London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Lady Chatterley!’ he hooted. ‘That old thing!’

  ‘It’s banned.’

  ‘Oh, it’s been banned for ever. My little cousins could get a copy of this if they wanted to. Honestly! Is that all they have down here? I thought Rose was going to be locked in the bloody chest! Dead or alive. I can’t tell you the relief.’

  Mirabelle moved on. Awkwardly, with her uninjured hand, she opened the next lid. This time there were no books, only sheaves of papers. As she picked them up she realised they were prints that had once been bound.

  ‘They’re Victorian,’ Harry grinned. ‘Don’t look, Miss Bevan! One of my more perverted uncles collects these things.’

  Mirabelle leafed through a series of etchings of anguished ladies in tightly laced corsets and then returned them to the chest.

  ‘And in the third chest?’ Harry whooped like a circus ringmaster. ‘More of the same, no doubt!’

  Mirabelle sat on the stairs as Harry heaved open the third trunk. He took out several leather-bound volumes, one after the other.

  ‘Now these are pretty valuable,’ he said, examining them carefully. ‘Collectors’ items. Specialist stuff. Erotica. And it’s early in date. More of the same but better. Do you want to have a look?’

  Mirabelle waved him off. There really was no need. This made sense, of course; she just had to process what they’d found. Paul Blyth had always been good at getting sensitive information that other people wanted; this was simply an extension of that skill. He was a natural pornographer – of course he was. Then when Harry had come on the scene he had reacted strongly, but now it seemed he hadn’t only been defending his daughters: he was defending his trade as well. Here was a young blood, already notorious for pornography, taking pictures of his daughters. And worse, should Harry find out what Blyth was up to (for the circles must be small) Blyth would suddenly find himself vulnerable. No wonder he’d come down on the boy like a ton of bricks.

  ‘The Zeitgeist,’ she murmured.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘How much is all this worth?’

  Harry considered carefully. ‘The D.H. Lawrence? Not much – maybe five guineas each. Though he has at least fifty copies here. The Victorian prints might make twenty or so each. But these books are worth a lot. Hundreds. Depends on the rarity of the edition. Some early Georgian drawings and engravings are worth thousands. It depends on, er, the raunchiness of the subject matter. Anyway, as I understand it, our cousins across the pond collect them, and they’re known for their generosity.’

  Mirabelle raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem remarkably well informed, Harry.’

  ‘You can’t ask me a question and then get sniffy about it because I know the answer, Miss Bevan.’

  ‘I’m not getting sniffy at all. You simply appear very well informed.’

  Harry relented. ‘All right. After a brief foray into something similar at Eton – on a very small scale, Miss Bevan – I became quite interested in this sort of thing. This is well out of my league, though. And, I should point out, these prints do have artistic merit. Do you think old Blyth knows about all this?’

  ‘Without question.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Well, for a start, eighty pounds’ monthly rent is far too much for these premises. That’s a shade off a thousand a year on a back street in Marylebone! And, to be honest, I thought he overreacted when he took Rose. It seems an overly dramatic solution to a simple problem. I mean, he could have sent a couple of heavies round to beat you up. He could have broken into your rooms and stolen the photographs if that was all he was after. But he didn’t – he wanted to frighten you – to put you out of the game completely. Now I understand. He’s been defending more than his daughters’ honour. That kind of criminality is a small world, and Blyth’s a bully. He wanted to put you off for life, Harry. He’d rather have the march on you than the other way around – at any price. And you’re young, enterprising and, well, interested. And you know him. Know all about him. That makes you dangerous competition. I can understand how that idea would make him jumpy. He’s defending his greatest secret. He’s a mastermind! An international pornographer. If anyone found out he’d be finished.’

  ‘Old Blyth!’ Harry seemed delighted. ‘Seems like such a stuffy old duffer! Well, he might be out of my league but I’ve got something over him now.’

  ‘Harry, honestly. Have you no intelligence? Would you poke your hand in a wasps’ nest just to teach the wasps a lesson?’

  ‘No.’ Harry sounded glum. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘This makes Blyth twice as deadly. God knows what else he’s up to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. But people in one illicit business often have links to another. Gangsters who run booze run brothels. If you wanted an illegal passport you’d start somewhere illegal – an opium den or an underground casino. If Blyth is running an international business specialising in erotica, he might well be involved in other illegal activities.’

  ‘Gosh.’ Harry seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘Do you know exactly what the old fellow did during the war?’

  ‘Information.’ Mirabelle sidestepped the question reflexively and then wondered if by chance she’d hit the nail on the head. Paul Blyth had contacts and access to intelligence. He knew the system backwards and forwards. Mind you, he was dyed-in-the-wool Establishment. He’d never sell information to the enemy – whoever that was these days. She dismissed the thought.

  ‘If he’s hurt Rose …’

  ‘I think we should try to find Rose tonight,’ Mirabelle decided.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Mirabelle checked her watch. It was getting on.

  ‘But I think I might know a man who can help us. Find me an A to Z, would you? I think we may need one. I’ll put everything back here.’

  On the way to the car Mirabelle scanned the flat above the bookshop. It appeared to be occupied by a lone woman with young children. The door to the communal hallway was open, and a bashed-up pram was parked alongside two pairs of small wellington boots at the bottom of the stairs. It seemed unlikely that Rose would be up there.

  ‘He might have owned it.’ She pointed at the Sat. ‘Wouldn’t that have been easy?’

  Harry started the engine and Mirabelle opened the street guide. Further up the pavement the figure of a caped policeman peered down Moxon Street from Marylebone High Street. Mirabelle could have sworn he looked too short to be taken on by the constabulary but it was difficult to tell with the custodian helmet and at such a distance. The policeman earlier hadn’t exactly been a giant. Perhaps the force’s recruitment criteria had changed.

  Chapter 26

  Expectation is the root of all heartache.

  Charlie laughed at her crestfallen expression. ‘Trust me, sugar.’

  Vesta had been disappointed at first with Charlie’s choice of dinner venue. When they left Duke’s they had trailed arm in arm across town towards Charing Cross and up beyond Leicester Square. It felt dreamy. She’d expected a candlelit bistro at the very least, so when Charlie stopped in front of a harshly lit greasy spoon on the edge of Chinatown she’d dropped his arm in dismay. The air smelled stale here – of soy sauce and musty spices. Inside the café, the menu boasted bacon butties and pots of tea. This was not what she had expected.

  ‘Charlie Baker!’ a voice shouted from the back of the café. A fat man with a beaming smile emerged from the kitchen and flung his arms around Charlie’s frame. One or two of the other diners turned to witness the commotion – mostly solitary men lingering over plates of chips.

  ‘Max, this is Vesta,’ Charlie introduced her. ‘We’ve come for dinner.’

  ‘Romantic?’

  ‘Only the best for us.’

  Max disappeared into the ba
ck. Vesta lowered herself primly onto a plastic chair that squeaked as she manoeuvred it nearer the table. If there were things she had intended to do with Charlie later that evening she now mentally retracted the possibility. As a sign of her disapproval she refused to take off her coat.

  Charlie didn’t seem concerned. ‘You’ll never be bored with me, baby,’ he grinned. ‘Cocktails in Duke’s and dinner at Max’s.’

  ‘Do you bring your jazz friends here?’ she asked pointedly.

  ‘Only the black guys,’ he said.

  After a rather uncomfortable atmosphere Max returned to the table with a huge platter of what turned out to be the best jerk chicken Vesta had ever tasted, outside the Caribbean. As they tucked into the steaming chicken pieces and a mound of rice and peas Vesta could feel the spices awakening her taste buds. Damn, this was good! She felt as if she was floating.

  ‘You see?’ said Charlie, watching her face intently. ‘You forgive me now, right? It beats the hell out of my mama’s. I bet it beats yours, too.’

  Vesta smiled. ‘We can never bring her here,’ she said. ‘That’s the deal.’

  ‘Our secret,’ Charlie promised.

  After the dishes were cleared and greasy fingers cleaned on paper napkins Max removed the plates. ‘You wanna make the lady your special dessert, Charlie? Get into the kitchen, man. You’re not gonna believe this, Vesta.’

  Vesta was astounded. ‘What’s this, Charlie?’

  Charlie looked sheepish. ‘Dessert is what I do, sugar,’ he said. ‘That and the drumming.’

  ‘You didn’t know about Charlie Baker? Makes the best, but the best cakes, pastries and puddings to the gentry.’

  Charlie explained: ‘When I’m not drumming I work a kitchen across town.’

  Max wasn’t going to let Charlie get away with the understatement. ‘Charlie works in the Dorchester Hotel. He didn’t tell you? Charlie, you mustn’t hide your light like that!’

  Charlie looked at his shoes. ‘I hope it’s all right, Vesta. I mean, I know working in a kitchen isn’t cool. I play the drums on my nights off. Making a living out of the music though, man, that’s hard.’

  ‘Just make me pudding,’ Vesta mouthed and followed him into the kitchen.

  Charlie put on a grubby apron and started to whisk eggs, Sour and milk. Max brought a flask of orange liqueur. Somewhere he found a lemon.

  ‘Crêpes Suzette,’ Charlie announced.

  Watching him cook, Vesta felt herself relax. How could she possibly have wanted to go to a snobbish French bistro or a pub dining room when she could be here, in a cramped kitchen on the edge of Chinatown watching Charlie make pancakes? It fascinated her. His movements were so precise and quick. He knew exactly what he was doing. As the pan heated, Vesta smelled the sweet scent of pancakes wafting around them.

  ‘It’s a shame we can’t do coffee,’ Max remarked. ‘Not proper coffee. We got chicory, of course, but it just ain’t the same. Weekdays I can send out to the Italian round the corner on Leicester Square but Sunday night they’re closed.’ Charlie set the pancakes alight and then doused the Same.

  He positioned the crêpes on a serving plate and bowed, offering Vesta a fork and setting the plate on the low sideboard. Max brought her a chair. The men hovered. Vesta took a bite. The crêpes tasted like sweet clouds with a tang of orange that lingered in her mouth. It was without question the most delicious thing she’d ever eaten. She helped herself to another spoonful.

  ‘Amazing,’ she declared. ‘Charlie, can you make pies?’

  ‘Anything with Sour, baby. Bread, cakes, pies, you name it. I spent most of my service days cooking. Officers’ Mess. If you can get me the chocolate I can make you a mousse that’ll have you singing, I swear.’

  ‘I thought you were in the medical corps.’

  ‘Everyone gets training with the bandages, sugar. This is what I really do. You okay with this? I mean, you thought I was a mean jazz dude and now …’

  Vesta giggled. ‘Are you kidding? Charlie, I think I’m in love!’

  The cold air was refreshing as they walked to Feldman’s. Inside, they found a table and Charlie ordered house cocktails. It was busy but not overcrowded and the band was playing old-style classics and blues. Everyone seemed very relaxed.

  ‘I don’t know if Mac’s will open tonight, after everything,’ Charlie said as they danced, ‘but we could go round later if you want to see it in action.’

  Vesta swayed to the rhythm. The band sounded good, she was full of delicious food, and, best of all, she was with this gorgeous man. She’d almost forgotten about Mac’s and what had happened. A needle of guilt twisted in her gut as she became aware of the space left by Lindon. Suddenly it seemed as if she was having too good a time. She needed to sit down.

  She was checking her lipstick and resolving to have a look for that Barney character when she saw Mirabelle enter the club. It was an unexpected surprise. Perhaps she’d found something! Vesta stood up and waved, trying to attract her attention, and then she saw Mirabelle wasn’t alone. A smartly dressed youngster was bobbing in her wake.

  ‘Is that kid with Mirabelle?’ she asked Charlie. ‘Do you think it’s Harry? The one who was at Mac’s on Thursday?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s the same boy all right, honey.’

  Before Vesta had time to pass comment Mirabelle and Harry had moved through the crowd and were at the table. Mirabelle introduced everyone. Harry lit a cigarette and offered the pack around. Both Vesta and Charlie refused.

  ‘Have we time for a drink?’ Harry asked. ‘I could go to the bar.’

  ‘Fetch me a whisky, please,’ Mirabelle directed.

  Vesta waited until Harry was on his way. ‘What the hell are you doing with him?’ she hissed. ‘You thought he might be the kidnapper!’

  Mirabelle sat down. ‘It’s a long story, and it’s all my fault. I got it wrong. Harry is the one being blackmailed. He’s high-spirited, but there’s nothing wrong with that when you’re eighteen. He’s not a kidnapper and, to be honest, he’s not so bright, all in all. But he’s willing, if slightly arrogant, and it seems we’ll have to work with that. It’s Lavinia Blyth’s father who has Rose. It’s a long story. Charlie, do you know where Lindon lived? He said he had a place north of the city somewhere near London Spa. Have you been there? Do you know where it is?’

  Charlie sipped his cocktail. ‘Yeah. More Finsbury, really. Or Clerkenwell. Chadwell Street.’

  ‘Do you know the number?’

  ‘No, but I know which it is. It’s a brick building – an old house. He had a bedsit on the top floor.’

  ‘The girl won’t be there,’ said Vesta. ‘If the police think Lindon took her then they’ll have checked his place. They’d be crazy not to. First place they’d go.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mirabelle was thinking things through.

  Harry returned with the drinks. Mirabelle savoured her whisky and ate a solitary potato crisp from a small plate on the table. The band changed key and played a mournful blues number.

  ‘The thing is, Paul Blyth wants to fix Lindon in the police’s minds. If he’s holding her it’ll be somewhere associated with Lindon. He’s going to set her free tomorrow. Blyth will want to lay the blame on Lindon if he can. So, if I were him I’d want to make it look as if Lindon tied her up, panicked and then ran away. Tomorrow the story will be that it’s just taken her this time to escape. He can’t leave her in Lindon’s flat – I mean, you’re right – they’ll have checked there. But he can leave her somewhere that will be associated with Lindon – somewhere nearby. Somewhere it can be assumed Lindon had access.’

  ‘But Rose wouldn’t go along with that, would she? I mean, if he frees her she’ll be able to clear Lindon. If this Blyth fellow kidnapped her then she’ll say it was him, won’t she?’

  ‘She may not. Harry thinks she’ll go along with
whatever Blyth says. Actually it suits Harry if she goes along with it some of the way – at least not dragging Paul Blyth into her story. She’s going to say she can’t remember anything. Though if we get to her first we can alter the script. The story can be that she got into the taxi with Lindon and dropped him off. That’ll clear his name. She can say the taxi driver kidnapped her. Of course, there wasn’t a taxi driver but they’ll never find out.’

  ‘Why would she do that? Shouldn’t she tell the police the truth?’ Vesta insisted. ‘Shouldn’t she tell them about this Paul Blyth character? He ought to be arrested, surely?’

  ‘No. That implicates Harry for a start. And Blyth’s dangerous. And there are a couple of other things I haven’t quite worked out yet … Anyway, the important thing is to get to Rose. Once we’ve found her she can clear Lindon’s name, even if she doesn’t name Blyth. She’d do that, wouldn’t she, Harry?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Definitely. But you think he’s holding Rose near Lindon’s rooms? Not at the Blyth place down in Sussex? It’s a big property. There are outhouses and stables.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! With his own girls there? Lavinia’s already as good as apologised to you, for heaven’s sake. He’d never be able to trust them, and if it came out there’d be no denying his involvement. No. From his perspective things have got out of hand. He needs to be able to tie things up easily. It’s safer in London. If things go wrong he’s not so connected to it, and he has more control. Besides, the minute Rose is set free she’ll be conspicuous wherever she is. The police will make assumptions based on that. If it’s near Lindon’s Sat, then it’s just further proof. That’s the only address – he couldn’t arrange something near Lindon’s parents or anything like that. It would only complicate matters. No, near the boy’s flat is the best idea and he’ll want to tie her to Lindon, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Is that why he left a piece of her dress at Coram’s Fields?’