British Bulldog

by Sara Sheridan

  She turned smartly and mounted the steps of the club. What had happened to London? There was something down at heel about the old place. Mirabelle couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She shrugged off the uncomfortable sensation of the tramp’s gaze and turned her attention to the matter in hand.

  The Rag was housed in a fine Victorian building but, she noticed, there was a whiff of old books and cabbage as soon as you entered. The carpet was clean but worn, and the place had the air of a frail old person – a countess gone to seed or an aged baron sitting by a fire, dreaming of happier days. Mirabelle lingered at the reception desk, peering to no avail through the open doors that led off the dingy main hall. There was no one in sight.

  ‘Hello,’ she called.

  Nothing. She shrugged off the idea of leaving. If nothing else, she didn’t want to confront the tramp. If she stayed here long enough, she expected he’d get bored and move on. After a full minute at reception completely unattended, Mirabelle decided simply to gatecrash. In for a penny, she thought, and, unsure if women were allowed in all the rooms and almost certain that they wouldn’t be, she stalked into the high-ceilinged drawing room on the ground floor.

  In one corner a curl of creamy paint peeled off the wall below the cornicing and a fire lit in the ornately decorated grate looked set to go out, engulfed by its own ash. Promisingly, however, there were several publications housed on a set of mahogany shelves that entirely covered two of the high walls. Among the encyclopedias and atlases, in a glass dome, a large stuffed penguin had pride of place. As Mirabelle approached she noticed a small note in spidery, fading handwriting that proclaimed the bird had been sent home from Captain Robert Falcon Scott’s expedition to Antarctica. Her eye, however, was drawn to the book propped next to it – a copy of Who’s Who.

  Mirabelle pulled the red leather-bound tome off the shelf and looked up Philip Caine. There was no entry. Major Bradley fared better, and the listing announced he was the husband of Lady Caroline Bland. Though interesting, this was not immediately helpful and Mirabelle moved further along the shelf to the Royal Engineers List that she’d hoped for. Philip Caine wasn’t in that either. It had been a long shot, although worth a try: just because Bradley was a Royal Engineer didn’t mean his escape partner came from the same regiment. Stalag escape committees paired men according to their talents. For instance, if one spoke German but had poor map-reading skills, he’d be teamed with someone just the opposite. There were, she suddenly thought, a few clues in that. Whatever Bradley’s best skills, Caine probably hadn’t had them, and vice versa. She filed away this idea for later use and was about to move further along the shelf when a man’s voice sounded loud, clear and shocked behind her.

  ‘I say, who on earth are you?’

  Mirabelle started but managed a smile as she turned round. The chap in the doorway wore a grey RAF officer’s uniform. He was a solid-looking fellow, greying at the temples. His ruddy complexion betrayed him as either an outdoor enthusiast or a toper. Mirabelle held out her hand.

  ‘Mirabelle Bevan. How do you do?’

  ‘How do you do?’ he replied.

  Neither of them answered the other’s entirely rhetorical question and it was Mirabelle who continued the conversation.

  ‘I’m looking for someone. Well, two someones if I’m honest. A Royal Engineer, Major Matthew Bradley and another officer, Philip Caine.’

  The man squinted. He removed his hat and gloves and laid them on a side table. He was not as old as he seemed, she realised. Some people simply had a lack of humour that aged the face and this chap was probably ten years younger than the fifty he looked. He turned towards Mirabelle, clearly sizing her up in exactly the same way.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘Caine has been dead for years. He never came back.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did. Everyone knew Caine. He was a pilot. A very fine one. Not a wing commander or anything, only a flight lieutenant, but he could fly all right. He got shot down in ’42, poor fellow. Look, who on earth are you?’ The man glanced over his shoulder into the hallway as if he hoped help might arrive and he would not have to deal with this unexpected and irksome woman on club property.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘I shouldn’t be here. The thing is, I was contacted by the solicitor of Major Matthew Bradley, whom I met briefly during the war. Bradley died last weekend. It turns out his last request was that I should look into what happened to Flight Lieutenant Caine. They were friends – escape partners from the same Stalag. They got out together and Caine somehow got lost on the way home. Since I’ve been asked to track him down, I thought this would be a good place to start. Did you know Major Bradley too? He was quite famous, I think.’

  The officer appeared to be deep in thought. ‘No, I don’t believe I know anyone of that name,’ he said at last.

  ‘Bulldog Bradley?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Bulldog Bradley. Though I only know him by reputation. Royal Engineer, wasn’t he? It seems a long time ago now. I didn’t know he’d got out with Caine. Poor Philip. He was a great flier. Never made it home though.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  The officer stared blankly. ‘Of course I’m sure. What kind of a fool do you take me for?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Please, go on. Tell me, what was he like?’

  ‘Caine? Tall fellow. Thoughtful. The bugger spoke German – excuse my language.’

  Mirabelle waved off the apology. German was a valuable escape skill. Between Bradley’s practical expertise and undoubted bravery and Caine’s linguistic ability the pair must have stood a good chance from the start.

  ‘That’s interesting. Where did he learn, do you know?’

  ‘I think there was some Hun family connection. That applied to several of the chaps, of course. The blighter had some French too, I recall. I don’t know if that was anything to do with his people.’

  ‘So did Caine have a family?’

  ‘A wife, you mean?’

  Mirabelle nodded. The officer sat down in a comfortable leather chair by the dying fire. He clasped his hands and considered the question for what felt like a long time.

  ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Though he was engaged, as I remember. They’d known each other as children. I don’t think they were cut from quite the same cloth. But once he’d got some flying hours behind him … well, the wings, you see, were damned attractive during wartime. Heroes and so forth. Caine was due to get married that summer. Rush job. But it was like that during the war. If you wanted something you had to seize the day. He never made it to the altar, of course. He must have been shot down the week he was meant to tie the knot, or very close to it. The girl had a title, I remember. Her people were from somewhere up north. She was a rider – a country type and quite a firebrand, as I recall. Made a terrible fuss when poor Caine went down … Now, give me a moment … it was Lady Caroline something or other …’

  Mirabelle’s heart sank. ‘Lady Caroline Bland?’

  ‘Yes. Blow me. Yes, that’s it!’

  Mirabelle’s mind swam. She glanced at the copy of Who’s Who on the shelf. Lady Caroline Bland was the woman who had married Bradley. This new information meant that she had quite possibly just posted the least discreet letter she had ever written. What on earth would poor Mrs Bradley think? There she was, grieving for a husband who all these years had been wondering what had happened to her erstwhile fiancé. Worse, Bradley clearly felt so guilty about whatever had happened that he effectively employed a complete stranger – Mirabelle – to look for the friend he’d somehow lost on his way home. He’d cut out his wife entirely.

  ‘Well, at least that explains why Bradley didn’t look for Caine while he was alive,’ she thought out loud.

  The officer, pleased with himself, crossed the room and released a decanter of brandy from a locked tantalus. He poured himself a drink.

  ‘One can never get any service round here. No chance of any i
ce. Might I fetch you something?’ he offered.

  Mirabelle checked her watch. She doubted there was anything more to be gained at the club. ‘No, thank you. I’d best be going.’

  As she buttoned her coat, it occurred to her that Vesta would be delighted by the afternoon’s revelations. Writing to Mrs Bradley was probably the only thing Mirabelle had done since she met the girl that might constitute a decent piece of gossip. As she glided through the deserted hallway, leaving the RAF officer to drink alone in the club’s drawing room, Mirabelle wondered if there was any chance that the postman might let her fish the letter out of the box and start again. Then she realised with a twist of shame that it must have been picked up by now – there was always a lunchtime run. A sheet of halfhearted drizzle showered Pall Mall as Mirabelle stepped onto the pavement. Across the road the tramp loitered. Mirabelle felt her skin prickle as she turned towards Piccadilly.

  Chapter 5

  I want to be with those who know secret things.

  The man had no spycraft. It was easy to tell she was being followed. Mirabelle picked up her pace but he didn’t fall behind. Her heels clattered on the icy paving stones and she almost slipped as she turned the corner, righting herself by catching hold of the railings. Further ahead there was a policeman dawdling up St James’s Street but she was reluctant to ask for help, instead overtaking him briskly and glancing behind as she did so. Why wouldn’t the fellow just clear off?

  In a state of mild confusion, Mirabelle found herself on Piccadilly turning sharply left and up the stairs into the Ritz hotel. It was an excellent place to think, if rather grand, and at least the tramp wouldn’t be able to follow her. Stepping inside was immediately comforting. The Ritz was unsullied by memories of anyone but Jack – unlike the Savoy, where the year before last she had had lunch with Superintendent Alan McGregor at the end of the Claremont case. It had been pleasant enough, although the vast dining room had been subdued by news of the King’s death, which had been announced earlier that day. Still, Mirabelle had been unable to dismiss the feeling that she was being disloyal to Jack’s memory by coming there with somebody else. The Ritz was convenient and Jack had believed in hiding in plain sight. With Superintendent McGregor such niceties were not a consideration. There had been no intimate conversation, nothing like that. But still, it had felt wrong.

  Today as she strode into the bar at the Ritz it felt like London as it used to be. The velvet seats were carefully placed to allow each table the maximum privacy – the hallmark of a good English hotel, somewhere you’d be left alone. This afternoon there were only two tables in use – both occupied by well-dressed gentlemen drinking by themselves and reading the Daily Telegraph. The bar had the air of a shrine – somewhere she could step, even if only fleetingly, into a time when London was at its best and she was in love. She mustn’t bring anyone else here, she decided.

  ‘Madam?’ The waiter approached.

  The whiff of Brylcreem acted like smelling salts. Mirabelle ordered a glass of champagne and settled into a chair in the corner, drawing the pale walls around her like a cloak. She strained to see out of the window but the tramp wasn’t in her line of sight. With luck he’d go now. More important, she told herself, was the fact she’d written that dreadful letter. Her stomach churned with embarrassment at Mrs Bradley’s anticipated discomfort. When the champagne arrived with a small plate of crackers, Mirabelle picked at them distractedly. Any hope that Bradley’s widow might furnish a lead to help her find Flight Lieutenant Caine was over. It was unlikely the woman would even reply. I certainly wouldn’t, she thought.

  Trying to put aside her horror at what she’d done, Mirabelle focused. After all, that’s what Jack would have said. Keep your eye on the ball. She drew her attention back to the matter in hand. What might this new information mean? Bradley was a British hero but so, it turned out, was Caine. Pilots had been revered for their courage: many men were brave (and women too), but not everyone risked their lives in quite such a demonstrable fashion. Now, it appeared she had two heroes on her hands, one of whom stole the other’s fiancée while his friend was detained behind enemy lines. Perhaps this shed some light on the major’s blank eyes at the nightclub all those years ago, though it painted him terribly black. The chilled champagne twisted as it went down and Mirabelle repositioned herself in her seat.

  What on earth had Bradley been thinking stealing his friend’s girl? Had he simply fallen in love with someone forbidden? That was what had happened to her, after all. Jack hadn’t loved his wife for years when Mirabelle had taken him on – not that she had had much of a choice. There was no doubt they had been meant for each other. It had felt absolutely right from the beginning. Had it been the same for Bulldog Bradley and Lady Caroline Bland? She considered this as she finished her drink rather too quickly and once more checked out of the window. A cab pulled up at the hotel’s front door and she caught a swish of the porter’s uniform as he rushed forward with a black umbrella. The tramp was still nowhere to be seen. This investigation felt difficult, like driving in fog. She imagined rolling out the story easily, like unfurling a long carpet, and tried to think where it might lead. Then, leaving money on the table, she stalked into the cold to try to find out.

  The post-champagne glow helped distract her from the chill. The man, it seemed, had gone. The crowd thickened near Piccadilly Circus. Flocks of umbrellas concealed pedestrians from each other. At the junction Mirabelle ducked out of the rain and took the stairs down to the Tube. With such a lot to mull over, she hadn’t decided which option she would pursue next and as a result she hovered uncertainly at the subterranean crossroads, where the tiled corridors were smeared with grubby melt. One branch led to the eastbound platform, the other to the west.

  Then ahead, approaching from a set of stairs, the tramp rounded the corner and stopped, staring. Mirabelle felt suddenly furious. She hadn’t fought the war to be afraid of some useless old man. Those days were over.

  ‘Why are you following me?’ she demanded. ‘What do you want?’

  The fellow was sheepish. He held out his palm. ‘I need money, lady. I ain’t eaten in two days.’

  ‘But you’ve followed me all the way from Sloane Square.’

  ‘You looked kind. Men don’t give a fellow much, but a kind-looking lady …’

  ‘You can’t go about intimidating women,’ Mirabelle snapped in temper.

  The man shrugged. ‘I just need help,’ he said.

  Mirabelle turned on her heel. This wasn’t her responsibility. How dare he frighten her like that? Reaching into her pocket she fingered the scrap of paper bearing the address of the Red Cross archive, deciding she’d head for Kensington. The tramp leaned against the tiling as if he’d been punched and Mirabelle wondered why she had been so afraid of him. The war was over. It had been over for almost a decade. Why couldn’t she let it go? The barrier loomed ahead but she didn’t buy a ticket. Guilt twisted in her gut. She withdrew a shilling from her purse and turned back.

  ‘If you want money, just ask. Don’t go scaring women by following them about,’ she said, and thrust the coin into the man’s grubby hand.

  He murmured a thank you but Mirabelle hardly heard it. She didn’t want to think about the detritus of the war any more. She didn’t want to feel guilty, and most of all she didn’t want to harbour fearful suspicions about harmless old men.

  The roar of the train approaching the platform was familiar. Mirabelle stepped aboard, took a seat, and tried to focus on the puzzle Bulldog Bradley had dropped into her lap as the carriage creaked and rocked its way under London.

  If Philip Caine knew he’d lost the woman he loved, might he have given up trying to get home, she wondered? What was there for him to come back to? Heartbreak did strange things to people. She thought about the summer of 1942 – El Alamein and Stalingrad. The Battle for the Atlantic all but won and the hopelessness of Operation Jubilee – the thousands of Allied troops who died or were taken prisoner in Dieppe. Jack had been restless. An
d yet, probably knowing very little of the news, Bulldog Bradley and Philip Caine had slipped out of their Stalag and made their way into French territory from where, it seemed, only one of them made it home. She tried to place the day she’d seen Bradley that night in the club – was it August or September? It was impossible to remember. The summer merged into a confusing jumble of air raid shelters and picnics in the park, long hours in the office and kissing Jack in a store cupboard. Recently she had found it difficult to distinguish between one phase of their relationship and another. It seemed as if she’d always known him. Mirabelle sighed. This wasn’t helping.

  Quarter of an hour later, emerging onto Kensington High Street, she noticed two chauffeurs in uniform smoking and chatting over the bonnet of a Bentley R type. The flower stall at the bottom of Church Street lit the dreary afternoon with a splash of holly. The side streets were unexpectedly steep, and turning the corner she checked the number on her scrap of paper against the figures mounted on the doorways. Here, at least, she hoped she’d find some answers.

  The British Red Cross archive was housed in two buildings – numbers 20 and 22. Mirabelle picked her way up the hill past small front gardens with tiled pathways and painted wooden gates. Several of the flowerbeds had been planted with vegetables. She had almost made it to the top when a car emerged unexpectedly from the mews behind, splashed through a puddle and sent a freezing sloop of water over her feet. Mirabelle wished she’d worn her boots and cursed under her breath. Then, steeling herself, she opened the garden gate and knocked on the door. There was no reply, so she knocked again and rattled the letterbox. When that produced no response, she tried the handle.

  Inside, the building seemed deserted. It had an air of disorganisation and decay that was becoming familiar. Piles of loose-leafed files teetered on what looked like tea trolleys placed about the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs three filing cabinets had been pushed awkwardly against the banister. Opposite them a spindle-legged table seemed too delicate to bear the weight of several padlocked tin document cases.