Brighton Belle

by Sara Sheridan

  Mirabelle paused for a moment to digest everything. There were a lot of reasons that someone from Eastern Europe, or for that matter any of the Germanic states, might decide to lie about where they had come from. Of course women died in childbirth all the time – babies, too. Despite that, something felt very amiss. The household showed no real signs of mourning. The maid who answered the door was more distressed than the people who had really known the poor dead girl. Mirabelle was transfixed. Her pulse quickened and it was as if the blood was pumping properly round her system for the first time in ages. She had to admit it was invigorating, even slightly addictive.

  She might not have walked into a Nazi café to try to overhear the details of a conversation or bluffed her way into SS headquarters in search of a strategic plan but Mirabelle decided that her first stab at what Jack would have called fieldwork hadn’t been as difficult as she might have expected. She liked it. Running on instinct, like a dog with a scent for the chase, Mirabelle raised her hand to hail a passing cab. In for a penny, in for a pound, she decided, as the Jaguar reached the bottom of the road and turned left towards Brighton. Mirabelle hopped gracefully into the back of the taxi and told the driver to continue along the front as fast as possible. It didn’t take long to catch up. Manni and Lisabetta were taking their cruise along the shore at a leisurely pace. After a couple of minutes the Jaguar swung into the entrance of the Grand – Brighton’s poshest hotel. At eight storeys it towered over the nearby buildings and as a result it was afforded impressive views right along the beach and out to sea. It would, Mirabelle decided instantly, be a mistake to be seen on the hotel’s flashy driveway. ‘Drop me further up on the right,’ she directed the driver, straining to see the Jaguar as she passed.

  A safe hundred yards further along the street she slipped discreetly onto the pavement of King’s Road. The Grand had been a wartime billet for hundreds of soldiers but nowadays its luxurious interior was once more the preserve of the wellheeled. It was turning into quite some morning. Mirabelle checked her hat and smoothed her hair. Then she slipped up the steps at the entrance and through the double glass doors, which were held open by a man in a maroon and gold uniform. She couldn’t quite believe she was doing this as she passed across the threshold. It was fun. Inside the vast hallway there was no sign of Manni or Lisabetta.

  Mirabelle walked confidently past the busy reception desk and into a glass conservatory decorated in the Oriental fashion, which included several enormous palms in large glazed pots. The conservatory was quiet so she quickly moved on to the bar. Several couples whom Big Ben McGuigan would no doubt have designated ‘smart London types’ were smoking and sipping cocktails. One older lady swathed in a thick fur wrap was drinking an espresso and eating a sliver of cake. There was still no sign of Lisabetta and Manni. Mirabelle glanced up at the mezzanine level. Perhaps they had taken a room. She decided to sit in the lounge and wait. She had never been inside the Grand before and there was, after all, plenty to think about. It seemed to Mirabelle that a great deal of trouble might come from the lies that were being told – about where Lisabetta and her sister came from, for a start, and of course about whatever had happened to the poor pregnant girl and her baby. People didn’t lie without cause and she could think of no good reason for the selection of falsehoods she had uncovered so far – or at least there was no explanation that fitted together in a satisfying fashion.

  It was impossible to station herself somewhere she could be sure to see everything but Mirabelle decided that a central chair would at least allow her to look around. If she had been working for the department she would have rung in and by now another agent would have been despatched to try to wring information from the staff at Second Avenue. A friendly man from the electricity board might arrive to read the meter and strike up a conversation with the housemaid. A twenty-four-hour watch would be put in place. Mirabelle smiled at the thought. It wasn’t wartime any more. These people weren’t the enemy. But nonetheless her brain was buzzing. The details didn’t stand. Poor Romana Laszlo. Even in her days at the department Mirabelle had rarely dealt in cold-blooded murder but things here seemed so strange that the possibility now crossed her mind. Why had the girl borrowed money from Bert? What had she been like? Had her sister and the doctor wanted rid of her for some reason and, if so, what was it?

  Mirabelle ordered a pot of Earl Grey and when it arrived she nibbled meditatively on a thin wafer biscuit. In wartime, she thought to herself, you don’t call a death murder. Still, an investigation might operate in the same fashion to uncover a crime and would start, she knew, by noting anything that didn’t fit. The troublesome details knocked around inside her head – a false passport, a strange coincidence, a household that didn’t care, a rushed funeral without a proper undertaker, a body at home that wasn’t laid in wake – for what could happen in labour that the poor woman might need a closed casket, she wondered. And of course all the money – Dr Crichton’s household renovations and his generous tip.

  After a few minutes she was called back to consciousness by a woman laughing in a familiar tone. The sound came from behind. Taking out her compact Mirabelle checked discreetly with the little mirror. Sure enough, Manni and Lisabetta were taking seats on two lavishly upholstered armchairs near the door. They were not alone. Another older man was comfortably ensconced on a sofa beside a very pretty, if somewhat younger, woman, who had, Mirabelle noticed, excellent deportment. The waiter was fussing and laying out glasses for the party of four, in readiness for the two bottles of champagne, one opened and one in a silver ice bucket beside the table. Mirabelle couldn’t hear what language they were speaking but she knew it wasn’t English or, indeed, Hungarian, the sound of which was distinctive. Lisabetta’s body language was dominant – she had brought this little group together. And there was more. Mirabelle examined the slender female figure on the sofa carefully. She clicked her compact closed and sank back into the comfortable cushions of the wingback chair.

  She might have only worked in the back office in intelligence, she might never have ventured into the field, and she might appear demure on occasion, but she wasn’t stupid. Mirabelle Bevan knew a prostitute when she saw one, even one who could sit up perfectly straight and wear her welltailored dress like a lady. It was unmistakeable. Not Lisabetta – the other one. The group was at home with it, too, you could see. Mirabelle understood the body language. Jack hadn’t protected her from the realities that British agents had to face or indeed indulge in.

  I expect they will go upstairs soon in one combination or another, Mirabelle thought with what closely resembled scientific interest. She shifted her chair slightly so she could see the group out of the corner of her eye while still shielded by the high sides of the armchair. Sure enough, just after midday the champagne was all drunk, the waiter was tipped rather generously, Mirabelle noted, and the old man disappeared with the young girl in the direction of the lift while Lisabetta and Manni called for the car.

  Careful not to be seen Mirabelle paid her bill and sloped back to the main door just in time to see the green Jaguar leave in the direction of Hove. She checked her watch. It was fifteen minutes past twelve: time to get back to the office. She decided to walk rather than take the bus. It had been an eventful morning and a breath of sea air would do her the power of good.

  6

  All war is deception.

  After the war all the suites at the Grand had been refurbished. The whole building was Italian in style and the interior decorator, fired up by optimism in the wake of the Allied victory, really went to town when it came to the more upmarket bedrooms. The colour scheme was muted – a pale dove grey complemented by touches of white. A few subtle pieces of gilded furniture set off the rooms perfectly without taking away from the stunning views over the ocean to the south of the building. The suite smelled fresh and everything was perfectly placed, from the crisp linen to the white lilies displayed ostentatiously in cut crystal vases. It had the feeling of being at once both elegant and l
avish.

  Delia had hardly drunk any of the champagne. She needed to stay sober. She knew that as long as she held a glass in her manicured fingers, smiled and batted the extraordinarily long eyelashes that framed her huge blue eyes, nobody seemed to notice if she actually took a sip or not. Delia had a great deal of experience in drinking champagne while retaining her composure. By contrast the old man had downed almost a whole bottle and was clearly feeling the worse for wear. When they were downstairs Delia had counted the glasses carefully while he talked business with Lisabetta. It was not Lisabetta who had to deal with him now – not that Delia minded. Generally drink made the clients easier to handle. She draped herself along the carved wooden sofa at the end of the bed while the old man checked the view from the window.

  ‘This is nice,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a huge tub. Would you like to take a bath?’ Delia suggested – down to the nub of things straight away. ‘We could slip in together,’ she smiled.

  His face lit up. The men loved that kind of thing – champagne and back rubs, baths and room service. Delia knew how to string out the experience for hours and, besides, if she could get a customer into the bath at least he’d be clean. This customer, like many before him, was more than willing to succumb to the ritual.

  ‘Yes. A bath. I’d like that,’ he said.

  Delia cast her eyes shyly to the ground. She read him exactly right – better than he knew himself. This man liked a curious mixture of whore and flirtatious innocent. He’d probably have preferred a naughty girlfriend, if he could find one, though Delia knew how to play that part. It was a show. A pretence. Such negotiations always were.

  ‘Will you wash my back?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he laughed.

  Delia had never heard him laugh before – at least not like that – without a hint of cruelty. She caught his eyes and licked her lips. She had become very good at appearing to be slightly helpless and naive. In reality Delia was neither of these things, and she knew it. Her mother had been a doctor and her father a psychiatrist. Between them they had unwittingly endowed their beautiful daughter with a plethora of useful information that informed all her relationships with other people. Everyone from clients to cleaners, landladies to shop girls and policemen to rent boys.

  Delia knew that most of the prostitutes she met were crazy. Even at the more polished and cosmopolitan upper end, where she now found herself working, it was the same. The girls craved money as their only measure of self-worth and shamelessly manipulated the men who paid for them. This man, however, was not just another open wallet to Delia and she was very far from crazy. She had waited a long time and worked very hard to find herself in this suite at the Grand Hotel in Brighton in his company. And now she was here she intended to enjoy herself.

  ‘I hope they have bath foam,’ she said lightly and disappeared into the bathroom to turn on the taps.

  A waiter came to the door with another bottle of champagne, a pot of coffee, a bowl of fruit and some sandwiches. The old man had thought of everything.

  ‘Open the bottle,’ he told the waiter and then tipped the boy as he left.

  He hadn’t been looking forward to coming to Brighton but Lisabetta had insisted. The old man hated the sea – it was too powerful. But, he had important business here and although Lisabetta had proved a competent, if expensive, manager in all his affairs he believed in keeping an eye on everything himself. The last few months in London she had proved reliable, of course, but now things were coming to fruition.

  Lisabetta understood his need to oversee things. She encouraged him. ‘You must come down to Brighton. I promise you’ll have entertainment. Blue-eyed girls with long legs, a trip to the races and a few games of poker. It’s not too bad for the provinces.’

  And she had been as good as her word. Naturally the old man had a wife and children but he had always frequented prostitutes. One woman was never enough and, besides, his wife was now abroad and he hadn’t seen her in over three months. Henrietta was older, as old as he was. He liked possessing her – some men were squeamish about grey hair and sagging skin, but that didn’t matter to him. He loved his wife. Still, it was nice to have a younger woman now and then, if only as a contrast. It made him feel alive. This Delia girl was good – very professional and also beautiful. Even the higher-class prostitutes varied, he found, but he could already tell that he was going to really enjoy himself today. Perhaps he’d order her to stay on a while. He would be in Brighton for ten days, after all – and from what he could see it was a tiny backwater of a town whatever Lisabetta had promised. He might as well make the best of it.

  Delia appeared in the doorway of the bathroom wearing her peach satin underclothes, sheer stockings and a pair of very high black heels. Her glossy dark hair cascaded over her shoulders. She leaned against the doorframe and posed with one leg against the wood.

  ‘Come here,’ he told her.

  She laughed. ‘My, aren’t you bossy!’

  That was the least of it, she knew, but she thought she’d stand up to the old man. Give him a thrill.

  ‘You will come here,’ he insisted.

  Delia sashayed into the room. She was naturally slight, her curves undulating smoothly and her long elegant legs were firm with two tiny moles at her ankle only just visible through the sheer silk. She knelt down in front of him.

  ‘What?’ she said with a petted lip as she looked up.

  He pulled her towards him by her shoulders and ran his thick fingers over the creamy skin of her stomach, her breasts, her hips and finally between her thighs. Her skin was as soft as her satin underclothes and when he fondled her, she sighed. She was very convincing. ‘I will wash you, you beautiful little whore,’ the old man directed.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed and let him pull her towards the bathroom from which there now emanated a steamy cloud of bergamot scent.

  After they had bathed together, the sex was dull. It was only to be expected. Delia normally enjoyed sex, she pondered, as he flung her onto the bed. She found she particularly liked having sex with Americans. There were plenty of Americans in London – she had found them to be generous, rich and well informed. Perhaps one day, she thought, she might emigrate to America. Yes, that’s what she’d do – she’d live in New York. It would be a fresh start – a splendid idea to put all this behind her and begin a new life. It wouldn’t be long now. She moaned encouragingly as the old man turned her over. Lord, old men liked turning her over. At least this would put him into a deep sleep. The Grand Hotel had very nice sheets, she thought. Lovely creamy thick linen.

  At last the old man flung himself down on the pillows, mumbling something in another language. Delia spoke most Northern European languages. As well as English she was fluent in Polish, Danish, Dutch, German and Austrian. She even had some patchy French. She had had an open ear at a very young age and at just the right time had come into contact with a wide variety of native speakers. As a result she spoke each language like a native – with no trace of a foreign accent.

  ‘Liebe, liebe Henrietta,’ the old man was saying.

  That, Delia knew, was the old man’s wife.

  She stroked his head gently. He was falling asleep at last. Perfect. When he began to snore Delia slipped out of the bed and poured a cup of cold coffee. She removed her smudged make-up and got dressed. Then she rifled through the old man’s pockets. There was some money and a few identification papers – she left all of that but took a gold coin that he had secreted in his inside pocket. She weighed the coin carefully in her hand. It would be nice to have a souvenir, she thought, as she bit the metal and smiled. It was real. She wondered if perhaps it was a sovereign. She would find out. She had once seen a sovereign pierced and used as a fob for keys. She might do that. It was stylish. Feeling sly, she slipped the coin into her pocket for later.

  Delia drew a deep breath. She was ready now. It was time. She picked up her suede handbag and carefully drew a needle and syringe from the magenta velvet inter
ior. She knew he would wake up when she punctured his skin so she’d have to be quick once she started. At first she had considered drugging the old man but had quickly discounted it because drugs would leave traces in his blood. Alcohol was the best thing she could think of to slow him down and cause confusion. He’d had a bucketful and then she’d sat in a hot bath with him – a move designed to enhance his drunkenness. Now, if she injected him, it would look like an embolism. Well, it would be an embolism. But it wouldn’t be a natural one. Of course the doctors would assume it was, especially in a man of this age – there was really very little way to tell the difference if you weren’t looking out for the signs, and the evidence literally disappeared during the post-mortem examination if the coroner wasn’t alerted to take steps to preserve it in advance. In a provincial town like this, with the corpse of an old man, Delia knew the coroner would be unlikely to take those steps.

  Delia considered her options and decided for the last time to administer the injection between the toes. It was easier to hold him down by the legs. The old man sighed in his sleep and turned. She waited for a moment, standing over him and relishing that she was here at long last. And then Delia plunged like a bird of prey, the hypodermic shooting its deadly load into the old man’s bloodstream. He woke immediately, trying to pull back, shouting and confused. Straight away Delia refilled the syringe with air, holding down his calf with her elbow and his foot with the other hand. It would take two syringes to do the job. Just air. Necessary for life but deadly in the bloodstream. God’s little joke, or one of them. She plunged the needle in a second time.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted. ‘That hurts.’

  He pulled back as she let go but it was too late. And then Delia said the words that any old man in his position dreaded hearing most. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’