Brighton Belle

by Sara Sheridan

  Mirabelle pushed all thoughts of Jack from her mind. This was her job now. It might not be the important job to which she had been accustomed but it still had to be done. She retrieved Romana Laszlo’s file, looked up Peters in the Brighton directory and found the number of the solicitor’s practice in Ship Street. The receptionist transferred her immediately.

  ‘Ralph Peters,’ the lawyer said briskly.

  ‘Hello,’ Mirabelle said, ‘this is Mirabelle Bevan of McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery. I understand you are handling the execution of a recent estate – one Romana Laszlo.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Bevan.’

  ‘We have an outstanding debt I would like to register with you. Mrs Laszlo owed our client five hundred pounds to date.’

  ‘You are rather quick off the mark.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I apologise for that. Can you tell me, please, are there funds?’

  ‘I imagine so. There is a considerable life insurance policy as I understand it. I don’t envisage a problem. I’ll know the ins and outs in a few days.’

  ‘I see.’

  The solicitor took down Mirabelle’s details and she agreed to send over the original contract with Bert Jennings.

  ‘I will inform you of the timescale when I know it, Miss Bevan.’

  ‘Yes, that would be very helpful. There are obviously issues with the interest.’ Mirabelle hesitated. The ministry had gathered enormous amounts of information by simply training people to ask the right questions. Now she had Peters on the phone Mirabelle found it almost impossible not to try. ‘Mr Peters, may I ask if you knew Mrs Laszlo?’

  ‘Not at all. I am simply her friend’s solicitor. He brought over her papers this morning and instructed me. She had only recently arrived in England, as I understand it, and did not have a solicitor of her own.’

  ‘I see. Where did she come from?’

  ‘I have no idea. Is it important?’

  ‘No, no. I only wondered. Unusual name, Romana. Pretty.’

  ‘Well, I expect it’s Dutch. She had a Dutch passport, I notice.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘If that’s all, Miss Bevan, I must be getting on. I will keep you informed, but I don’t expect it will take too long.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Goodbye.’

  As she put down the phone Mirabelle wondered why she’d pushed. Still, there was no harm in it. Now she had the information she needed to make good on Bert Jennings’ debt though she also had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps, she thought, when Big Ben came back she would see about taking a holiday. Things had been going so well. Mirabelle smoothed the cuff of her cardigan and straightened the belt that was cinching her waist. Then she heard steps on the stairs. It was certainly turning out to be a very eventful morning and she did not want to appear to be dallying. She had just picked up her pen but had not yet had time to put it to paper when a man walked into the office without even knocking. He had an extraordinary look on his face, as if he had seen an angel – a cross, Mirabelle thought, between wonder and disbelief. Debtors often arrived first thing in the morning. They were almost always dressed like this man – in shabby demob suits – though his expression marked him out from the normally subdued clientele at McGuigan & McGuigan who invariably arrived with a shameful look on their faces, apologising as they handed over their coins.

  ‘Come in, I’ll only be a minute.’

  Mirabelle motioned the man to a chair and slipped her note inside the file marked ROMANA LASZLO and then wrote on the buff cover DECEASED in brackets.

  ‘Is that the foreign bird over at Dr Crichton’s then?’ the man asked jovially, peering at what she was doing from his chair.

  Mirabelle nodded. Somewhere, she thought, Jack is laughing at me. I can practically hear him.

  ‘I suppose all sorts need money now and then,’ he mused. ‘I delivered her coffin there this morning. Thought it was the same name. Well, I never. Weird lot, them foreigners. Don’t want an undertaker, oh no. Just a coffin. Basic model. Didn’t even want me to lay her in it. Poor soul. Must be a foreign custom. Nice, really, to look after the body yourself, I suppose. Keep it in the family, like. Used to be that way here though people don’t bother now.’

  Mirabelle sighed. There was nothing for it. The details were too intriguing.

  ‘And you are?’ she started.

  ‘Michael Smith. Come to make a payment.’

  Mirabelle reached for the ledger. ‘And you work at the undertakers?’ she enquired casually.

  ‘That’s right. Cobb’s of Patcham.’

  Mirabelle scanned through the entries – ten debts on each page. Michael Smith had been running this loan for eighteen months though it looked as if Big Ben normally made a call once a month to get a little money. Most of the time the man barely covered the interest.

  ‘I’m paying the lot off today,’ he announced. ‘I want to clear it.’

  Mirabelle put her finger on the appropriate entry and read across. ‘Five pounds, two shillings and sixpence.’

  Mr Smith reached into his pocket. He proudly withdrew a large white five-pound note and laid it on the desk with a half-crown piece. Mirabelle indicated where he had to sign for completion.

  ‘Good tipper, that Dr Crichton,’ Smith said, his face showing clear delight at being out of the red. ‘Wanted to give me a gold coin and I said “Oh, sir, I can’t take that.” Just laughed, he did, and gave me one of those.’ He nodded towards the paper money. “That’s for you,” he said. “Now hop it!” Well, I got out of there quick, I don’t mind telling you, before he changed his mind.’

  It was an outrageous tip, probably worth more than the coffin.

  ‘Gosh, it is your lucky day,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Do you have Dr Crichton’s address, Mr Smith? I need it for this file.’

  ‘Course I do,’ Smith grinned, far too elated to question why. ‘22 Second Avenue. Easy to remember. Two, two, two, you see.’

  When the man left the office, Mirabelle sat back in her chair. There was clearly something going on. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear with a determined expression. Nothing as intriguing as this had happened in almost two years – not since she left the ministry. It felt comforting in a way – familiar. The best ones started this way – hammering on the door, refusing to be ignored. The devil was always in the detail. And here the detail was certainly devilish – a dead woman and her child, a case of, if not mistaken identity, then some kind of mix-up at best and a very great deal of money.

  Mirabelle decided to take a trip along to Second Avenue and have a look for herself.

  4

  Chickenfeed: information intended to attract and puzzle the recipient.

  Mirabelle buttoned her coat and pinned her hat in place. Then she caught a bus. Second Avenue was only a few blocks from her flat on the Lawns and she was familiar with the area, especially Adelaide Crescent with its majestic white Georgian terrace. Sometimes at the weekend she liked to walk round the Crescent and enjoy the view of the sea. A couple of streets along, Second Avenue was residential – a series of fine Victorian pale brick houses with ornate architectural features – and today Mirabelle scanned both sides of the road as she turned the corner and strode towards the sea. In the old days at the department they would have sent a car on this kind of stake-out. A car was the best cover, or a van, if you couldn’t get into one of the houses nearby. Stopping at number 22, she hovered on the opposite side of the street, trying to look as if she was waiting for a cab to pick her up, or a friend to come home.

  There was little remarkable about the house and, excepting the black crepe bow attached to the brass doorbell, there was not much to see. You have to be patient if you’re fishing, Mirabelle thought, and settled against a low wall opposite. She had read several handbooks on surveillance and knew what to do though she had no practical experience – her role had always been supportive and, for that matter, strategic. She had buzzed around the office at the department, always busy, for almost eight years, all told. A
s the cold stone penetrated her clothes and numbed her buttocks she reminded herself that surveillance was about staying still. This was not in her nature. After about twenty minutes the front door opened and a smart older woman walked down the tiled path. She was carrying a prescription. It looked as if the doctor was consulting. Mirabelle approached, formulating a plan as she smiled in greeting.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I was wondering if this is Dr Crichton’s house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you mind me asking, is the doctor consulting today? Only I heard there was a bereavement.’

  ‘Well, I’ve just been to see him,’ the woman said. ‘I know he had a friend of the family staying. Poor soul. Both she and the baby were taken, I understand.’

  ‘Is the doctor in good spirits?’ Mirabelle enquired.

  ‘Seemed fine to me. Mind you, doctors must see that sort of thing all the time, I expect.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I wasn’t sure whether to disturb him. Thank you.’

  The woman disappeared up the road and Mirabelle continued to hover. Several vans passed to deliver groceries further up the street. In the bay window she thought she caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman but she couldn’t make her out. Waiting for something to turn up was a time-consuming business. Mirabelle knew a successful stake-out could take days or even weeks and she felt frustrated because she couldn’t leave the office unmanned much longer than lunchtime – it wouldn’t be fair to Ben. Going by the book, she knew that she should monitor the pattern of life in the house for at least a day or two before even attempting to gain entry. But it was clear that if she wanted to make progress quickly she might have to take some chances. This, however, wasn’t a war and Mirabelle assured herself that her life wasn’t at risk. It was a doctor’s surgery, for heaven’s sake! The best plan, she decided, was to simply wing it and go in. There would probably be an explanation for everything, the minute she got inside. Resolve hardened, she climbed the steps.

  The bell was answered by a housemaid dressed in a black uniform with a white apron. She looked tearful.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Mirabelle said, casting her gaze over the dark red hallway behind the girl. ‘I am very sorry to bother you, but I wondered if the doctor might see me.’

  ‘Surgery is over at eleven,’ the maid said promptly. ‘And he’s not NHS today. That’s Thursdays and Fridays only.’

  Mirabelle checked her wristwatch again though she knew the time. It was ten minutes past.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Gosh, my watch is running slow. It’s taken me a while to get here. I’m happy to be a private patient, only I wonder if you might ask the doctor if he would possibly be able to see me even if I am running a bit late. I’d be ever so grateful.’

  ‘It’s busy today. What with ...’

  ‘I know. I’m so sorry. Did you know the lady?’ Mirabelle took the opportunity.

  ‘We was all off, Miss,’ the maid said quickly, her eyes clouding. ‘I only met her when she arrived. I unpacked for her and that. Then we was dismissed. The doctor said he wanted the house quiet for the labour. Bless her soul. She was due – you could see it!’

  ‘I’ll quite understand if he is too busy, only I have come a long way,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘If he could squeeze me in it would be marvellous. Would you ask him?’

  The maid relented with an apologetic smile. She stepped back and allowed Mirabelle to enter. The girl gestured towards an oak chair against the wall. ‘Who shall I say?’ she asked, casting a glance at the silver salver on the hall table.

  Mirabelle did not carry cards. Not any more.

  ‘My name is Miss Bevan,’ she said and sat down.

  The maid waited a moment and then turned and knocked on one of the doors leading off the hallway. As she entered, Mirabelle could see that the room was pale green. The doctor’s house seemed well furnished with antiques, which made it feel as if he had been living there for a while, but, she noticed, the soft furnishings were all new. Cushions on the chairs were still stiff from the shop and the tie-back on one of the curtains had a small label. Things were not worn in. And it all looked a little too perfect. Either the owner had only just moved or there had been some influx of new money to an already established household. Mirabelle heard voices from behind the study door and the maid returned.

  ‘That’s fine, Miss. He’ll see you. This way, please,’ she said.

  This, Mirabelle thought, was easier than it had seemed in all those reports she’d read. It was going like a dream. She glided into the study.

  Dr Crichton was not alone. A slight man with a moustache, he snapped to his feet as soon as the door opened. Mirabelle thought he had a cheerful demeanour for someone who had lost not one patient but technically two the night before. He was not wearing mourning dress. On the contrary he was sporting a tweed jacket and a pair of buff trousers. By the fireplace there was a beautiful woman in her twenties. She had short dark hair and was wearing red lipstick and far too much jewellery for eleven o’clock in the morning. Her tiny waist was set off by a flared skirt in white chiffon that moved behind her in what seemed like a three-second time lag as she came forward to greet Mirabelle. Her stiletto heels clicked on the dark wooden floor.

  ‘Miss Bevan,’ the doctor shook Mirabelle’s hand, ‘this is my house guest – her name is Lisabetta.’

  To see another resident of the house was definitely a bonus.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ the girl said breathlessly. Her accent was Eastern European – not heavy but still there. Mirabelle tried to place it as Lisabetta continued. ‘I thought the surgery was over so I came to see if Eric wanted to come out for some drinks.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Mirabelle smiled. She couldn’t quite tell whether the girl’s vowels were Eastern or Northern. ‘Dr Crichton kindly gave me an appointment even though I was late. Oh, I say, I do like your skirt.’

  Lisabetta smiled and an air of triumph came over her. ‘I bought it in Paris,’ she said with delight. ‘I love the gypsy style! It’s all the rage!’

  ‘Paris is wonderful for clothes. My mother was French. Where are you from? You have a smashing accent.’

  ‘I come from Hungary.’

  Dr Crichton cut in. ‘When you ladies have quite finished with your comments on the fashions of the day ... Lisabetta, you have to leave now. Miss Bevan is a patient and this is a consultation. I shan’t be accompanying you.’

  Lisabetta gave the doctor a look as if she distrusted his motives and felt that somehow she was being cut out of the fun. ‘I see,’ she said petulantly. ‘Well, Manni and I are going and we won’t be back for a while. We’ll take your car – the Jag.’ She flounced through the door, her sharp thin heels pockmarking the wide wooden boards in her wake.

  The doctor either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  ‘Please, sit down, Miss Bevan,’ he said, taking his place behind the desk. ‘I apologise. Among other things Lisabetta is here to help me buy some things for the house. She is not accustomed to ...’

  ‘Oh, I quite understand. Hungary seems such an exotic place. Have you ever visited?’ Mirabelle continued smoothly.

  Dr Crichton shook his head. ‘No. Never.’

  Mirabelle had seen and heard enough to give her reason to doubt that Lisabetta had been there either. The vowel sounds were entirely wrong. And the girl’s air of jollity didn’t fool her one bit – there was a dangerous flash of steel behind those pretty eyes.

  ‘I’m sure it has been a trying day,’ she said. ‘I heard of your bereavement last night. In fact, I should pay my respects, shouldn’t I? Out of politeness. If you have a body lying in wake in the house.’

  ‘That’s quite unnecessary, Miss Bevan. We don’t stand on such old-fashioned customs here, and in any case the casket is closed. It was a difficult birth.’

  ‘The poor lady was another Hungarian, was she not?’

  Dr Crichton nodded curtly. ‘Yes. Very sad. Lisabetta’s sister.’

  ‘Her sister?’ Mirabelle felt the colour dr
aining from her face. An uneasy feeling crept across her heart. Lisabetta could not be bereaved. It was simply impossible. What kind of person could enforce such gaiety in the face of an unexpected death – two deaths, in fact – her sister and her sister’s stillborn child. Mirabelle realised that far from allaying her worries, so far her trip to Second Avenue had only made them worse. She looked around the study. The walls were lined with scientific volumes – not, Mirabelle noted, only medical books. She spotted A History of Trigonometry and several on the subject of physics as well as one elderly volume on the science of alchemy.

  ‘You’re all being dreadfully brave. Her sister helping with the house, too ...’

  ‘She’s spending a fortune.’ The doctor seemed glad to be moving the conversation along. ‘A fortune of my money! Chap needs help of course – antiques and so forth. It’s almost there. Terribly distressing, what happened, goes without saying. Now ...’ Dr Crichton picked up his stethoscope from a drawer, and leaned forward, getting down to business. ‘Tell me, Miss Bevan, what seems to be the trouble?’

  Outside in the hallway Lisabetta hesitated. She opened her bag and checked the tiny gun inside.

  ‘Problem?’ a middle-aged man asked as he came downstairs.

  Lisabetta shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. ‘Nothing I can’t handle if I have to. Come along.’

  Manni didn’t doubt it. ‘Well, if you need me ...’

  Lisabetta shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. You have done quite enough this week! It’s funny, Manni. England is so ...’ She searched for the word. ‘... provincial. Come, I’ve told them to bring round the car.’ She checked the diamond watch on her slender wrist and clicked her patent clutch bag closed with an air of decision.

  5

  Curiosity is one of the forms of feminine bravery.

  It must have taken Dr Crichton’s man a while to bring the car round because Mirabelle left 22 Second Avenue a few minutes later, just in time to see a racing-green convertible Jaguar pull away from the front of the house. Inside Lisabetta was sitting in the passenger seat with the flounces of her skirt billowing while a middle-aged man with grey hair perfectly matching his suit took the wheel.