from a long line of gentlemen with nefarious interests. He’s an active, interesting chap, isn’t he? Certainly likes the girls. A certain sort of girl especially.’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  ‘But that doesn’t concern me. I want to find him. And I am less interested in who has been aiding and abetting young Harry in his activities than in managing to have a word with him. Rose, as you are probably aware, is missing.’

  Miles opened his mouth and paused, assessing his options.

  ‘I’m sorry, Madam,’ he said, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

  ‘I don’t know the whereabouts of Mr Bellamy Gore. I can certainly give him a message if I see him.’

  ‘I understand you look after Harry’s interests here at the club. I understand that should a young lady be looking for my nephew you are the fellow to contact.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is today, Madam. I’m sorry.’ Miles was sticking to his guns.

  ‘Is his vehicle here?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You’ve been working in the garage, I see. Is Harry’s vehicle parked here?’

  Miles looked down at his overalls. He ran a palm over his thigh as he realised he couldn’t lie outright. ‘Yes. The Aston is round at the mews.’

  ‘He’ll come in for that, then.’

  ‘I expect so, Madam. He often parks it here when he stays.’ Mirabelle wondered if it was worth pushing any further but she quickly dismissed the thought. Clearly, Miles was loyal to Harry, and when it came down to it, she wasn’t really the boy’s aunt.

  ‘Where is the mews from here?’ She craned to look out of the window.

  ‘They got the whole of Russell Court, Madam. Behind Spencer House. Across the road.’

  ‘Thank you, Miles,’ she said and waved him away.

  Once the man had disappeared down the backstairs, Mirabelle strode into the hallway. She rapped on the glass of the secretary’s office. From inside, a man she hadn’t met before emerged.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I wondered if you might know when Harry Bellamy Gore would be around?’

  The fellow thought for a second before he answered. ‘I couldn’t say, Madam. He doesn’t keep regular hours.’

  ‘But he was staying last night?’

  ‘Mr Bellamy Gore stays quite often, Madam. I’m almost certain he was at the club last evening. He went out a couple of hours ago – for luncheon, I imagine. If anyone knows where he might be, it would be Miles. I can send for him if you like.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. I had a super chat with Deirdre Blyth yesterday. Gosh, it’s such a home from home for young people,’ she gushed. ‘I expect they even stay in the same rooms again and again.’

  ‘Usually,’ the secretary smiled. ‘People get quite attached to their favourite views and so forth. I can check you in if you like. We’re quiet on Sundays. I could book you into a suite and only charge you for a single. Bit of a treat, Madam.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I can’t stay tonight.’

  The telephone rang, and the secretary apologised before heading back into the office. Mirabelle checked the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. Behind a desk at the foot of the stairs to the upper floor there was a board of numbered key hooks mounted on the wall – forty in all. The club had several bedrooms for the use of members. She wondered how long she would have to put the upper storeys of the Oxford and Cambridge Club under surveillance in order to establish who was staying where. Though it was probably what Jack would have advocated, Mirabelle dismissed the notion immediately. Instead she carefully counted how many keys were missing. Eleven. These were people who were presumably upstairs or still in the club. She memorised the room numbers using an encryption code. Twenty-nine rooms unaccounted for. She delved behind the desk for a registration ledger but it must have been kept elsewhere. As she stood staring at the door to the administration office and wondering if the information was there, an elderly man came out of the Coffee Room and strode across the hall.

  ‘Number twenty-five,’ he barked, without even looking at her.

  Mirabelle didn’t quibble. She reached out and handed over the key with a polite smile. People see what they expect to see, she remembered Jack saying. People assume. She waited until the man had mounted the stairs. Twenty-eight to go. With a barely perceptible shrug she followed the gentleman upstairs. She’d work it out without a register. Stealing the keys from the board was not an option – even if she sneaked them off one by one she’d be bound to get caught. The downstairs hallway was far too public. As she reached the landing Mirabelle put up her hand and removed a hairpin. She’d start on the top floor. It was only a process of eli
mination. If the locks were the usual tumbler-and-bolt fittings, it really oughtn’t to take that long.

  Chapter 18

  No party is any fun unless it is seasoned with folly.

  As she left the church Vesta calculated there must be over thirty people walking over to the Claremonts’ house.

  Most of the women were carrying huge casserole dishes with rattling lids that occasionally slid aside and released wonderful aromas. Last night had been the first of Lindon’s nine nights and this afternoon would be the start of his second. It was an old tradition – a Jamaican way to say goodbye.

  Outside the Claremonts’ family home the group mustered and politely waited for Mr Claremont to open the door. It wasn’t locked but the custom was that a member of the family had to invite visitors inside.

  ‘Welcome. Don’t stand on ceremony. Not at a time like this, for heaven’s sake,’ Lindon’s father said as he ushered them into the narrow hallway. He ran his hand over his short, white hair. He was a tall man, but he seemed to have shrunk today, somehow.

  Inside, the place was almost unbearably warm. All the fires had been set before the family left for the service and the table was laid ready for a buffet. In their grief the Claremonts had turned to organisation of the practicalities for comfort. A mismatched pile of plates teetered at the edge of the kitchen table as the women put down their dishes and removed the lids. Meanwhile, Mr Claremont opened the back door and rolled in a couple of thick glass flagons filled with homebrew of an alarming yellow colour.

  ‘I didn’t know you made your own, Mr Claremont,’ Vesta smiled.

  His eyes were bloodshot but he was trying his damnedest to keep his spirits up. ‘Oh yes. I’m a master brewer, young lady! Mostly beer, of course, but last year I tried cider. It was a bumper year for apples, and Ella had a friend who got us a barrel very cheap. We had apple cobbler for weeks! Baked apples. Stewed apples. There was apple sauce with everything! Apple this, apple that. I got sick of it, to tell the truth. Your mother made apple jelly.’ He smacked his lips. ‘We didn’t use to tell you about my brewing when you were little. We didn’t want to encourage you kids,’ he said quietly, ‘and in the end that worked out. Teetotal, my lad was. That’s quite something for a sax player, but Lindon stuck to his guns and never touched a drop.’

  Vesta bit her tongue. ‘Here, let me help.’ She picked up a glass. ‘If you pour, I’ll serve.’

  ‘You gotta taste this,’ he insisted. ‘It’s last year’s. It’ll revive you after a long morning. Demon drink notwithstanding, church ain’t always easy, especially today. Not for none of us.’ Vesta took a gulp and froze. The liquid was utterly revolting – it tasted strongly of fermenting grass. The only blessing was that it was so cold the flavour was probably inhibited.

  ‘Well,’ she said, forcing herself to swallow, ‘that seems to have done the trick.’

  ‘I always hoped Lindon would get married, you know. Nice girl like you,’ Mr Claremont said ruefully.

  Everyone helped themselves to food and drink and then spread around the ground floor, perching on the arms of the Claremonts’ comfortable chairs or standing plate-in-hand in the hallway. One or two of the neighbours, white folks who didn’t attend the First Evangelical, came in by the back door. Everyone was wearing sombre colours for the wake.

  Nonetheless, the new arrivals greeted their friends noisily – everyone in the neighbourhood knew each other. One woman flung her arms around Lindon’s mother, and the two of them stood for what seemed like several minutes, just hugging.

  ‘We thought we’d lost all the young men we were gonna lose when the war wound up. We thought those days were gone,’ the woman sniffed. ‘It’s a tragedy, Ella. He was a fine lad, your Lindon. I don’t care what the papers say. I don’t care about nothing. We knew him and he was a fine lad.’

  Vesta busied herself with serving the drinks and surreptitiously disposing of Mr Claremont’s homebrew where people had put it to one side. Everyone was talking about Lindon when he was a child, telling stories of him playing football in the street or practising loudly on his saxophone. He’d often played so late into the night that the neighbours couldn’t sleep and Mr Claremont had had to confiscate the instrument, only letting Lindon practise during daylight and sometimes not even then. Vesta remembered Lindon as a skinny ten-year-old, playing keepie-uppie on a bombsite.

  ‘Whatcha doing?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Not playing my horn,’ he’d winked, and mimed holding his saxophone.

  In the centre of the room Lindon’s mother sat as if she was in the eye of the storm. She was still wearing her hat and she seemed too delicate, somehow, to survive the huge and unexpected tragedy of losing her eldest son. Vesta could see that the reminiscences swirled around her but none of them was hitting home.

  ‘Tea,’ Ella Claremont declared suddenly, clapping her hands as she removed herself from the throng and headed into the kitchen to boil the kettle.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Get that would you, Vesta, dear?’ she called, her tone of voice exactly the same as when Vesta visited the house as a kid.

  Peeling off her cardigan Vesta pushed her way through the crowd into the hallway and turned the doorknob. When she saw who was there she had to struggle to suppress a whoop.

  Charlie almost filled the entire doorframe. ‘Sorry I ran out on you,’ he said. ‘Had to catch up with Tombo. And here he is.’

  Vesta’s heart was in her throat. ‘I thought you’d gone.’ Charlie looked bemused. ‘Tombo left. And I couldn’t come back without him, could I? I ran to the tram stop and he was still there. I figured you’d be with the others. I hope it’s all right just to pitch up.’

  Tombo was staring unsmiling at Vesta. ‘Charlie says you’re looking into things. I can’t tell you much though. No more than I told the rozzers.’

  Vesta motioned them inside.

  Tombo was as skinny as a rake and wearing a brown woollen suit with patches on the elbows. His tie was so thin that it looked as if someone had drawn a line from his chin down to the buttons of his jacket. Next to Charlie he looked like a tiny totem carved out of dark hardwood. Judging by his accent he was from out west somewhere – past Notting Hill perhaps. They squeezed their way up the hall to the entrance of the kitchen.

  ‘If nothing else, I’ve figured out why Lindon only drank spirits. Don’t dive into Mr Claremont’s homebrew, okay?’ she whispered. ‘Though you might have to take a glass – to be polite.’

  Charlie winked. ‘Roger that,’ he said.

  Tombo lit a cigarette. Mr Claremont shook both musicians by the hand, and patted Charlie on the back with unexpected vigour.

  ‘Friends of Lindon’s? Good to have you here,’ he enthused, pushing glasses of cider their way.

  Tombo didn’t heed Vesta’s warning and downed half his glass immediately. He seemed to quite like the stuff.

  Charlie sniffed his. He put it down on the table, declined the offer of food from the buffet and eyed Vesta, enjoying the view. She was a fine-looking woman with skin like satin, and not too thin, like some British girls. When she smiled her eyes sparkled.

  ‘You help yourself,’ Mr Claremont insisted as he disappeared into the front room to top up glasses.

  ‘So.’ Vesta fanned herself with her open palm. ‘It’s hot in here! Tombo, Charlie said you were at Mac’s on Thursday night?’

  Tombo nodded and looked around. ‘We can’t talk about that in here, can we?’

  ‘Whisper,’ she said, cupping her ear. ‘I’m trying to figure out what actually happened. Tell me, did Lindon leave with the white girl or not?’

  Tombo’s eyes dropped to his shiny shoes. ‘Yeah, he did.’ He leaned closer. ‘He left with the girl, all right. About three in the morning, after Charlie left, give or take. They went outside, and I didn’t see Lindon again that night or ever.’<
br />
  Vesta’s face betrayed her confusion. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, course I am. There weren’t that many of us and we all saw them going out together. I’m sorry. Charlie says you’re not sure Lindon did it. I couldn’t tell you whether he did or not. But he left with the girl and that’s for sure. He went outside with all of them, but then the smooth guy and the fat girl came back on their own.’

  ‘Tell me about the other girl, the glamorous one,’ she asked. ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘I dunno. What they all do. She was hanging out for a couple of hours with her friends, I suppose. They arrived after midnight. They were dancing some of the time, sitting up at the back, even though there was hardly anyone in. People think it’s hep – keeping a distance. Too cool for school. It was kind of a mix-up. Then the girl got chatting to Lindon – all crazy about bebop and dropping names like they was going out of fashion. It didn’t take him long. She left with him pretty quickly. The others just ended up dancing.’

  ‘But that’s not what he said to me,’ she mouthed in disbelief. ‘He said they’d left and he’d stayed. It doesn’t make sense. Do you really think he’d do anything to that girl?’

  Tombo shuffled from foot to foot. ‘You can’t ask me that, sister. Not here with Lindon’s family and all …’

  Charlie laid his hand gently on Vesta’s shoulder. ‘The police took statements from all the guys. And they all saw him leave.’

  Tombo confirmed this with a nod.

  ‘And the other people she was with? The couple?’

  ‘Like I said, they came back in.’ Tombo downed the rest of the cider and sucked on his cigarette as if he needed it to breathe. ‘They couldn’t have been outside more than a few minutes. Seeing her off, I guess. They were dancing for a while but we were slowing down by then and when we stopped playing it wound up early. Four, maybe. Round then, anyways when the police arrived.’

  ‘So,’ Vesta put the story together, ‘Lindon left with three of them, two of them came back in, and you assume that Lindon and Rose ended up together? I mean, you didn’t see that happen. They could have left separately.’