Brighton Belle

by Sara Sheridan

  She hadn’t meant to walk so far but once she’d started she didn’t turn back. The flat on the Lawns had been her haven for months but now it felt tarnished. Touched by death. She continued almost two miles, sipping from the flask as she went and hardly noticing the streets becoming busier as she made her way into the centre. At last she turned up Old Steine and westwards. Here there were more people on the pavements, shoppers with umbrellas at the ready as the rain came on. She took another swig, shielded from view in a doorway. At the top of East Street the windows in Hannington’s were as beautiful as usual. The doorman nodded at Mirabelle as she came towards him and without really thinking, except that it would be pleasant to get out of the weather, she crossed the threshold smoothly as if it had been what she intended all along.

  Hannington’s was an institution in Brighton – as good as Harrods, many people said. Mirabelle wondered about mourning clothes. It occurred to her that she would need something in black for the funerals. She hardly ever wore black, deliberately. Her only dress in the colour was a figure-hugging satin evening number, which she’d bought for a reception at the Foreign Office at least five years before. Now, she decided, it was appropriate to pick up a black light wool day dress, a coat and a hat. Off the shelf would be fine. She wasn’t intending to wear them ever again but there would be, after all, at least one funeral to attend and it was a mark of respect to be properly attired. Then it occurred to her that they would have to exhume Ben and rebury him again. What did one wear for an exhumation, she wondered? Did one even attend?

  Taking the lift upstairs Mirabelle allowed herself another discreet shot of whisky. It coursed through her bloodstream, tempering the pain. Upstairs she found herself in the millinery department and picked up a pillbox hat made from black crepe with a veil. Perfect for hiding any tears, she thought. She handed it to the shop assistant and, with a sigh, brought out her purse to pay. It didn’t matter what it looked like, it was just a uniform.

  And then, it was only a tiny thing, of course, but many of these moments, she was coming to understand, revolved on tiny things. Out of the corner of her eye Mirabelle noticed an older lady wearing a dowdy powdery-brown suit with low-heeled Venetian shoes in French navy. She was clasping a heavy-looking handbag close to her stomach and spoke with a halting accent, which had, Mirabelle noticed, very flat vowel sounds. The woman had picked out a bright red fascinator – the kind of thing that a pretty twenty-year-old girl might wear to a smart party. Feathers and beads trailed down one side of the comb and three red taffeta roses grew upwards from the other. It was, Mirabelle decided, a glamorous thing, but not one appropriate for a woman beyond her thirties. On this old lady it would, without question, look quite ridiculous. What on earth was she up to?

  ‘That model is the Moulin Rouge, Ma’am,’ the sales assistant said.

  ‘Most pretty,’ the woman cooed, inspecting it over the top of her very thick spectacles and smoothing the line of her steel-grey bun. ‘Yes, I think I shall have it.’

  ‘Would you like to try it on, Ma’am?’

  ‘No. No, thank you. Just wrap it and send it on with the rest of the shopping to the Left Luggage office at the train station. I am leaving shortly – you must be quick! Your deliveryman knows my schedule is very tight – I have told him already. If you might be so kind to relay – this will be the last thing I purchase today.’

  The girl brought out a sheaf of white tissue paper, which she hurriedly puffed around the fascinator before popping it skilfully into a box, while the woman drew a crisp five-pound note from her old-fashioned navy handbag to pay.

  ‘Left Luggage?’ the shop girl repeated. ‘And your name, please?’

  ‘Madame de Guise.’

  ‘Oh, you’re French?’ The girl smiled.

  ‘French? With an accent like mine! You have no ear at all, child. My husband was French.’

  Mirabelle took her change and the bag with the black hat in it, without so much as looking at the girl who was serving her. Any guttural tone in my ear and I hit high doh, she thought. But, still, she surveyed the older woman top to bottom carefully and tried to concentrate on the voice. The woman was not immediately familiar, but if there was even a chance of finding out something helpful, it was worth it. Lisabetta had fooled people with a pregnancy prosthetic and clothes of a slightly different style – why not a dowdy outfit and a wig? This woman was the right size and shape – slender, in fact, for someone of her age. Mirabelle felt her blood pulsing again. It’s for Sandor’s sake, she told herself. Hell, it’s because no one should get away with what Lisabetta appears to be getting away with.

  There was something out of place, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. The fascinator was certainly an odd purchase for someone of this age. Perhaps the old lady intended it as a present for some younger relation. Perhaps it was simply that this grandmother had a weakness, a fondness for glamorous headwear, although that wasn’t borne out by her shabby outfit. Mirabelle lowered her eyes and stayed out of sight while carefully trailing the woman’s sensible shoes down Hannington’s plush carpeted stairway and through the cloud of perfume that hung around the beauty counters. Perhaps, she thought, she might just follow her and see what she could find out.

  Outside in the hammering rain she followed Madame de Guise up the hill. The station wasn’t much more than half a mile away and the old lady was heading in the right direction. Mirabelle struggled to keep up. Madame de Guise kept up a smart pace for someone who must surely be well into her sixties, if not older. After a few minutes, the station loomed into view and the pedestrian traffic increased substantially. The woman turned into a shabby hotel. Mirabelle checked her wristwatch. It was half past one and she was drenched.

  Inside the hotel lobby Mirabelle stamped her feet and brushed the raindrops from her coat. It was clear that the accommodation here was of a far lower standard than at the Grand. The carpets were worn and the chairs in the reception area were mismatched with scuffed tables of varying heights and sizes, several of which had not been cleared. The remains of milky tea in a grubby cup put Mirabelle off sitting down. Madame de Guise had disappeared upstairs. Mirabelle approached the reception desk.

  ‘Mirabelle Bevan,’ she said, ‘from McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery.’

  The girl on the desk looked anxious. ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you answer my questions,’ Mirabelle said, ‘I won’t have to call the police.’

  The girl sat up straight. ‘Crikey.’

  ‘I need to know if you have any foreign persons staying here.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we’ve got a few today. The races, you see.’

  ‘Women?’ asked Mirabelle. ‘On their own?’

  The girl pulled the hotel register towards her and looked down the pages. ‘Well, we’ve got three guests like that, I think. Is it something serious?’

  ‘Debt recovery,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Could I see the names?’

  ‘There’s Mrs Lawson – I think she’s from somewhere funny Must have married an Englishman.’

  ‘But he’s not here?’

  ‘No. She hasn’t got up yet this morning. Do Not Disturb. I think, perhaps,’ the girl lowered her voice, ‘she drinks. And then there’s Madame de Guise.’

  ‘The older lady?’

  ‘Yes. Booked in yesterday. And there’s a Miss Brannigan. She’s American.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Do you know when Madame de Guise is leaving?’

  ‘Today sometime – one night only. She must be checking out soon. She said she was going abroad.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mirabelle drifted out of the hotel doorway, braving the showers, and crossed to the station, following the signs until she found the Left Luggage office. At the desk a boy of no more than eighteen with blond slicked-back hair was smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He did not stop smoking.

  ‘I’ve come to check all Madame de Guise’s luggage is here.�
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  ‘Right,’ the boy said, taking a deep draw and squinting at her.

  ‘Have the items from Hannington’s arrived yet and how many pieces do you have in total?’

  The boy looked over his shoulder. ‘I dunno. Hang on,’ he said and languidly disappeared through a doorway to a back office.

  ‘Two bags, four suitcases, nothing from Hannington’s,’ he reported.

  ‘Do they have destination labels?’ Mirabelle enquired.

  ‘No,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘What time did they arrive, these cases?’

  ‘Dunno. Wasn’t on duty and, anyway, I’m not supposed to say.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you. What time are you working until?’

  ‘Don’t finish till late. Bleeding ten.’

  ‘So you didn’t do the early shift.’

  ‘Aha,’ the boy wagged a finger at her, ‘aren’t you the clever one?’

  Mirabelle hesitated but she couldn’t think how to get any more information if he wasn’t willing to give it. ‘Thank you,’ she said and turned to leave. These bags hadn’t been on the first train, of course, but however they’d arrived, the police should have been alerted to them. Mirabelle hovered for a moment. Could this be Lisabetta, slipping away? She had to find out.

  Buying a cup of tea at the platform café, she looked out over the concourse, absentmindedly adding sugar to her cup. The constabulary were being curiously ineffective, but Mirabelle was heartened to spot three uniformed policemen hanging around the platform for London departures. The green Southern steam engines came and went regularly and the platforms were busy with weekend visitors. I need to wait and see, she thought as she sipped her tea and dunked a biscuit, sitting up as she noticed a porter’s trolley laden high with bags from Hannington’s moving smoothly towards the Left Luggage office. The hat box was on the very top of the pile but lower down there was a large portmanteau and a safe, as well as some smaller parcels.

  A safe? Mirabelle wondered.

  Madame de Guise was certainly not travelling light. Vesta wouldn’t be too concerned yet, Mirabelle decided. There was no harm in staying a little while longer. Not, as it transpired, that she had to. Five minutes more and Madame de Guise herself arrived with three porters following her dowdy frame with some reverence.

  Mirabelle slipped out of the café and kept at a discreet distance, lingering to one side of the Left Luggage office as Madame de Guise dealt sharply with the lazy desk clerk who continued to smoke a stream of cheap cigarettes.

  ‘Put that out! Stand up straight!’ she insisted, gesturing towards his cigarette.

  The desk clerk glared at her until one of the porters chipped in with a ‘Come on now, lad.’ The boy resentfully ground his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray and pulled back his shoulders.

  Then, quickly, the bags were piled high, one after the other, onto the porters’ trolleys while Madame de Guise carefully checked them. One in particular caught Mirabelle’s eye – a doctor’s brown leather case. There was a lot of baggage here. Enough to contain everything she’d seen in the wardrobes at Cadogan Gardens. She squinted to check if there might be a policeman nearby but they were still over on the London platform at the other side of the station, and she did not want to lose sight of her prey. Mirabelle’s heart raced. There were too many small things here that didn’t fit.

  ‘Come,’ Madame directed, and with a toss of the head that would have seemed flirtatious had it been performed by a younger woman, she led her coterie back towards the platforms.

  Mirabelle tried to attract the attention of a policeman on the other side of the tracks. She waved and smiled, motioning him over, but the man didn’t acknowledge her. With one eye on the solemn caravan now making its way down platform seven, she made another attempt, jerking up and down this time. The policeman turned away. With a sigh, she stopped a passing railwayman. ‘Where is this train going?’

  ‘It’s the Southern Coastal Line, Miss. The Coastway.’ Mirabelle looked blank, so the man continued. ‘Portsmouth, Southampton, Bournemouth, Exeter, Plymouth.’

  ‘When does it leave?’

  ‘Ten to two.’

  Three minutes. Mirabelle dodged further down the platform and saw Madame de Guise supervising the loading of the last of her luggage.

  Mirabelle cursed silently. There wasn’t enough time and she couldn’t be sure. But something here was wrong. And then the old lady did it. Regally she reached inside her bag and Mirabelle saw the flash of gold as she tipped the porters, one by one, wide smiles breaking out on their faces as they doffed their hats in thanks at her generosity.

  ‘You must take the day off now. Will you? It’s Saturday. Treat yourselves.’ The old lady barely stopped for a moment to hear their answers before striding purposefully towards a first-class carriage to board for the journey.

  As one of the porters passed Mirabelle on his way back up the platform, she called him over. ‘Please,’ she said breathlessly, ‘I need your help. It’s that lady. The lady you were with. Will you go straight away to one of the police officers on the London platform for me?’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ the man said uncertainly. ‘You need a police officer?’

  A guard was signalling with a flag at the other end of the train.

  ‘Tell him that Detective Superintendent McGregor has to know – Mirabelle Bevan is on this train. The Southern Coastal Line. He has to come and help. Have you got that? And make sure he tells Vesta as well – she’ll be worried.’

  ‘Yes, Miss. But that lady isn’t no Mirabelle Bevan – she’s a French lady, see. Can’t remember the name but it wasn’t that. Pretty fancy, she is.’

  ‘I know. I can’t explain now. Just tell him, will you?’

  The man paused, clearly waiting for a tip. Mirabelle fumbled with her handbag and extracted a sixpence.

  ‘It’s very important,’ she said. ‘Life or death. I don’t want to lose sight of her until the police know. It’s vital that they tell Detective Superintendent McGregor.’

  The man pocketed the coins, looking unimpressed after the older woman’s generosity. ‘Right, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m going off now, but I’ll tell the officer before I leave.’

  Mirabelle felt flustered. It was an odd request, she knew. ‘Detective Superintendent McGregor,’ she repeated. And I’m Mirabelle Bevan.’

  The man paused. ‘Oh, I’m telling him you got on the train, Miss?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Shall I tell him which stop you’re travelling to?’

  Mirabelle rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know which stop. Just tell him I got on the train. This train. He’ll have to figure the rest out for himself.’

  The guard blew his whistle.

  ‘Right then,’ the porter said and opened the nearest door.

  Mirabelle climbed aboard. ‘Any of the policemen will do,’ she leaned out towards him. ‘Go now! See that they ring it in. And tell them to let Vesta know. I’m tailing Madame de Guise, do you see? Oh, dear!’

  The door slammed. The porter nodded through the glass and waved half-heartedly as if Mirabelle was completely mad and he was only humouring her. Then the carriage pulled off slowly and she lost sight of the man as the jerky shuffling of the train accelerated along the track.

  Mirabelle hesitated a moment, loitering in the corridor, but realised that going into the compartment was the only way to keep an eye on what the old lady was up to. If she chose another compartment nearby she would have no way of telling if Madame de Guise changed seats or which stop she might get off along the route. She plucked her new hat out of its box and swapped it with the one she was wearing. The black veil covered most of her face, so it would be unlikely that Lisabetta would recognise her. Smoothing it into place, she carefully slid back the door, praying that the porter had delivered her message to the policeman and that the uniformed officer had the good sense to call it in quickly.

  The carriage was unoccupied apart from the two of them. Madame de Guise nodded and, Mir
abelle noticed, as she took the seat opposite, studiously ignored her, casting her eyes down and then out of the window.

  I just have to sit here and wait, she told herself. That’s all. I just have to stay calm and keep my eyes open until McGregor gets here. It’s my duty. She won’t do anything. She doesn’t know it’s me.

  The houses soon gave way to fields on one side and the sea on the other, flashes of blue as the track followed its course close to the coast. As the last of Brighton’s suburbs disappeared the old lady cleared her throat and Mirabelle looked up nervously.

  ‘Would you mind closing the blinds, my dear?’ she asked, gesturing towards the screens that were in place above the door onto the corridor.

  ‘Oh,’ Mirabelle said, ‘of course.’

  The old lady continued speaking. ‘What is your destination?’

  ‘Oh, end of the line. Plymouth,’ Mirabelle replied without hesitation as she pulled the blinds into place. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked as lightly as she could. She turned back into the carriage but as she did so her heart leapt.

  The old lady had pulled out a revolver and it was pointed towards her.

  28

  Upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.

  It was mayhem at police HQ all afternoon. Willie Walsh from the antique shop in the Twittens had been arrested, sneaking around the back garden at 22 Second Avenue with a shovel in his hands. The news that there was a missing cache of gold coins was out, and the vultures had moved in fast, seeing if they could find it before the police recovered the goods.

  ‘It’s not illegal to do a bit of gardening,’ Walsh chanced his arm. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’