Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘I’ll be mother,’ Jinty laughed as she poured.

  There were, Mirabelle noted, about ten men left and four women – five if she included herself. She picked up a glass and took a sip. ‘Well, I’d better be leaving,’ she announced.

  ‘Aww. Mirabelle,’ Jinty got to her feet. ‘Don’t go. This is the fun part!’

  Rene laughed. She looked nice tonight, if a little cheap, Mirabelle thought. She wore a red dress and the colour suited her blonde hair, which was curled in a tidy bun. The trouble was, these girls wore too much make-up. Mirabelle had always thought that. It gave them away.

  ‘I’m meeting somebody for dinner,’ she said.

  ‘Your doctor? Oh, your doctor!’ Jinty was exuberant. She gave an excited little clap. ‘Well, that’s all right then.’

  Rene rounded, a glass of brandy in her hand. ‘I thought you had it for Big Al,’ she gushed.

  Mirabelle clenched her teeth. ‘Big Al?’

  ‘You know. The super. Alan McGregor.’

  ‘No. He’s all yours.’ Mirabelle managed to keep her tone light.

  Rene giggled. She doubled over with laughter. ‘What would I want him for? I only do it for the money, honey, and I’m very expensive, you know,’ she said, and turned to the group of men to her left, none of whom seemed perturbed by this assertion; in fact, if anything, one or two appeared positively encouraged.

  ‘But,’ Mirabelle stumbled over the words, ‘you and McGregor? He comes to see you at the house.’

  ‘We don’t do it in the house,’ Rene laughed. ‘We don’t do it in the house,’ she repeated for the benefit of the assembled men. ‘Or only rarely. We do it in hotel rooms, mostly. Lovely hotel rooms, with hot water and nice linen. Like upstairs.’ She winked.

  Mirabelle felt the room swim. She put down her glass on a side table. The sound of it clicking on the wood echoed.

  ‘Well,’ said one of the men, ‘maybe we ought to go upstairs and check it out. What do you say, ladies?’

  One of them stepped back a little. He clearly wasn’t game for the group nature of the suggestion. Jinty put her hand on his arm and whispered something into his ear. He nodded and checked his watch. It was an assignation.

  ‘Well, why does the superintendent come to see you?’ Mirabelle asked.

  Rene winked again. It was a comedy wink for the benefit of the crowd. ‘He knows my auntie. She asked him, you know, to keep an eye on me. He said he could get me a job doing something else.’ She chortled. ‘That’s not going to cover my expenses, though, is it? A girl has a lot of expenses if she wants to look good.’

  Mirabelle’s stomach turned.

  ‘But he came to see you at night, Rene. Ernie said that specifically. He came at night.’

  ‘He’s a policeman, isn’t he? Policemen don’t work regular hours. If it helps you any, he turns up in the afternoon sometimes too. I’ve got my own personal copper, gentlemen. So no getting out of line. In fact,’ she hooted, ‘form an orderly line, would you?’

  Everyone laughed except Mirabelle.

  ‘You mentioned your auntie?’ she managed.

  ‘My auntie Betty. She keeps house for the old git.’

  ‘Miss Brownlee.’ Mirabelle breathed out and found she couldn’t breathe in again.

  ‘That’s her. She sends over boxes of biscuits, the dear. Butter shortbread and ginger thins. She loves baking. I prefer jewellery of course,’ Rene couldn’t help announcing.

  ‘Right,’ said the man who’d suggested decamping. He had clearly had enough of Rene’s family tales. ‘I’ve got a suite.’ He fished a key out of his pocket. ‘Come on. Upstairs, everybody.’

  The man next to him scooped up the brandy bottles and Jinty got to her feet.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked Mirabelle.

  Mirabelle managed to nod. Her mind was racing. ‘I thought McGregor …’

  ‘Well, he could if he wanted. What is it to you?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing.’

  The party moved towards the door. The man Jinty had arranged to see privately held back. He sipped his brandy awkwardly and checked his watch once more.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d like a spot of dinner, would you?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Thanks. I’m not hungry. Perhaps you should wait for Jinty in the bar. I bet she’ll be quicker than you think.’

  He nodded, compliant, took another sip of his drink and disappeared out of the door.

  Alone, Mirabelle sank on to the sofa. The glass of the windows reflected the empty room, the open door back into the hallway a long black hole. Empty, thumb-marked glasses littered the furniture. The music stopped and the needle guttered. Then someone switched off the gramophone and she was aware that there was a figure beside her – a shadow.

  ‘I don’t want dinner,’ Mirabelle repeated, waving him away.

  The man crouched down, his blue eyes studying her face carefully. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

  ‘I told you to lay off the sauce, Mirabelle,’ he said.

  ‘Oh God.’ It was the most she could get out.

  ‘How much did you have, sweetheart?’

  ‘Gin at lunchtime.’

  ‘One?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘And here?’

  ‘Some champagne and brandy.’

  ‘Two of each?’

  Mirabelle shrugged. ‘I wasn’t really counting. Perhaps only one of each, actually.’

  Chris smiled. They both knew that two drinks wouldn’t have left her in such a state. She was grateful that he didn’t press the point. ‘A couple of hours and you’ll be right as rain.’

  Mirabelle wished it was that simple.

  ‘Dr,’ she said, ‘do you know anything at all about the missing woman?’

  ‘Sister Taylor? They haven’t brought her in, have they?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know. I was wondering about her medical experience. It came into my mind.’

  Chris cocked his head sideways. ‘I could ring round and ask,’ he said. ‘And maybe then you could manage a little soup. Soup is almost always a good idea for ladies who’ve had too many mixed drinks. Grape and grain, Mirabelle – that wasn’t a good idea. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ Mirabelle nodded. But all she could think was that no matter how kind he was, she couldn’t sleep with him, not now. She couldn’t go off to Mayfair or anywhere else. Not till she’d apologised to McGregor and set the injustice she’d done the superintendent to rights. She felt her stomach heave.

  ‘You’re getting paler,’ Chris diagnosed. ‘Perhaps we should get you to the lavatory. Come along.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love

  When Mirabelle woke up she was in a hotel room. The back of the door had an emergency notice that was headed, The Old Ship, with an engraved drawing of a schooner. Blearily, she sat up and looked around, peering through another door into the en-suite bathroom, but there was nobody else there. She patted the mattress next to her, but the bed was quite empty apart from a pillow that had been slipped under the sheet. She couldn’t quite remember how she’d got here but she could guess. He really was an uncommonly decent sort of man, she thought – and he’d been helpful too, it came back to her. Sister Taylor, it had transpired, had a long history of working with children with respiratory complaints. That much she could remember.

  Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she stumbled towards the bathroom and ran a sink of hot water to splash her face. Then she peered at herself in the mirror. She looked more fresh-faced than she felt. The bruises were almost completely gone. The sun beamed through the window, casting long shadows across the floor from the furniture. It seemed too high in the sky, she thought as she scrambled for her watch.

  ‘Damn it,’ she muttered, realising how late it was. McGregor wasn’t the only person to whom she owed an apology. She got dressed quickly, smoothing her clothes, trying to make the outfit
look fresh. Vesta would know, of course, that she’d worn that outfit yesterday.

  There was no key in the room but she didn’t intend to come back so Mirabelle left without locking the door, checking the surfaces quickly to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind. At the end of the carpeted corridor she called the lift, and when the door pinged open Rene was inside.

  ‘Morning,’ the girl beamed.

  Mirabelle stepped inside. ‘Ground floor?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Rene looked better than Mirabelle felt. In fact, she looked better than she had the night before. She was, Mirabelle thought, really quite a pretty thing without all her make-up. Prepared, the girl had brought clean clothes for the morning – a flat pair of pumps and a lemon cotton summer dress. Her hair was tied with a matching ribbon and she smelled faintly of a fresh, fruity scent – apples, perhaps. She might have been somebody’s daughter in Brighton on holiday – here to enjoy a show and read a magazine sitting in the sunshine on the white pebbles.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ Rene quizzed Mirabelle, as she looked her up and down. ‘Get a good offer, did you? Jinty will expect her cut, you know, if he was one of ours.’

  ‘I bumped into a friend,’ Mirabelle said.

  Rene giggled. ‘That’s what it’s all about. Best thing in life – bumping. I’m going to get a cup of tea and some breakfast downstairs. You can join me if you like. The blokes never mind if you put breakfast on their tab. They do sausages here – nice ones. I’ve had them before.’

  ‘I’m late for work. It’s almost eleven.’

  Rene shrugged.

  ‘I know your aunt,’ Mirabelle said suddenly. ‘She’s a good woman.’

  ‘Auntie Betty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She could do with some style tips from you, I’d say.’ The girl’s eyes lingered on Mirabelle’s outfit. Mirabelle felt uncomfortable. ‘I wouldn’t have expected you two to be friends.’

  ‘I bought her a silk scarf one Christmas but she doesn’t seem to wear it.’

  Rene giggled again as the lift door opened on to the main hallway. ‘You can take a horse to water, isn’t that what they say? I’ve tried to give her money a couple of times, but she won’t take it. She shouldn’t have to work at her age.’

  ‘Perhaps she enjoys it. She is a very good cook.’

  ‘Perhaps Superintendent McGregor likes keeping her in the kitchen. She’s cheap, I expect, and she suits him.’

  It was Mirabelle’s turn to shrug. McGregor had promised Miss Brownlee’s brother that he’d look after her while he served a term in jail. But that didn’t mean he had to keep her employed. She suspected, though, that Miss Brownlee would not take willingly to retirement.

  The hallway was busy. A stack of mismatched leather suitcases tottered beside the reception desk as a large party of tourists checked in. A maid was mopping the tiles at the door with her head down. Rene had excellent deportment, Mirabelle thought, as the girl strode across the hall in the direction of the dining room. Breakfast was probably over, but then the girl was used to getting what she wanted. She’d tip well.

  ‘Goodbye, then. Have a nice day at the office,’ Rene grinned.

  Mirabelle felt she wanted to offer some advice or help or something – anything – but she couldn’t think what to say.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she managed to get out, and then she turned and walked into the sunshine, the doorman tipping his hat as she passed. He didn’t even smirk, Mirabelle thought, but that was probably the sign of a good hotel doorman – someone who knew your secrets and didn’t judge you.

  The sea air smelled warm again, as if it was still June – a throwback to the summer that was on its way out. Mirabelle turned left and walked the few blocks to East Street, turning out of the sunshine up the hill and through the shady office doorway. She climbed the stairs, pausing momentarily before opening the door. She’d just say it, she decided – throw herself on Vesta’s good nature. Apologise. Explain. But as she pushed the door wide and stepped across the threshold, Vesta was not in the mood for listening. The girl was at her desk, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘I thought you were a client and I just couldn’t stop crying. Every time I think of it, I start again.’

  ‘Vesta, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  Vesta sniffed. ‘We didn’t even notice.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Julie died last night. Bill’s wife. Someone rang to tell me first thing – one of Bill’s neighbours. They said he wouldn’t be in. Of course he won’t be in. The poor woman’s been ill, Mirabelle. She’s been in and out of hospital for months and Bill didn’t say a thing. Not a word.’ The girl gulped down air as she tried to control herself but she kept sobbing. Her face crumpled. ‘I thought he was being rude, you know, when he wouldn’t come to our party the other weekend. I mean, that’s what I assumed, because he was so obviously lying when he said he was busy. But he didn’t tell anyone she was ill. Not a soul. That’s what the neighbour said. The first thing anyone knew was the undertaker arriving this morning to make the arrangements. The neighbours knew she’d lost weight but they just thought – you know – it was the change of life or something. I mean, you’d hardly want to pry. That’s what the man said. “You’d hardly want to pry.” He called it unfortunate. Can you imagine? And all this time, Bill didn’t say a word. Not a word. And he must have known she wasn’t going to get better, Mirabelle. God.’

  Mirabelle thought back on Bill’s scuffed shoes, his poorly executed shave, how he’d stopped bringing a packed lunch, and the morning he had been late for work. ‘We’re not very good detectives,’ she said quietly. ‘Are we?’

  This set Vesta off again. She let out a little howl. ‘I mean, there he was with me, at the Haywards’ house yesterday, chasing a stupid outstanding debt, and we went to the bank, and all along it was her last day alive and he was working. He shouldn’t have even been here. If that was Charlie …’ Vesta couldn’t go on. She held the handkerchief up to her face and sobbed quietly. ‘Poor Bill,’ she managed at last.

  Mirabelle sank into a chair. Vesta was right. She’d been the selfish one, caught up in her petty misapprehension about McGregor and flirting with Chris and on the trail of a ghost – Sister Taylor – when much closer to home there was someone really in need of her attention. It had felt as if she didn’t have anybody, but she did – and it should have been down to her. Vesta didn’t have the experience, but how could Mirabelle not have noticed? It was right under her nose.

  ‘Do you know what it was? What she died of, I mean?’

  ‘Cancer,’ Vesta sniffed. ‘It just ate her away.’

  Mirabelle reached across the desk and squeezed Vesta’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Vesta. I’ve been absent, haven’t I? I feel so stupid. And you were right to get angry with me yesterday. Quite right. I’ve been foolish and off the rails and I haven’t been pulling my weight.’

  She cast her eyes at Bill’s desk with its empty chair. ‘What was Bill’s round supposed to be today?’

  ‘Oh, that can wait, can’t it?’

  ‘Of course. We need to find out when the funeral will be and call round to offer our condolences.’

  Vesta sniffed and nodded. ‘It’ll be next week, I suppose,’ she said.

  ‘Do you think you can forgive me?’ Mirabelle asked.

  Vesta nodded. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. I need to apologise to McGregor too, it seems. I’ve been a terrible fool.’

  Vesta pulled out the phonebook. ‘Their church is St Magnus, isn’t it, Julie and Bill? I’ll phone and ask about the funeral. Why don’t you go and find McGregor? I mean, if there’s one thing this sort of thing teaches you, it’s that we shouldn’t leave anything. Nothing at all. If you’ve something to say to McGregor, for heaven’s sake, Mirabelle, go and say it.’

  Mirabelle sat forwards in her chair. She looked momentarily at Bill’s desk, th
e papers stacked tidily from the day before, when he hadn’t known that it would be his wife’s last day. Perhaps Vesta was right. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it now.’

  Back outside, she walked up the shady side of the street, cutting through the cool air. It felt good on her skin. She thought of the day she’d met Julie, when she’d gone to Bill’s house to offer him the job three years ago, maybe four. Mrs Turpin had always been there, in the background, encouraging her husband. In fact, she had literally always been in the background, it struck Mirabelle now. Baking in the kitchen, fixing Bill’s shirts, quietly supportive. A wife.

  At the desk at Bartholomew Square police station, Sergeant Belton nodded.

  ‘Miss Bevan,’ he said. ‘How are you this morning?’

  Mirabelle felt unsure how to reply. ‘I’m looking for Superintendent McGregor,’ she managed.

  ‘The super isn’t in, miss.’

  Mirabelle sighed. ‘Any idea when he might be back?’

  Belton never gave anything away if he didn’t want to. It would seem today he was not feeling generous. ‘I couldn’t say, miss.’ She knew he had no reason to help her.

  ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

  ‘Police business,’ he said implacably. Above his head the clock ticked.

  ‘Did you hear about Bill Turpin’s wife?’

  Belton sucked his teeth. ‘Terrible business. Bill’s one of our own.’

  ‘Vesta is checking when the funeral is. We had no idea, Sergeant. Bill never said a thing.’

  ‘Well, he’s a private sort of man. You wouldn’t want to intrude, would you?’

  That’s what was wrong, Mirabelle realised. Nobody wanted to intrude. ‘If you see McGregor, tell him I was looking for him,’ she said.

  Back outside, Mirabelle lingered. She leaned against the stone wall a moment in the shade, as if it might give her strength. Back down East Street, Vesta would be pulling herself together. Mirabelle raised her head and felt her eyes fill with tears. Ahead, the streets towards town were striped with sunshine and shade. She pulled her jacket around her shoulders and set off in the direction of McGregor’s house. At least she’d get to see Betty Brownlee, she figured, and she probably owed her an apology too.