But before he could reply or even think which one she might be, before he could reason with her or try to explain, or run out into the hall and get help, the old man found quite suddenly that he couldn’t breath any more.
‘Jews,’ he gasped, his eyes bright with terror.
It took two minutes. Delia watched him struggling, gasping, pissing himself. A lady she met once at a society party in London had remarked that lilies smelled of death: ‘Makes me quite morbid, my dear, the smell of lilies.’
The scent now wafted over from the bright crystal vase on the side table and Delia thought to herself that the lady was wrong – lilies didn’t smell like death at all.
At the end she stood for a long while over the old man’s still body. A quick end was a luxury he hadn’t deserved but it was the best she could do. Death by natural causes was unheard of – something that Delia had never witnessed, in fact, during the brutal course of her life. But this came close. Bastard. She wanted to spit on him now, punch him, tear out his balding hair, but she held herself back. If they found marks on the body they would suspect foul play. Instead she let the emotions course through her. She imagined a blue balloon floating off over the ocean outside the window.
Two days before she died Delia’s mother had told her that however many bad people there were, she should never lose faith that there were good people, too. In the filth. In the middle of the nightmare. When everyone around had lost hope.
‘The good people are everywhere,’ she promised in a whisper. ‘And you will find them, I promise. Just survive, my darling. Survive.’
Neither her father nor her mother would ever have expected Delia to kill the Commandant but from the moment they died Delia knew that was what she would do. She had been ready to dedicate her entire life to his murder. They called him the Candlemaker. Delia shuddered. Men like that should be hunted like animals and executed. Men like that didn’t deserve to live.
‘I did it, Mama,’ she whispered. ‘I did it and I am here.’
7
Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.
Mirabelle Bevan had only just hung up her coat when the secretary from the office down the hall came through the door without knocking. She was a plump black girl in a tight charcoal pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse gathered at the waist with a purple patent belt which matched her shoes. The girl was scarcely twenty but nonetheless had an air of experience and efficiency that made her seem older. She had started work a couple of months before and Mirabelle had seen her on the stairs but they’d never spoken, only smiled and nodded.
‘Is your name Mirabelle Bevan?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Vesta Churchill. No relation.’ She grinned with good humour as she shook Mirabelle’s hand firmly. ‘This letter came for you so I took it in. Had to be signed for, you see. Your boss gone AWOL?’
Mirabelle nodded.
‘Mine, too,’ Vesta plonked herself unbidden on the wooden chair opposite Mirabelle’s desk and drew her manicured fingers through her hair. ‘He’s an all right bloke,’ she confided good-naturedly. ‘Fond of a drop, but the job is so dull I don’t blame him. Now, debt recovery, Miss Mirabelle, I bet you got a lot of secrets in here! I’ve been dying to drop by.’
Mirabelle smiled. Vesta seemed simultaneously both nice and somehow appalling, but then the day had already been so odd.
‘It’s insurance down the hall, isn’t it?’ Mirabelle said.
‘Sure is. Car insurance. And I don’t even have a licence. It’s all engine sizes and tyre pressure – I can’t tell you the sheer boredom of it. Cars!’
Mirabelle slit open the envelope and peeked at the letter. It was from Ralph Peters, the lawyer. It thanked her for the loan documentation, acknowledged receipt by return and said that Romana Laszlo’s estate was expected to settle within a month. In his own hand as a postscript, Peters had added that he had checked with Romana’s sister, Lisabetta, and the name was Hungarian. He did not comment on how the Dutch passport might have come into being.
‘Anything exciting?’ asked Vesta.
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Paperwork. Thanks for signing for it. Very kind of you. Where are my manners? Could I tempt you to a cup of tea?’
Vesta’s expression assumed a serious air. ‘Got any biscuits?’
‘We have some cream crackers, I think.’
The girl stared for a second, as if Mirabelle had suggested they have mud pies or grass sandwiches. Then she spoke. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go back to the office and get ours. We’ve got a whole box of Cadbury’s.’ She darted out of the door without waiting for a response.
Mirabelle put the kettle on to boil. It had been an exciting morning. For months now her life had been lived between her flat and the office, going through the motions, walking at the weekend, sitting in the bath and eating food she scarcely tasted. Today she had somehow put some colour back into her drab existence. At the same time she was worried. Whatever had happened to Romana didn’t feel right. And now there were rich men and prostitutes in the picture – had Romana been involved? Was it part of the reason she died? Mirabelle reached for the teapot as Vesta burst back through the door and proudly placed a small tin of chocolate biscuits on the desk.
‘Present,’ she said, ‘from Mr P. I think he has contacts on the black market, bless him.’
‘Lucky you!’
‘Now, if Mr P. was chocolate he’d gobble himself right up. He’s a cocky guy. But he knows how to get on the right side of me,’ Vesta volunteered. ‘I got him bargain coverage on his Morris Oxford 1947 with black paintwork.’
Vesta peeked into the box as if she didn’t know what was in there and smiled with delight as the biscuits came into view. Her white teeth were dazzling and her dark eyes enormous. She pulled out a chocolate-coated fancy just as Mirabelle popped a cup of tea in front of her.
‘Perfect,’ she breathed, wrinkling her nose.
Mirabelle looked over the rim of the box. As a rule she wasn’t fond of sweets, but today was for bending the rules and trying new things. She retrieved a golden brown circle with a smattering of chocolate at the edge. This girl was a strange creature, she thought – at once very young and also motherly. Mirabelle snapped off a piece of biscuit and popped it into her mouth. Then she had an idea.
‘Vesta’ she said, ‘do you think you could look after the office for me this afternoon? It’s only that I might go up to London.’
As anticipated Vesta didn’t turn a hair. ‘Sure thing. You got yourself a fancy man?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mirabelle, ‘nothing like that.’
‘Bit of shopping? Because if you can find me some dark chocolate and marzipan, I’d love you forever. I heard there is this place in Piccadilly and it’s pricey but what they’ve got you wouldn’t believe! You going anywhere near Piccadilly?’
Mirabelle nibbled some more biscuit, lifted her cup to her lips and shook her head. She considered how much to tell Vesta – almost like an automaton, running through the security clearance codes in her mind. This girl had a low clearance level, of course. But on balance, odd or not, she was likeable enough and if she wanted Vesta’s help she had to tell her something.
‘Thing is, there’s a bit of a mystery with one of our clients.’
Vesta’s eyes lit up. ‘I knew it. You lucky duck! Of course I’ll look after things here. Don’t worry one bit. But you got to let me read all about it. That’s the deal. Quid pro quo, like my mama always says. Please. I’m going scatty in that office with the boredom. The clients and the boss – all them men – are going crazy about the new Ford Zephyr and I’m going to die from brain atrophy. Really I am.’
‘Your mother always says quid pro quo?’ Mirabelle repeated.
Vesta shrugged. ‘Yep. My mama studied to be a legal secretary back home before she had kids. Latin and everything. Course when she met my daddy she gave it all up and decided to come to England. Now she just works
in a shop in London. But she’s got an education.’
Vesta leaned over and surveyed Mirabelle’s in-tray.
‘It’s this one, isn’t it?’ she said, picking up Romana Laszlo’s file.
‘How did you know?’
‘It says DECEASED right here,’ Vesta grinned, her childhood Jamaican lilt overtaking her newly acquired Brighton accent through sheer excitement as she flicked open the front cover.
Safe in the knowledge that there was very little detail in Romana’s file, the filing cabinets were locked and the keys were in the inside pocket of her handbag – all facts which would heartily dismay Vesta over the course of the afternoon – Mirabelle boarded the London train half an hour later. As the grubby suburbs of Brighton gave way to open fields and then back to the bomb-damaged remnants of the shabby outskirts of London, she stared out of the window and decided on a course of action.
At Victoria she took a long and satisfying breath of thick, city air. It felt good to be in the beating heart, the hustle and bustle again. Mirabelle crossed the station and got onto the tube for Notting Hill, emerging twenty minutes later into the semi-suburban high street near the market. These days Mirabelle only had one lead in London so she made her way straight to the Red Lion pub, asking directions in the street from a succession of drab-looking women wearing patterned scarves, thick coats and comfortable shoes.
The pub was off the main road about five minutes from the tube station. It was a traditional old-fashioned boozer frequented by market traders, hookers, the odd serviceman passing through and, most importantly, Bert Jennings. Mirabelle was always well turned-out and her entry through the heavy oak door caused some attention. A thin blonde girl wearing bright orange lipstick and earrings to match leaned over the bar. ‘Yeah?’
‘I am looking for Bert Jennings,’ Mirabelle said as her eyes adjusted to the dingy interior. ‘I thought I might find him here.’
‘You his missus or sumfink?’ the girl asked suspiciously with a pronounced nasal twang.
‘No, I am a business associate. Do you know where he is?’
The girl shrugged. ‘I can leave him a message if you like.’
Mirabelle looked vexed for a moment. This was her only point of contact with Bert Jennings. Still, she knew the streets of Notting Hill were busy and that news travelled fast.
‘I’ll wait,’ she said.
‘Can I get you sumfink to drink?’
The whisky here was unlikely to be good enough without a mixer. Post-wartime supplies were still on the scarce side with downmarket pubs watering down what they had and buying in spirits that were little more than hooch.
‘I’ll have a gin and tonic,’ Mirabelle said decisively as she picked up a newspaper that was lying on the bar and settled into a seat.
The jungle drums beat as loudly as expected and it took less than half an hour for Bert to appear, wide-shouldered, through the double doors of the Red Lion. He evidently hadn’t been sure whom to expect but he seemed delighted.
‘Well, I never. Miss Mirabelle Bevan,’ he beamed.
‘Hello, Mr Jennings. Could I have a word?’
Bert nodded at the barmaid. ‘Another, Miss B?’
Mirabelle paddled the remains of her drink around the bottom of the glass. It had been a ropey concoction at best. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m fine.’
The barmaid laid a very yellow-looking dram on the top of the bar and didn’t ask for payment. She moved to the other end of the servery her jewellery jingling with every step, and hitched one hip onto a bar stool to watch what was going on.
‘Is there somewhere we could talk in private?’ Mirabelle asked.
‘This way.’ Bert jerked his head to the dingy interior. ‘Come into my office.’
There was a dark wooden table and three mismatched chairs in an alcove at the back of the pub. While a lattice of tiny panes over the double doors let in a modicum of light at the bar, as Mirabelle proceeded towards the rear of the room there were only a couple of dim lamps and it became progressively darker. Bert flung himself into a chair and motioned towards Mirabelle.
‘My bad manners,’ he caught himself up, ‘not pulling out the chair for you, but my back is giving me gyp something chronic, Miss B. So, how are things down in Brighton? Did Ben find that bird or what?’
‘I’m afraid she’s dead,’ Mirabelle told him.
Bert’s face betrayed no emotion about either Romana Laszlo or his money.
‘I’ve registered your interest with her executor and the money will come through in due course. There shouldn’t be any problems. Mrs Laszlo had a life insurance policy.’
Bert took a sip of his drink and drew in a sharp breath. ‘Ooof, bites into you, that.’
‘I notice,’ said Mirabelle, ‘that you haven’t asked me what she died of.’
Bert looked at the ground. ‘Was it the nipper?’
Mirabelle nodded.
‘She was an odd one, that bird. Shame.’
‘Odd?’
‘Well, she was foreign.’
‘Do you have a London address for her, Mr Jennings? I’m just tying up some loose ends, you see.’
‘What loose ends?’ Bert asked. ‘You said I was getting my money.’
‘I don’t really know,’ Mirabelle squared with him. ‘Just that there’s something wrong. I thought I’d come to town and see what I could find.’
Bert paused, hoping for more information. ‘Seems a bit above and beyond, dunnit?’
Mirabelle raised the glass to her lips. ‘I’d like to look around, that’s all. I’m curious.’
‘You’re curious?’
Mirabelle nodded.
‘But it ain’t your case, is it?’
‘Well,’ Mirabelle didn’t want to lie, but there seemed nothing for it, ‘I said to Big Ben that it seemed fishy. He said I should have a look about, if I liked, so here I am.’
Bert regarded Mirabelle. There was a moment of dead calm where he seemed to be considering what to do. Then he decided. ‘Yeah, all right, then. Look, I got an address. She lived with her sister over in Chelsea. Cadogan Gardens, right off the back of Sloane Square. You might even call it Knightsbridge, I suppose.’
‘And her sister is Lisabetta?’
‘That’s right, yeah. I checked the house the day I came down to Brighton to see Big Ben – just in case they was still there. They still got the lease on the place, it turned out, but the flat was closed up. Romana had gone off to have the baby, of course. Where Lisabetta had got to, I dunno. You going to take a look, then?’
Mirabelle nodded.
‘Mind if I tag along?’
A flicker of doubt crossed Mirabelle’s mind. The cut of Bert’s suit would stand out a mile in that neck of the woods. On the other hand it might be good to have a man in tow as long as he behaved appropriately, the odds of which she realised, given Bert’s manner and background were probably about fifty-fifty. ‘You’re going to get your money anyway,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Yeah,’ Bert grinned, finishing the drops at the bottom of his glass, ‘but I can’t help myself – I’m a nosey bastard just like you. Come on, girl, I’ll show you where it is. I got a car just parked off Portobello Road.’
Travelling on the underground Mirabelle hadn’t seen a single glimpse of her former life apart from the familiar rattle of the tube carriage. Now it was like watching a montage of all the places that had been important when she lived here. Rebuilding was well underway to repair the ravages of the Blitz, not that there had been too much damage to the west – unlike the slums close to the river. They passed the little Italian restaurant in Kensington where Jack had loved the spaghetti vongole and then continued through the park where he used to go to think, and where, one evening very early in their romance, they had a picnic on a tartan rug. The sky was a sparkling succession of diamonds on black velvet made crystal clear by the blackout. Jack had pointed out the Plough and they had kissed for a very long time under the half-moon.
When Bert finally t
urned down Sloane Street he almost collided with a huge olive-green Harrods van coming in the opposite direction. Furious, he hit the horn and Mirabelle jumped as she woke from her daydreams. They missed the kerb by an inch at most.
‘You fucking idiot!’ Bert shouted, and then casting a glance at his passenger he apologised. ‘Sorry Miss B. But he was.’
At the bottom of Sloane Street they turned into the maze that made up Cadogan Gardens and Bert parked on a stretch with high brick buildings on one side and a locked park on the other. ‘It’s the middle one on that block,’ Bert indicated. He switched off the ignition. ‘I reckon the easiest way in is through the gardens at the back. There are French doors. Don’t expect there’s much in the way of a lock.’
‘You’re going to break in?’
Bert stared. ‘What? You was planning to come here and just sit on the doorstep?’
Mirabelle took a deep breath. He was right, of course. If the flat was empty she would love to look inside. ‘And you think we can get in at the back?’
Bert shrugged. ‘Common sense,’ he pronounced. ‘Romana’s dead and Lisabetta isn’t here, is she? Least she wasn’t here a couple of days ago.’
‘Lisabetta’s down in Brighton. She came for the funeral,’ Mirabelle chipped in.
Bert’s eyebrows rose momentarily as if impressed at the amount of information that Mirabelle clearly had to hand. ‘Well, then, what is it you’re looking for anyways?’
Mirabelle surveyed the buildings rising up along the back streets. The Victorian brickwork was intricate with patterns picked out in cream over the upper floors. The paintwork was well maintained. There was a general air of prosperity. Large planters of geraniums and shiny-leaved rhododendrons stood at many of the front doors and Mirabelle caught glimpses of expensive furniture through the windows. A maid with a shopping basket slipped discreetly down the stairs to one of the basements. This was not an area where people had huge financial worries, or at least if they did, it did not seem the kind of place they would require Bert Jennings to become involved in order to solve them.
Brighton Belle Page 5
