Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘They wanted to stay anonymous. But recently, I think, some of our parishioners have been doing well. Financially, I mean. I expect the repair will be a testament to what he achieved.’

  Mirabelle slipped behind the desk and sat in the chair. She opened the drawers on a miscellany of paperclips, pencils and elastic bands. In the top right-hand drawer there was a telephone directory and on top of that an address book. She took out the address book and flicked through it. Nothing stood out – most of the addresses and phone numbers were in Brighton and the few that weren’t were other parish priests across Sussex and beyond. Then, at the back of the book, on the flyleaf, she noticed faded writing in pencil. Mirabelle squinted. Her eyesight was not what it used to be. She held the book at a distance. It was a phrase, she realised. In German. Mirabelle spoke a little German. Just a touch. Krumes Holz gibt auch gerades Feuer. Crooked logs make straight fires. It was an odd thing for a priest to have jotted down.

  ‘Was the father fluent in many languages?’ she asked.

  Father Turnbull wasn’t paying attention. ‘Well, Latin,’ he said absentmindedly, staring out of the window. ‘I think I should go back to church. One or two people have arrived. I ought to welcome them. Will you be all right?’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said, though she didn’t feel like being left alone. The priests’ house had a strange atmosphere but the places where people died often felt haunted. As the front door clicked behind the young priest, she started to search for a ledger. It didn’t take long. Father Turnbull was right, she noted, as she scanned the pages. The parish finances were strained but there had been a large donation. The bank book clipped to the back of the ledger contained almost a thousand pounds. Next to it, Father Grogan’s personal bank statement was more modest. He had ten pounds to his name when he died and had made a donation of £5 of his own money towards the repair. Mirabelle sat back in the chair. Outside, the light seemed rich – the soupy sunshine of late afternoon. He couldn’t have been killed for the money, she thought. After all, the money was still here. And yet, something like this had to be taken into account.

  A few minutes passed. She was avoiding checking over the bathroom, she realised, but she would need to inspect it. Then the house shifted. There was the sound of movement. She strained to see the front door through the hallway, but, adjusting her seat, she realised the noise came from the other side of the building. Mirabelle’s heart beat faster. She got to her feet. She wondered, momentarily, where Father Turnbull kept his cricket bat. Then a wireless turned on and the sound of Nat King Cole struck up, singing faintly in the distance.

  As quietly as she could, Mirabelle crept through the hallway and towards the music. It led her to the back of the house. Her hand was on the brass doorknob of the kitchen door when there was a crash, as if someone had dropped some cutlery. She was about to burst in when the young woman with the pink dress swung through the door towards her, carrying a pile of black laundry. Mirabelle jumped back. The woman started, screamed and dropped her bundle.

  ‘It’s you,’ Mirabelle smiled. She felt like laughing.

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ The woman laughed too. ‘Yesterday. In church. You were looking for the father.’ She smiled apologetically, as if mentioning the dead man was in poor taste. Then she bent down and began to stack the robes. The smell of lavender wafted from the still-warm linen. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs today. I’ve already made a mess in the kitchen. You gave me a fright,’ she babbled. ‘It’s only natural, I suppose. We’re all on edge. I’ve come with the laundry and I thought I’d make Father Turnbull dinner. I have a potato and a chop.’ She nodded in the direction of the kitchen. ‘I’ll tidy up in there and get them on soon. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Father Turnbull let me check over the study.’

  ‘Ah. Papers. Yes. After a death.’

  Mirabelle did not correct the woman’s assumption. Instead she helped retrieve the laundry.

  The woman held out her hand. ‘Teresa.’

  ‘I’m Mirabelle.’ Mirabelle noticed the ring on her wedding finger. ‘Were you married in the church?’

  ‘Yes. Father Grogan married us when we first came to live here. It must be three or four years ago now. I’m from Hastings, really.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to look after Father Turnbull like this. It’s hard on him.’

  Teresa shrugged. Her eyes slid along the wall, landing on the bathroom door. ‘It happened in there, didn’t it?’

  ‘He was on the floor.’ Mirabelle didn’t admit she had found the body. ‘He had been at the children’s home,’ she said.

  Teresa nodded but didn’t say anything. Her eyes remained pinned to the doorframe of the bathroom as Mirabelle reached out and turned the handle. Inside, there was no sign of what had happened. A yellow hand towel was folded neatly on the chrome rail. The smell of bleach rose on the air. Someone had cleaned up. Mirabelle shook herself. She hadn’t really expected Father Grogan’s body to be there, nor his ghost, but still.

  ‘Father Turnbull told me about the repair to the church. It seems Father Grogan had been tireless.’

  Teresa looked as if she might cry, but seeing the scene of the crime appeared to have calmed her. Imagination was always worse than the reality. ‘He said he didn’t want the old place falling down. Not on his watch.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He seems to have meant a lot to everyone.’

  ‘When my mother died, he was marvellous,’ the young woman sniffed. ‘He came every day – such a comfort.’

  ‘And he raised all that money. I don’t suppose you know who it was? The mystery donor?’

  Teresa seemed to relax suddenly – the power of gossip. Her shoulders dropped. ‘We all wondered. I mean, it’s quite a sum. There are a few people who are doing well. That’s obvious. But no one knows who it was. Well, it’d be flash, wouldn’t it? To say.’

  ‘Do you mean that it was one of the parishioners?’

  ‘You’ve never had it so good, isn’t that what people say? New cars,’ she raised her eyes, as if buying a vehicle was the kind of thing a naughty child might do. ‘Houses wallpapered. Swings in the gardens for the kiddies. Holidays down the coast. There are a few people who have been spending their money. But it’s a lot, isn’t it? I mean, just to give away.’

  ‘It is,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought too.’

  Chapter Ten

  The lonely wear a mask

  On Church Street Mirabelle stopped at the telephone box and called McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery. Vesta answered promptly and Mirabelle pressed the button to connect. It was hot inside the box – it smelled like the inside of a dusty oven.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ Mirabelle enquired, cheerily, once the coin had dropped.

  ‘It must have been busy at the arcade over the weekend. The Simpsons turned up with a large payment, mostly in sixpences, and I’m just working through what Bill picked up on his rounds,’ Vesta reported. ‘We had two new clients. I think they might end up being large accounts.’

  This wasn’t exactly what Mirabelle had hoped for when she asked the question. ‘Vesta, I wondered if you might do me a favour?’ she ventured.

  Vesta’s silence was a sign of her dubiety. ‘What is it?’ she asked after a moment.

  ‘Research. That’s all.’ Mirabelle realised she felt guilty even asking. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Have you figured it out yet? The murder?’

  ‘No. But I did speak to a doctor and he said TB is not contagious at the convalescent stage so there’s no risk to you or to Noel, or, well, to any of us.’

  ‘Really?’ The relief sounded in Vesta’s voice. ‘Was he sure?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He asked me out for dinner.’

  Vesta hooted. Suddenly it felt like a flashback to a year ago, when Vesta had liked to gossip and had pushed Mirabelle to take on divorce cases, though she had never succumbed. ‘Well, you�
�ve got all the fellows falling at your feet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘McGregor, of course. He’s got it bad. He was all over me this morning trying to find out if you’re seeing anybody without actually asking the question.’

  Mirabelle dismissed this out of hand. ‘He just wanted to ask me about Father Grogan. He was pursuing his inquiries.’

  ‘Sure. Yes. That’s what he was after. Inquiries.’ Vesta hooted again. ‘Look Mirabelle, I think they have you down as a suspect.’

  ‘Oh, honestly, Vesta,’ Mirabelle waved off the suggestion. ‘McGregor is just being dramatic.’

  ‘I don’t know why you two don’t make it up. You were happy together,’ the girl said.

  Mirabelle had never told Vesta about the blonde. Or about the murder McGregor had as good as sanctioned. Vesta had been pregnant at the time and it hadn’t seemed right to burden her.

  ‘I don’t think we can make up our differences, he and I,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘And now there’s a doctor on the cards.’ Mirabelle could tell Vesta’s eyes were gleaming. ‘A good-looking one, I hope.’

  ‘He is, actually. And far too young for me.’ Mirabelle blushed at her indiscretion.

  ‘He sounds just the tonic,’ Vesta said smoothly. ‘Well, what is it you need, Mirabelle?’

  ‘I wondered if you could find out how Indians feel about cats.’

  Vesta waited. ‘Indians? Cats?’ she said. ‘Big cats? Like tigers?’

  ‘No. Domestic cats. I mean, are Indian people superstitious about them?’

  ‘I can try. I’ll ask around.’

  Mirabelle waited. She was about to make some kind of arrangement for the next day when Vesta said the word she realised she had been waiting for.

  ‘Why?’

  A smile spread across Mirabelle’s face. ‘So much has happened,’ she said. ‘The sister at the convalescent home went missing after she had an argument with Father Grogan. I think it must have been less than an hour before he died. And one of the nurses there seems distressed somehow – she keeps chasing off cats in the garden. And the father, it turns out, raised an enormous sum of money to fix the church roof and nobody knows who donated it.’ The words tumbled out.

  In the background, Mirabelle could hear Vesta’s pencil tapping on her notepad.

  ‘How much money?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Five hundred pounds.’

  She let out a low whistle. ‘Leave it with me. You need to be careful, Mirabelle. If you’re on the cards for a murder inquiry, it might not be wise to get involved like this – and with money at stake.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want to help …’ Mirabelle let the words hang. It seemed to her that Vesta took rather too long to reply.

  ‘What’s your next line of inquiry?’ she said when she did.

  Mirabelle felt a surge of relief but she’d need to be careful. Vesta had changed. She wouldn’t ask for any more help, she decided, as she checked the slim gold watch on her wrist. ‘I expect the children at the convalescent home have tea around five, don’t you?’

  Down the telephone line, Mirabelle could tell that Vesta was also checking the time. She had her own home to go to. ‘Oh lord. I’d better get going. I mustn’t be late for Mrs Treadwell,’ the girl said hurriedly. ‘Bye.’

  The telephone line clicked. Mirabelle pushed open the heavy door. It felt cool in the street by comparison. She thought wistfully about all the times she’d called Vesta and Vesta’s inquiries had as good as cracked the case. Not any longer.

  Feeling heady, Mirabelle turned in the direction of Eaton Road. She noted the cream builder’s van was still in place, parked directly opposite the children’s home where it provided good cover. She settled in her usual position in front of the rose bush three doors down on the opposite side of the street and tried to look inconspicuous. It was quieter today. A woman returned home and ran up her garden path, further down, rushing to make dinner for her husband. At half past five the first man arrived back. He was wearing a bowler hat, despite the weather. Mirabelle wondered if he worked at the bank on North Street. She was sure she had seen him. Then she heard the muffled sound of the bell ringing inside the convalescent home. Half an hour for tea, she thought, forty minutes at the outside. Then, an hour to clear up and for bath time. The children would be in bed by seven o’clock. Lights out at eight. If the end of Sister Taylor’s shift had been nine o’clock, perhaps the nurses had a meeting at the end of the day. It may take a while.

  In the end, though, it was just after seven when the door opened. The sun had set but the sky still held some light. There was a full moon and no cloud. Nurse Frida, Nurse Uma and Nurse Berenice trotted down the steps smartly and turned in the direction of the main road, falling into step together. Mirabelle loitered, following at a distance. She didn’t want to risk them noticing her. There was something comforting about the three women in their capes and caps, walking together – the camaraderie of it. They must have had a difficult day. As the group turned the corner, they broke into a run, and Mirabelle watched as a bus flew past the junction, heading in the direction of town. She began to run too, but by the time she got to the corner the women had disappeared and the back end of the bus was almost a block away. She caught a flash of cape and cap in the rear window as it moved and the exhaust pipe let out a long puff of smoke. Mirabelle leaned against a shop door and caught her breath. At least she knew the direction they lived in and that none of them lived close enough to walk home, like Sister Taylor could. And it seemed the sister had stayed late the evening before. They all had. Perhaps the argument had upset everyone.

  Without thinking, Mirabelle pushed through the door of the pub on Church Street and ordered an orange juice at the bar. It had been a long, hot day and she was thirsty. The pink-cheeked landlord disappeared under the counter and the sound of bottles clanking ensued. He emerged triumphant, levered off the top and poured the juice into a short glass with a red rim, which clashed with the colour of the drink.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any ice?’ she asked.

  The man sighed. His eyes were rheumy. Heavy-footed, he plodded into the back and returned with two cubes between his thick fingers, which he plopped into the glass. Further along the bar, a man nursing a half-pint of stout grunted.

  ‘Hot day,’ Mirabelle explained with a smile. ‘Did you hear about the priest? Father Grogan?’

  ‘That’s a bad business,’ the bartender said. ‘The old fellow was poisoned, somebody told me.’

  ‘It was in his whisky.’

  The bartender and the stout drinker both raised their eyes to the row of three bottles on the back shelf – gin, brandy and whisky. Mirabelle paddled her juice around the glass to cool it and took a sip. The door of the pub swung open and a beat bobby popped in his head.

  ‘You all right, Constable?’ the bartender checked.

  ‘I didn’t know you served ladies on their own, Jack,’ the bobby said, as if Mirabelle wasn’t there.

  ‘It’s discretionary,’ the bartender replied. ‘We was just saying about the father? A priest, I tell you! Poisoned in his whisky, this lady says.’

  ‘Now, now. Careless talk costs lives,’ the bobby said, as if it was still wartime.

  ‘Poisoned though,’ the bartender persisted.

  He pulled a half of bitter and laid it on the bar. The policeman emptied the glass in one, smacked his lips and raised his hand in a parting gesture, leaving as quickly as he had arrived. The door swung closed behind him.

  ‘You got to keep on the right side of the law,’ the bartender said sagely as he disposed of the empty glass.

  Mirabelle handed over a coin and waited for her change. The stout drinker stirred. ‘It’s a shame about the priest. I’m not a churchgoing man, but the country’s gone to pot if they’re killing holy men.’

  It popped into Mirabelle’s mind that the country hadn’t gone to pot, exactly. She’d known it worse than this. But, on the other hand, lots of things had change
d for her over the last year – that had become apparent. ‘Perhaps I’ll just have a Scotch,’ she said.

  The barman poured a shot and put it on the bar. She handed over another coin.

  ‘You want ice again?’ He sounded weary.

  Mirabelle shook her head. Ice ruined whisky. Besides, you didn’t drink it because you were thirsty. She added a splash of water from the jug and knocked back the glassful. ‘Thanks.’

  Outside, Mirabelle paused to enjoy the breeze as she wandered towards the seafront. At the front, she stopped at Lali’s bench and sat, staring at the ocean. The sound of the surf breaking on the stones set a soothing rhythm. Out here at the beginning of the suburbs it served as a lullaby. Far off, further along the front, the lights of the pier twinkled across the black water. Brighton came alive at night. In town, the smell of frying fish would be hanging on the air. The pubs would be full at this time of the evening and the picture houses would have queues snaking along the pavements even on a Monday. Since she had fallen out with Superintendent McGregor, she hadn’t crossed the threshold of a single one of those establishments, sticking solidly to the few shops she frequented routinely. Life had become quiet.

  She wondered what she and Christopher Williams might discuss over dinner. Perhaps he’d know something more about the case. Her mind wandered, lighting on the detritus of the day – all the unanswered questions. She wondered where Sister Taylor was. Was Robinson right and the woman had fled? Or had something else happened to her? Something they hadn’t accounted for. Worst of all, was the nurse dead, like Father Grogan? Mirabelle shuddered.

  Out of the darkness, the figure of the beat bobby from the bar came into view, strolling along Kingsway. His white pith helmet seemed almost luminous in the light of the moon.

  ‘Miss Bevan,’ he tipped his hat.

  ‘Officer.’

  Mirabelle laughed as the man disappeared into the darkness. Brighton was ludicrously small. You couldn’t go unnoticed. With this in mind she scrambled for her house key and stalked back to her flat. The vanilla slice still sat in its brown paper bag on the table. She fetched a plate, a pastry fork and another tumbler of whisky and savoured her dinner alone in the moonlight. Tomorrow she’d eat something proper – a steak perhaps. With the handsome doctor. Yes, she thought, that would be nice, as she sneaked barefoot across the thick carpet and fell into bed.