Brighton Belle

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Leave it out,’ groaned Sergeant Simmons.

  How these things got out, McGregor wasn’t sure, but he was damn certain that, eventually, he’d find the culprits and indict them. He wasn’t having that kind of corruption in his department. In the meantime, though, there were bigger fish to fry.

  By half past two McGregor realised he had gone about as far as he could with Manni. The toe rag was holding out better than he would have expected. Even when he dropped intriguing names into the conversation Manni kept his cool.

  ‘They’re punters. All punters. You got nothing on me, McGregor,’ he sneered, lighting Camel after Camel, ‘and you know it. I’m on the level. Legit.’

  McGregor persisted. He’d sent Robinson to search Manni’s lodgings but he wanted to crack him before the team returned to the station – it was a matter of professional pride.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘you know they’ve scarpered then. Your mates, Dr Crichton and the lovely Lisabetta. They’ve gone up to London. They’ve done a runner on you, Manni.’

  ‘I thought it was a free country, England,’ Manni retorted. ‘I thought if someone wanted to go to London they were entitled.’

  ‘Yes, they are. But they aren’t entitled to mint forged currency. They aren’t entitled to launder money through your tote – the racing board, you can imagine, are taking a particularly gloomy view on that one. Oh, and the insurance fraud and the kidnapping and murder, well, neither they nor you were entitled to any of that. And as it stands, Manni, you’re going to be carrying the can for the whole shooting match.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Manni smirked.

  ‘Well, let’s start with Ben McGuigan, shall we?’

  ‘Not that again. You’ve got nothing on me for that, McGregor, and you know it. If Ben Bloody McGuigan gets pissed and goes missing, it ain’t my concern. I want my solicitor. I want Mr Peters.’

  He wasn’t budging and McGregor decided he’d just have to wing it. He was pretty sure that Vesta and Mirabelle were reliable or at least he hoped so.

  ‘Thing is,’ McGregor allowed a slice of a smile to pass across his face, ‘we dug him up, Manni. Ben McGuigan.’

  ‘Dug him up?’ Manni’s voice faltered for the first time in the interview.

  ‘Yes, in a grave that was marked for your friend Lisabetta’s sister. A bird called Romana Laszlo by all accounts.’

  Manni looked considerably less cocky than he had a few seconds before.

  ‘And seeing how when Ben McGuigan went missing he had been undercover, investigating you for a good fortnight, well, you can see that we’re adding up one and one and getting a very interesting sum. You like maths, don’t you, Manni? Figures are quite your thing. Oh, and we got the priest, too. We know what happened to him. So things are really coming together.’

  It wasn’t, the detective superintendent told himself, entirely untrue to say that. They would dig Ben up and, well, they had the priest, that was certain – he just wasn’t alive.

  A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Manni’s face. ‘None of that was my fault. None of it!’

  ‘So whose was it, Manni?’ McGregor was getting close now, he could feel it. It would be so easy to get carried away but he had to control himself. Get the information, the confession and see if Manni knew where they’d gone. He didn’t want to feed Manni too much – it would make it easier for him to lie.

  A junior officer knocked on the door of the interview room.

  ‘Not now,’ McGregor barked.

  ‘But, sir,’ the officer insisted.

  ‘I said not now.’

  The officer considered a moment. It was only a call from uniform, after all. It hadn’t seemed important – just some woman getting on a train but it definitely wasn’t the woman the boss was looking for. Only some informant with a foreign-sounding name.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he backed out of the interview room. ‘Sorry for disturbing you.’

  There was no point pushing it.

  ‘Now,’ McGregor turned his attention back to Manni, ‘there’s only one way you’re going to get anything less than life here. And you’ll be lucky if that’s all you get.’ McGregor drew a suggestive finger across his throat. ‘So, you better tell me everything you know. Because I want to find out, Manni, where the hell the others have gone. And if I don’t, well, it’s all going to get pinned on you, isn’t it? You’re in this thing up to your neck and you’ll swing, Manni, you mark my words. If you don’t cough up, you’ll swing.’

  29

  The Black Swan

  Eighteen months before, after Jack died, Mirabelle had wanted to die. She used to lie on the floor of the drawing room at night with all the lights out, unable to sleep, and will the building to fall in on her. She had been deliberately careless when she crossed the road, waiting for fate to take its chance, just wishing that she could blot out the whole world forever and hoping that somehow she’d just die and the pain would all be over.

  Now she was faced with a dangerous criminal who had an old-style single-action revolver pointed directly at her, she felt strangely calm, and there was one thing of which she was certain: she wasn’t giving up and she no longer wanted to die. Every sense in her body was heightened – she could smell coffee on the old lady’s breath, feel the cold windowpane beside her as if it was radiating its chill, and hear the sound of the tracks in minute detail as the train headed west. She knew that Madame de Guise did not intend to shoot her – not immediately, anyway. The safety catch was still on. Mirabelle was familiar with the specification of this revolver and she knew there had been a lot of problems with it. The firing mechanism was delicate and, if it had been subjected to abuse over its lifetime, the spring inside could easily shift, making the weapon extremely unreliable. Though it took six bullets it was generally accepted that it was only safe to load five. One in the first chamber, then a space and four more. Mirabelle had read the firearm manual – she couldn’t remember when, but she knew about it, that was the main thing. The old lady was wearing thin kid gloves, which would make the whole thing more difficult. Not, Mirabelle knew, that the gun wouldn’t kill her, only that all this might buy her a fraction of a second or two if it came to the crunch.

  After a moment’s silence, Mirabelle decided to speak. ‘Well, the ball’s in your court,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Who knows that you’re on this train?’

  Mirabelle sat up straighter. ‘I left a message,’ she answered honestly. ‘I don’t know if they got it.’

  ‘You are police?’

  Mirabelle shook her head.

  ‘Raise your veil.’

  Mirabelle did so.

  The woman looked perplexed. ‘Why are you following me?’

  Mirabelle gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders before she spoke. ‘I was right, though, wasn’t I? I’ll bet you have a stash of gold coins in that luggage of yours that would put the Royal Mint to shame.’

  ‘Ah, you want money’ Madame de Guise seemed quite relieved. ‘But, of course, it is far easier just to kill you and fling you out of the train. I’m not sure you have thought this through, my dear.’

  ‘That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Money? That’s what I heard about you.’

  Madame de Guise hesitated for a moment. She had no qualms about committing murder but she didn’t like to kill someone before she knew who they were or what they were up to.

  ‘It was you who broke into Crichton’s house last night?’ she hazarded. ‘It’s you that Lisabetta was scared of.’

  Mirabelle’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not Lisabetta, then?’ she said, incredulous.

  The old lady laughed. ‘I am fifty-eight years of age. Lisabetta was in her twenties. A beautiful girl and quite impressive in her own way. You can’t have met her if you are mistaking the two of us. It’s quite flattering for me, I think, this mistake of yours.’

  Mirabelle’s thoughts tumbled. This old lady, she was a black swan, she thought in a rush. The human error.
The thing that couldn’t be accounted for. Was this old woman the mastermind McGregor had suspected – the brains behind everything? She peered across the carriage, examining her closely.

  ‘Ah, you think it is a wig? Make-up? Like she used?’ The woman took off her hat with her free hand and pulled her grey hair out of the bun. She tugged on the strands hard. ‘See.’

  ‘Who are you then?’ Mirabelle asked.

  Madame de Guise smiled. ‘I could ask you the same thing, I think. You first?’ She raised the gun.

  ‘I am Mirabelle Bevan.’

  Madame de Guise frowned. ‘I don’t know that name.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Marguerite de Guise, for the time being at any rate. Now, I don’t know what to do with you, my dear, but I tend not to kill people until I have to. So, we’re going to take a journey together. Only a little journey. And then, in time, I will decide.’

  ‘You said “was”,’ Mirabelle pushed. ‘Lisabetta “was”.’

  ‘My English,’ the old lady dismissed the query.

  ‘Is Lisabetta dead? Did you kill her?’

  ‘What do you care? Be quiet. We will be there shortly.’

  ‘Where?’

  Madame de Guise cocked the gun rather expertly and Mirabelle felt her whole body tighten with fear. Those revolvers had been known to go off unexpectedly if you didn’t know they shouldn’t be fully loaded. For a second she thought she might not be able to breathe but then, with a shallow rhythm, she found that she could take in at least a little air.

  ‘First stop, Portsmouth,’ the old lady said. ‘That is, if I don’t shoot you before we arrive out of sheer annoyance.’

  Mirabelle decided she’d pushed it quite enough. She sat still and said nothing.

  30

  The British Secret Service is an Order doing its work with passion.

  Madame de Guise and Mirabelle left the train at Portsmouth with Madame’s luggage in tow. Mirabelle tried to make eyes at the porter despite Madame’s gun being only a few inches from her side, stashed in her pocket. The man only looked embarrassed when she raised her eyebrows suggestively and he refused to look at her again all the way to the taxi.

  On the back seat Mirabelle could feel the revolver jabbing into her side through both Madame’s coat and her own. The old lady gave the driver instructions to go to the dock and Mirabelle felt once more as if her heart was about to stop. There was clearly a boat at Madame’s disposal and Mirabelle knew well that there was no easier way to get rid of a body than to heave it over the side of a seagoing vessel. She was in the process of accepting that she was probably going to die but still she frantically kept her eyes open for a sign, a whiff of McGregor. There was none. Her heart sank and she felt tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Come now, dear’ Madame said and passed her a handkerchief, for show.

  ‘Jack,’ she whispered under her breath.

  ‘Who is Jack?’ Madame snapped, still trying to find the reason behind this elegant woman following her.

  ‘He’s my ...’ Mirabelle faltered. ‘Jack died. It seems a long time ago ...’

  Madame’s eyes softened for the first time. ‘Ah, my husband also is dead. Karl was not always the best husband but he was mine ...’

  A sudden realisation hit Mirabelle. ‘You’re Mrs Velazquez,’ she gasped. ‘Aren’t you? You’re the Candlemaker’s wife.’

  And they say that he died in a hotel room – a problem of the heart!’ Mrs Velazquez sneered. She was angry but she kept her voice low so the driver couldn’t hear what she was saying. She appeared to be confiding in Mirabelle, rather than simply letting off steam. ‘Honestly! That man had the strongest heart his doctor had ever seen. His father and his grandfather lived until they were ninety. As if I’d swallow that stupid girl’s ridiculous story. And then the hanky-panky with our money. That little gypsy tramp thought that she could play around with my family and our future because without him we were defenceless. Not true. She was a bad choice, of course, but bad choices can always be ... reconsidered. Poor Karl, he was always stupid about women. It takes a woman, sometimes, doesn’t it? To sort things out.’

  ‘They said you weren’t coming for the funeral.’

  ‘I did not come for the funeral, Miss Bevan. I came to kill her and to get my money,’ Mrs Velazquez hissed. ‘They think an old woman has no resources. No inventiveness. No direction.’

  A minute or two later the taxi pulled up on a cobbled dock. The driver got out and unloaded the bags as a young man came down the gangplank of a small yacht moored close to the entrance. He had a questioning look but he did not say anything, only picked up two of the bags and took them aboard.

  Mirabelle looked around helplessly. There weren’t any people around. It was a bad day for sailing. The weather would be enough to put off any amateurs and the mooring was full of the pleasure boats of hobbyists – small yachts, catamarans and speedboats that were tied up and out of action. This side of the dock was not used by real fishermen or the Navy – those who sailed in almost any weather.

  Mrs Velazquez paid the driver graciously, smiling all the while, and gave him a generous tip. Mirabelle took a deep breath and with her heart in her mouth decided to take this chance while the old lady was preoccupied. She took two breaths, as deep as she could, and she bolted – setting off down the mooring at a pace. Her high-heeled shoes on the cobblestones were treacherous but she knew if she got onto the boat she was as good as dead. This way Mrs Velazquez would be unwilling to shoot her till the taxi was out of sight. There weren’t any other choices.

  The old lady let out a furious screech as the taxi hurtled away. But she didn’t fire the gun. Instead she set off after Mirabelle, with the disadvantage of age but the clear advantage of more appropriate footwear. Mirabelle kicked off her heels. The cobblestones were slippery and cold but she could run in her stocking soles. She made it another hundred yards before she was tackled and brought to the ground by the young man from the boat who had overtaken both the women with ease when he had seen what was going on.

  ‘Jawohl!’ the old lady said delightedly. ‘Sehr gut!’

  ‘You people!’ Mirabelle struggled to get to her feet. ‘You people! Your husband did unspeakable things and all you can think about is money. All you can think about is getting away. Don’t you have any shame?’

  The man hit her hard on the jaw. It stung. But he loosened his grip momentarily, a stupid grin on his face and his eyes alight. Mirabelle grabbed the chance to wriggle free and launch herself at Mrs Velazquez, and before the old lady could fumble the gun into firing position, Mirabelle had twisted her arm behind her back and removed the weapon.

  ‘These revolvers are unpredictable, you know,’ she said. ‘They can go off quite unexpectedly. So you better be careful,’ she put the gun to the old lady’s head, ‘because I’ve taken off the safety catch.’

  The man looked terrified. He motioned with both his hands to stay calm.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mirabelle, ‘that’s very good.’

  She was surprised at herself – holding a loaded gun to an elderly lady’s head. It had been a most peculiar week.

  ‘Did you kill Lisabetta? Have you done it?’ she asked the woman.

  ‘Yes,’ the old lady muttered, ‘of course, I did. She cheated us. These girls – they never did anything – never went through what we did. Vermin! They think they are smart. They think they can do anything. Well, for a woman who’s seen what I’ve seen, poof! It’s like they are made from paper – no substance. She killed my husband and cheated him just like that. She thought she was indestructible but she had no real discipline. I hunted her down and I killed her. You think that Karl was the only one who had the talent to kill people? I worked a long time for our country. I executed enemies of the Reich many many times. One more little gypsy bitch? It was nothing. And she thought I was going to stay in the background and just say thank you, thank you so much for giving me back the tiny part of my own money she said she could get out? She thought
because I am a woman and I am old I would just lie down and whimper. How would you like it if she did that to you?’

  Mirabelle looked around. The dockside was deserted.

  ‘I will give you a hundred sovereigns,’ Mrs Velazquez offered. ‘I have them there, in her bag. They are yours. We just want to go home, my son and I.’

  The son’s eyes burned with resentment but he held off.

  ‘I don’t want your filthy money. This whole thing is a bloodbath. I can’t stand it. I’m not like you. We’re going to the police,’ Mirabelle said. ‘You and I are going to move very slowly. Tell him. Tell him that if he does anything out of turn I’ll shoot you and, goddamn it, I’ll shoot him as well!’

  The old lady spat something in German at her son.

  ‘Right. This way.’

  Mirabelle guessed the harbourmaster’s office must be on the other side of the dock. She loosened her grip on Mrs Velazquez and pushed her gently in the right direction but as she did the boy took his chance and bolted. He sped off down the dock towards the boat. Mirabelle ran in hot pursuit as the old lady shouted encouragement at her son, ‘Schnell! Mach schnell!’

  And then, without even thinking, in a single smooth movement as if she’d been trained all her life to do it, Mirabelle aimed the revolver. Mrs Velazquez was shouting at him to get away. To leave her behind and just get home. And then there was a crack from the gun, the man’s body arched instantly and he toppled over the side into the murky water of the dock.

  Mrs Velazquez screamed. Mirabelle turned and aimed again, this time for the old lady. ‘I swear,’ she said, ‘it’s you next if you so much as move without my say-so!’ Then she walked back slowly to see if the man had surfaced, keeping her distance from the old lady and trying to control her fury.

  ‘Mein Sohn!’ the old woman’s voice broke.

  He was gone. Mirabelle’s heart was pounding. ‘He’s dead,’ she said, shocking herself with her own resolve, ‘and you’ll be dead, too, if you don’t turn around. Now, walk over there. We need to find the harbourmaster.’