‘We’ll be in touch. We may have to talk to you again. I’ve never known the like. Over a typewriter.’
The girl didn’t flinch. ‘It is a mystery, isn’t it? A bit like a thriller,’ she said.
As the officer walked back up the corridor Vesta watched him carefully, half expecting him to turn around and ask something utterly impossible or to slap on the handcuffs and take her to Scotland Yard. But he ambled through the doors at a steady pace. She waited. She grinned. Mirabelle would have been proud of her, and if he checked them out with Brighton (which no doubt he would) he’d find they were clean – squeaky clean, in fact.
Vesta rested the back of her head on the cold wall and closed her eyes for a few moments. It was difficult to sleep upright, but she wondered if she might manage it today, when no more than a minute later, one of the doors swung open. It was Harry. He was carrying a basket. He looked much younger under the neon lights, about twelve years old, actually. The truth was, Vesta was glad to see him, but she shooed him away as he approached.
‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered. ‘You’ve just missed the police.’
‘I wanted to check how Mirabelle was,’ Harry whispered back. ‘And to give you two this to say thank you.’ He handed over the basket. A puppy’s face peeked over the edge beside a bunch of Sowers wrapped in newspaper. ‘The puppy’s name is Pong. You and Mirabelle were just terrific. I didn’t think we’d get Rose back. But we did, and it’s because of you. Is Mirabelle recovering?’
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Vesta scolded although her heart wasn’t really in it. ‘Mirabelle doesn’t want us all tied together. The police have gone now but you’d better leave. The nurses might mention something if they see you. Mirabelle has figured something out, you see.’
Harry didn’t move. Pong whimpered and settled down in the basket.
Vesta couldn’t help smiling. The puppy was adorable. ‘Is Rose all right?’ she asked.
Harry’s face broke into a grin. ‘She kept asking for gin! Course we couldn’t go out for a gin – she’d have been recognised. We had to make do with some brandy I had in the car. She’ll be fine. We’ve got it all worked out. I dropped her near her place. She’s going to say she was held somewhere near Victoria by a taxi driver. She’s going to be in shock and give a general description. That’s the plan. She won’t be able to identify where she was held. She’ll say she just ran off blindly and didn’t notice anything until she got to the station. She said the main thing was that she had to have a bath. She was in a frightful mess. She thinks you and Mirabelle are the most glamorous people she ever met. When I got home I went to my room but I was too jumpy,’ he admitted. ‘I just couldn’t sleep.’
‘If you’re out you’ll miss the news though.’
‘The news?’
‘That Rose has been found.’
‘Oh, yes. Don’t worry. I can feign surprise. Joy, even.’ Harry gave a convincing grin. ‘I’ll be back before breakfast. Where’s Charlie?’
‘He went to work as usual.’ Harry seemed mildly bemused at the idea of going to work at all. He might be in shock, Vesta realised, as she waved him off.
For what seemed like ages Vesta perched on the uncomfortable chair, her head resting on the wall. The sense of isolation was overwhelming. It was after six when the matron returned. Vesta handed over the Sowers to be arranged in a vase by Mirabelle’s bed. They still wouldn’t let her in.
‘She needs rest now,’ the matron insisted. ‘You can ring, if you like, later on. I’m sure Miss Bevan wouldn’t want you sitting here exhausted for hours. That’s no good to anyone. And you can’t have an animal in the hospital. Where did that come from?’
Vesta said nothing, and the matron did not press the point. The nurses changed shifts and the wards sprang to life. The puppy dozed in the basket. By seven Vesta shrugged. There was nothing for it, she realised, as she got up, tucked the basket under her arm and quietly left the building.
Outside, the sun was rising and a fog-softened light illuminated the busy street. The air was full of early-morning baking aromas, which Vesta, unusually, had no appetite to investigate. A small black nose protruded from the basket as she bobbed down the steps and hailed a taxi.
‘Victoria, please,’ she said to the driver.
‘No dogs,’ he insisted.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! It’s only a five-minute ride and he’s just a puppy.’
The cab driver looked unconvinced.
‘I’ll pay an extra shilling.’
‘All right then but there better be no mess.’
In the cab Vesta felt as if time had telescoped. Had it really only been a weekend? Lindon had died two days ago, on Saturday. She had met Charlie only yesterday. Since Friday she’d passed the longest and the shortest days of her life, and most definitely the strangest. Vesta put a hand on the puppy’s head and stroked him gently as she gazed in the direction of Belgravia and wondered if Rose would be able to keep her side of the bargain.
As she alighted at Brighton station just before nine Vesta felt removed from the world. Monday morning usually entailed tea and toast, a catch-up with Mirabelle and a long day of paperwork. She walked straight to the office. Pong had fallen asleep on the train and now, as she lifted him gently out of the basket, he woke, wriggled out of her hands and scampered around the floor with enthusiasm. Vesta filled a saucer with water and wondered what puppies liked to eat. She had just decided to nip to the butcher’s to investigate when the office door opened and a man’s face, pink from the cold, peered in.
‘Is Miss Bevan around?’
‘I’m afraid not. Can I help you?’
‘Name’s Bill Turpin.’ The man held out his hand. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit – navy with a moss green tie – but Vesta liked him on sight, or rather she would have if she hadn’t been so distracted. ‘I’m to start today,’ Bill announced.
‘I’m the new collector.’
‘Oh yes. Of course. Mirabelle mentioned you. Miss Bevan has had … an accident, I’m afraid,’ Vesta said. ‘I don’t expect to see her this week, Mr Turpin.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘She damaged her collarbone while she was in London.’
‘I did that once. Just a kid. Fell out of a tree. Takes a while to heal. Hey, who’s this little fella?’
The puppy was sniffing Bill’s shoes.
‘Pong.’
‘Spaniel, isn’t he? Gosh, that’s not a kind name. Pong. Where did that come from?’
‘I was given him yesterday. That was his name when he arrived. Perhaps we should call him something else, though.’
‘I’d say so. Lovely animal, he is.’ Bill squatted on the floor and picked up the puppy. ‘Aren’t you, little fella?’
‘Mr Turpin,’ Vesta seized the moment, ‘I wonder if you might like to help with, er, Pong. Do you know what puppies like to eat, perhaps?’
Bill regarded Vesta as if she was an idiot. ‘Eat? Well, you need to get some dog biscuits, something for him to chew, and the odd bit of meat. Nothing fancy. The butcher will do scraps. He only looks about three or four months old. Probably needs a bit of training.’
Vesta reached into the petty-cash box and drew out some coins. It felt good to be in charge again or at least to be efficient. ‘Well, how would you like the job? Why don’t you take him with you? I’m sure he could use a walk. Here’s your call sheet. There are fifteen addresses on there to get you started. The amounts owed are in this column. Take whatever payments you can and arrange to call back if need be. You know to note down everything?’ Vesta handed over a pencil.
Bill looked at the sheet. ‘I’ll bring the money back when I’m done,’ he said.
‘If you want to rename him, please do,’ Vesta said. ‘I think it’s family tradition that it starts with a P. His mother’s cal
led Pooch, you see.’
‘Is he the office dog?’
‘I suppose he is.’
Pong licked Bill’s shoes and chewed on the laces. The man’s eyes shone with delight. ‘Beautiful colour. Silky coat. I reckon you’re a Panther, boy, aren’t you? A black panther. You’re a tough one underneath it all, I’ll bet.’
Pong looked up, his brown eyes wide and his bottom wriggling from side to side.
‘I had thought of getting a proper dog – maybe a Doberman Pinscher,’ Bill said with a twinge of regret as he scooped the puppy into his arms. ‘But we’ll see how you do. Miss Bevan didn’t say nothing about an office dog. You just need to grow a bit, don’t you, fella? Time will see to that. They’re loyal, they are, spaniels, and that’s the main thing. Do you have a lead?’
Vesta shook her head.
‘Leave it with me. I’ll look after it.’
‘Thanks, Mr Turpin.’ She smiled and gave him a key to the office. ‘So you can let yourself in and out.’
‘Oh, of course,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
After Bill departed Vesta slipped off her shoes. I could just lay my head down for a moment, she thought. I should probably try to eat something and then ring the hospital to check on Mirabelle. The desktop felt solid and reassuring against her cheek. The office was quiet. The puppy was gone. The money would come in later. She wondered what the papers would say about Rose. There would be nothing until the afternoon editions and perhaps not even then. Vesta’s eyes slowly closed, her breathing evened and before she knew it she let out an unladylike snore and passed into a very deep, much needed sleep.
Chapter 29
We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.
Mirabelle opened her eyes and had no memory of who she was or where she was for what felt like several minutes. The room smelled of bleach and the walls were painted pale blue. The bed sheet was starched and turned down so tightly she could scarcely move. For a second or two she wondered if Jack was here. Had they been in a bombing raid? Had the flat come down? Then she remembered all at once that it was 1952, the war was over, and Jack had been dead for almost three years. Her heart sank and she let out a cry. Then, out of what seemed like blue sky, an older lady in a nurse’s uniform leaned over the bed.
‘Miss Bevan,’ she said, ‘you’re awake. I’m Sister Dalby.’ Mirabelle tried to speak but her mouth was too dry. The nurse lifted a glass of water to her lips. As Mirabelle moved the pain kicked in. It surged across her upper chest and down one arm. When she looked down she could see she was bandaged to the wrist and there was something binding her chest and holding her head in place. It all ached.
‘Has anyone been to see me?’ she asked.
Sister Dalby shook her head, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Missing your fancy man, are you?’ she said. ‘He’ll be waiting for you, I’m sure. And there’s been the police, of course, and a coloured girl. She phoned last night and again this morning.’
‘Vesta?’
‘Yes. She’s very concerned. You have a good friend there. We need to get some food into you, Miss Bevan. Before anything else. You’ve had a nasty shock.’
‘Could I see the newspaper? I’d like to keep up with what’s going on.’
‘Well, that’s ambitious, I must say. Newspapers, indeed, with a shattered collarbone! I’ll fetch some milk pudding to start with and then we’ll see.’
The pudding tasted good. The sweetness melted in Mirabelle’s mouth, an unaccustomed pleasure as she usually didn’t enjoy sugary food. Sitting upright, the details of everything that had happened came into focus.
‘How’s your memory?’ Sister Dalby asked.
‘Hazy,’ Mirabelle lied. ‘I don’t remember getting here. Or much about being in London. I remember leaving the office on Friday. And seeing Vesta on Saturday.’
‘The police want to ask you about what happened on Sunday night. They’ve checked a few times.’
‘How long have I been here?’ Mirabelle asked.
The nurse took Mirabelle’s pulse and checked the pace against her watch. ‘Well, you seem quite excited to be up,’ she commented. ‘You came in early on Monday morning and now it’s Tuesday.’
‘What time is it?’
‘One. You can have a cup of tea and then nothing until you eat with the rest of the ward at five. I’ve informed the doctor and he’ll examine you on his evening rounds.’
‘Did you get the bullet out?’
‘It went straight through.’
‘Clean?’
‘Very.’
‘And the pain?’
‘I can give you something for that. Medicine round is at two. How bad is it?’
Mirabelle didn’t reply. She didn’t want to take anything that would make her drowsy. She had to keep on her toes. Her eyes wandered to the cupboard beside the bed.
‘We’ve all your things, don’t worry. The jacket and blouse have been laundered. You’ll be able to patch them, I imagine.’
‘Thank you.’
When the sister left the room Mirabelle pulled back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She wobbled slightly as she went to the cupboard. She was already anticipating the pain in putting on her jacket. At least she hadn’t worn a pullover – getting anything over her head would be impossible. She slipped on the tweed skirt and her shoes. Somehow, the heels helped her concentrate. She took off the hospital smock and, deciding to abandon her blouse, slowly got her arms into the jacket and did up the buttons. The bandaging was almost completely hidden. Across the room there was a tiny mirror fixed to the wall. By tortuous degrees she fixed her hair and pinned on her hat. With her handbag over her least painful arm Mirabelle crept to the door. The hospital corridor was populated with nurses and the occasional patient, the latter mostly wheelchair-bound. She drew herself up as tall as she could and stepped out, closing the door behind her as if she had been visiting a patient. The smell of cottage pie and the clink of plates being cleared came from the wards. A burst of laughter sounded as two nurses rounded the corner, gossiping. Mirabelle followed the exit signs. Approaching the front door, she saw a policeman heading towards her. She paused and turned aside, pretending to rummage in her handbag.
Outside, it was sunny and cold. The fog had lifted and it felt like spring, the air as clear as gin. Mirabelle felt like skipping down the steps. She was in the East End. Of course, she would have been sent to St Bartholomew’s.
She quickly realised walking into town was out of the question. The pain was sharp now and she had too far to go. She gingerly raised a hand to hail a cab.
‘Duke’s Hotel, St James’s,’ she instructed the driver.
As Mirabelle alighted at Duke’s she realised how little money she had left. Still, she tipped the driver before making her way gingerly up the steps and through the hallway to the bar. At least she could sort it all out now – she’d find out what had really been going on.
‘Is he in?’ she checked with the barman. He nodded in the direction of the back room.
Mirabelle knocked sharply on the black door. Eddie opened it.
‘I thought you chaps were caught up in Eastern Europe,’ she said smoothly. ‘The Russian Menace and all that. What the hell are you doing with this little domestic drama in Belgravia?’
Eddie ushered her in. ‘Actually, I was stationed in East Berlin for a while but then it turned out we had trouble closer to home. How did you know we were involved, Mirabelle?’
‘The policeman …’ she admitted.
‘The policeman. The one outside Blyth’s house and the one over in Marylebone. Same man, I think. He was on the short side, you see, so I couldn’t help but notice. And, looking back on it, the fact that you came to my room and buttered me up with all those details about Harry. And you apologised to Vesta for being tho
ughtless about Lindon. There was that, too. You’ve been tied up with this all along, haven’t you? Lindon’s death is the department’s fault.’
‘You noticed the policeman?’
‘I didn’t realise at first, to be honest, but then it dawned on me. You better have a bloody good reason for killing that boy, Eddie.’
‘Lindon?’ Eddie sank into his seat. ‘Yes. Frightful mess.’
‘So we aren’t strangling young men in police custody now? Is that what you’re saying? It wasn’t deliberate?’
‘No. We do. We do strangle people in police custody. You know we do. It’s only that this time we didn’t mean it. It wasn’t properly authorised. A bloody shambles. We weren’t sure how to deal with Blyth, you see. The kidnapping of Rose caught us on the back foot. We were gearing up, batting around some options of what to do with him, and then, wham, suddenly Blyth had snatched her and we didn’t know the parameters any more. With Lindon it was only supposed to be a scenario, but the wires got crossed and the agent took it on as a job. A bloody eager beaver and damned bad luck. Of course, then I had that on my plate, as well. As soon as you turned up I realised you’d uncover what was going on more effectively than anyone I could bring in. You were practically on the inside already. I knew you’d track down the girl if it killed you. Then we’d be able to deal with Blyth, which is what we were really after. If it’s any consolation, the man responsible for Lindon Claremont’s death has been punished …’
‘Oh, don’t tell me. Rapped his knuckles, have you? But he won’t face charges, of course. It was murder, Eddie.’
Eddie lifted a glass to his lips. It looked disconcertingly as if he was drinking water. ‘He was a rogue agent, Mirabelle. He exceeded his orders. It happens sometimes. Very regrettable, of course, but do I have to remind you we’re not the bad guys? We’re the British Secret Service and we made a mistake in the course of our operation. It’s regrettable, but there you are. You were a tremendous help. I’m sure that’s what you’d want, of course. We’re very grateful. Forgive me, I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a drink? May I get you something?’
London Calling Page 23
