Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  St James’s Street was bustling. The shops were busy this morning and a queue outside the bakery signalled hot pies fresh out of the oven. Mirabelle cut down towards McGregor’s guesthouse, thinking that she must eat something. It had been a while. She turned off the main road and hesitated outside, her heart beating faster. Then she opened the gate and rang the bell. Betty Brownlee looked quite regal when she answered – she was always ready for a new guest, Mirabelle realised. She looked older, close up, than she had in the street. Maybe Rene was right about the amount of work she took on.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mirabelle.

  Betty’s lips stretched without actually smiling. Her eyes hardened. ‘Miss Bevan,’ she managed.

  ‘I saw your niece this morning,’ Mirabelle said. ‘She’s most concerned about you working so hard.’

  ‘She needn’t worry about me.’ Betty sounded as if she was spitting the words.

  ‘Is the superintendent in?’

  Betty wasn’t accustomed to lying. She considered it, but knew she couldn’t pull it off. ‘He’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘But he’s busy.’

  Mirabelle stepped over the threshold. ‘Rene’s misguided, that’s all,’ she said kindly. ‘If it’s any help, I think she’s quite safe.’

  ‘If I thought she wasn’t safe I’d be up at that house myself …’ Betty started, holding herself back from completing the sentence. ‘She does it to vex her mother.’

  Mirabelle smiled. That was unlikely. ‘She does it because she wants the money, Betty. She says she enjoys it.’

  ‘How could anyone enjoy it? All those men?’

  ‘She’ll come out the other side.’ Mirabelle realised the words sounded like a promise. ‘She’ll appreciate your concern then.’

  ‘It’s her life, I suppose,’ Betty sniffed to indicate that although it might be Rene’s life, she wasn’t happy about it. Then she stood back to let Mirabelle pass. ‘He’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘You know the way.’

  It was strange being back in the house. It had been a long time. The hallway smelled of toast and, as Mirabelle walked upstairs to the first floor, there was the faintest tang of laundry soap. It was still familiar, as if Mirabelle had simply been on holiday for a while, and only now was coming home. A young couple emerged from one of the rooms – guests on holiday. ‘Good morning,’ they trilled, and disappeared noisily down the stairs, holding hands, and out of the front door. Mirabelle stood outside McGregor’s room as if she was a ghost of herself haunting all the times she’d visited there, all the times she’d stayed. She waited a moment, gathering her thoughts and realising it wasn’t going to become easier. Then she knocked.

  ‘Come.’

  She turned the handle. Inside, McGregor was not alone. Two other officers were with him, the bed and chairs and table a sea of paper. Two crates of files were piled by the superintendent’s chair. Three of the paintings had been taken off the wall and black and white photographs were pinned in their place. The young officer who had come to fetch Chris the other night sat on the bed, in a space that he had cleared, reading. Another was standing by the window, a file in his hand.

  ‘Mirabelle,’ McGregor said, springing to his feet from the chair he’d been ensconced in. She’d surprised him. He motioned to the other men. ‘Could you give us a minute, lads? Maybe Miss Brownlee could sort you out some tea?’

  McGregor closed the file he was reading and put it down as they left the room. Mirabelle listened to their footsteps receding down the stairs.

  ‘You can’t come here,’ he said, his arms wide as he ushered her back towards the doorway.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We needed some space to work on case files. It’s too busy at Bartholomew Square. Are you all right?’

  Mirabelle was unsure how to answer. ‘It’s all shifting sands,’ she said vaguely. ‘Bill’s wife died last night.’

  ‘Julie?’

  ‘We didn’t even know that she was ill. Vesta is devastated. I blame myself. I could see Bill wasn’t his usual self. I should have looked into it.’

  ‘Poor Bill. I heard the poor woman had cancer. I didn’t know it had gone so far.’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Seems like you knew more than me. And about more than one thing, too. I met Rene last night. I mean, I realised about Rene last night. And I wanted to apologise. I assumed the worst of you, Alan. I thought because she was a young, pretty girl …’

  McGregor’s face split into a grin. ‘You thought I was having an affair with a child. Yes. It did grate.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  McGregor touched her arm, pulling her towards him. ‘There’s nobody but you for me, Mirabelle Bevan. I don’t think there ever will be. You know that, don’t you?’

  Mirabelle’s eye was drawn to the boxes of files. Rene hadn’t been the only reason she’d given up on her relationship with McGregor. There was the boy who’d been killed. What on earth was going on here, she wondered. ‘I can’t come back,’ she said. ‘I mean, there’s what happened to Freddy.’

  McGregor didn’t react. She wondered for a moment, if he’d forgotten. He seemed to be thinking about something else.

  ‘I can’t bring him back. I let him down. That’s true. Look, I admire you because you’re upright,’ he said. ‘That’s what I love about you. Well, one of the things.’

  Mirabelle felt herself pull back. He made her sound like a monument.

  ‘I only came to apologise,’ she said. ‘I told Brownlee that I thought she was working too hard.’

  ‘She likes working hard.’

  ‘You should have her take on another pair of hands, Alan. A woman of her age shouldn’t be managing so much. It’s a big house, what with all the guests.’

  ‘Brownlee can do as she likes. I leave the running of the place to her entirely. If she wants help, there’s money for it.’

  ‘I think she should be encouraged to engage someone. For a woman like her, it’s an admission she can’t cope.’

  ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘I need to get back and find out about the funeral.’

  As Mirabelle moved, McGregor caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘I wish you’d marry me,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d let it be easy.’

  Mirabelle snatched her hand away. Outside she heard steps on the stairs. ‘They’re coming up,’ she said.

  ‘Think about it.’ McGregor’s gaze was steady. ‘Please. There’s so much grief everywhere. And we could be happy. We could buy a bigger place, down the coast. Brownlee would run it for us with an army of maids, if you like. I’ve missed you, Mirabelle. I miss you every day.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Rene? Why didn’t you explain?’

  ‘I am long past the stage of telling you what to think.’

  Mirabelle looked at him as if from a distance. He was good looking enough, though it had never been McGregor’s looks she’d particularly liked – more the thread of sadness that ran like a vein through him, and his ability to listen. His shy sense of humour and the fact that he knew her. She thought she’d known him.

  ‘It’s no good looking back all the time,’ he said. ‘We’re not going that way, you know.’ When he smiled she felt herself move, very slightly, towards him. Then she pulled herself together.

  ‘I’d better go.’

  For a moment he looked as if he might cry. Then there was a rap at the door. He reached past her to open it.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘No. Quite right. We need to get on. There’s work to do.’

  He pulled it wider so that Mirabelle could leave.

  ‘I’ll see you at the funeral, then,’ she said.

  As she turned down the stairs, the door closed. She heard the mumble of the men’s voices as they went back to work. She put out her hand and grasped the bannister a moment, rocking on her feet, trying to steady herself. McGregor’s proposal had thrown her. Downstairs the kitchen door opened and Brownlee emerged carrying a tray of tea things. She hung back, w
aiting for Mirabelle to come down the stairs.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘You can see yourself out,’ Brownlee sniffed.

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Of course.’

  As she opened the front door, Brownlee disappeared upwards.

  Outside Mirabelle turned left towards the front. A gull landed on the roof of McGregor’s house and eyed her glassily. Two floors below, one of McGregor’s men stood in the window, watching her progress down the pavement. McGregor had never been short of space at the station before, she thought, as she gave a small nod, acknowledging him before continuing on her way. It felt as if she’d turned her back on too much lately – Bill’s predicament, Chris’s kindness and now Alan’s proposal. But there was so much to do.

  She crossed on to the sunny side and wished she had her sunglasses with her. Inland, towards Kemptown, she could hear the church bells striking midday and she picked up her pace. Her mind wandered back to McGregor’s bedroom – the room they’d shared for months that now seemed almost desecrated with those piles of papers. And then it struck her that she recognised one of the photographs on the wall. It was the car that had drawn up at Uma and Ellen’s house and taken Uma away – or at least the same model. And there was a picture of a woman who also seemed familiar. Mirabelle tried to remember where she had seen her before, but drew a blank. She almost turned around and then dragged herself back to the matter in hand – Bill’s bereavement was more important, of course it was. There were things she needed to put right, she scolded herself. There was so much to get on with. First things first.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  We die only once and for such a long time

  Once she had something to organise, Vesta’s demeanour changed. By the time Mirabelle reappeared at the office, Vesta had put a note on the door that announced ‘Due to Bereavement this office is closed this afternoon.’ Vesta already had her jacket on. In front of her, two cardboard boxes sat on the desk.

  ‘Food for Bill,’ she explained. ‘I had Charlie send over some things from the Grand. I’ll order us a cab. We can’t carry all that on the bus.’

  It always seemed odd that the quiet suburban streets where people died still looked like quiet suburban streets. A crowd of children played a game of dice, clustered round a lamppost. Several front doors gaped open in the sunshine on to thin, dark, immaculately clean hallways. The sun didn’t betray the bereavement that was under way privately behind the net curtains of one of the houses. You’d never have known. Mirabelle paid the driver as Vesta juggled the cardboard boxes.

  ‘Ready?’

  Vesta nodded.

  A slim, pale woman with her hair tied in a brown cotton scarf answered the door when Mirabelle knocked. The resemblance to Julie was uncanny. Vesta gasped audibly.

  ‘I’m her sister,’ the woman said, her voice flat. ‘I’m the older one.’

  ‘We came to give our condolences,’ Mirabelle replied, smoothly. ‘It’s a very close resemblance. Is Bill available?’

  Inside, Bill sat in his armchair with Panther at his feet, as if they were both becalmed. A bottle of whisky and a bottle of brandy sat on the table, surrounded by a cluster of empty glasses on the white cotton tablecloth. Bill stumbled as Mirabelle came in, fumbling out of his chair, looking sheepish. Panther wagged his tail in greeting but didn’t get up.

  ‘You didn’t have to …’ he said, holding out his hand.

  ‘Oh Bill. Of course we did. I wish you’d told us what was going on.’

  ‘There was nothing anyone could have done. I didn’t want you feeling sorry for me.’

  ‘Forlorn hope now,’ Vesta said with a smile, clutching Bill’s fingers. ‘Charlie sent this lot over. He said you liked rock buns and I think there’s some pressed ham and some biscuits. He sends you his best.’

  Bill gave a weak smile. ‘He’s a good man.’

  Julie’s sister took the boxes from Vesta and disappeared into the kitchen at the rear of the house. Mirabelle stared after her. Women were always there, organising everything, smoothing the way.

  ‘She didn’t want a fuss,’ Bill said, as if he was apologising for his stoicism. ‘I didn’t want one either, I don’t suppose.’

  ‘Oh, Bill,’ Vesta’s eyes filled with tears, ‘I’m so sorry. The priest at St Magnus said the funeral will be next week.’

  Bill nodded. ‘It’s taken her mother by surprise,’ he said.

  ‘Julie’s mother?’

  ‘Poor old dear. She just lives around the corner. You don’t expect your kids to go before you, even if they’re ill. She knew it was coming but this morning she took to her bed. I’ll be all right, you know. A bit scruffier than when Julie looked after me. Not as well fed. It’s Pat I feel for, and Debbie here,’ he said as Julie’s sister came back into the room.

  ‘She’d had enough by the end, hadn’t she, Bill?’ Debbie said. ‘There was nothing more they could do for her and the pain was terrible.’

  ‘I can’t believe you came with me yesterday and tracked down Hayward. And you could have been here. I’m sorry.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have had it. Julie insisted, you see. Business as usual. I was following orders.’

  ‘You’re not to come back to the office till you’re ready – those are our orders.’

  ‘That’ll be tomorrow. I’m not hanging around here with all the neighbours coming round and everybody talking about her! No. I’ve got to do something to work up an appetite for that ham you brought.’ Bill cracked an unconvincing smile.

  ‘It’s Friday today,’ said Vesta, gently. ‘We’re closed tomorrow, Bill.’

  ‘Of course. Yes. Of course.’

  The back door opened and Debbie peered down the hallway. ‘It’s Mrs Close from number seven,’ she whispered.

  ‘Hello,’ a voice called uncertainly.

  ‘We’re in here, love,’ Bill shouted.

  ‘People have been in and out all day. Julie helped everyone, you see.’

  ‘She did,’ the old lady announced as she came into the room. ‘Oh Mr Turpin, she helped me with my laundry when I hurt my hip. I’m so sorry to see her go.’

  ‘I wish she was still here, I mean for you to pay your last respects. They took her away, you see.’ He sounded helpless.

  ‘It’s only Catholics who keep the body at home, Bill,’ Debbie said. ‘You know that.’

  They all perched awkwardly on the three-piece suite. Debbie offered to make tea but nobody wanted any. Mrs Close said she’d help with Bill’s housework. Bill stared forlornly at the grate in front of him and thanked her. Debbie said something about sorting through her sister’s clothes but she didn’t move.

  ‘Was it busy today, then?’ Bill asked. ‘You know. At work this morning?’

  Vesta shrugged. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘We can cover for a few days, I’m sure. Mirabelle saw the superintendent.’

  ‘He sends his regards,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He was working from home.’

  She thought about the picture of the Jaguar pinned to the bedroom wall.

  ‘At home? That’s unusual,’ Bill said.

  After twenty minutes of stilted small talk, they finally ran out of things to say. Vesta rolled her eyes at Mirabelle and the women took their leave. They decided to walk back into town, past the children who were now playing hopscotch on the paving stones, and on to the main road. It jarred that the world was behaving normally – it always seemed that way after something as devastating as a death, even one that wasn’t a murder.

  ‘He needs his routine,’ Mirabelle said. ‘We can’t take that away from him.’

  ‘Well, he’ll have to wait.’ Vesta cracked a plucky grin. ‘I care about Bill, but I’m not opening on a Saturday. I don’t understand it, Mirabelle. If Charlie died, I wouldn’t be able to come in … I wouldn’t be able to sit around chatting like that.’

  Mirabelle had no doubt that was true. When Jack had died she hadn’t been able to stand or speak or even think. That Bill was functioning to such a high degr
ee was extraordinary, but then of course that’s what he’d do – hold himself together.

  ‘Everyone’s different,’ she said.

  Vesta gave a little shrug. It always seemed to her the generation who made it through the war was made of tougher material than everybody else.

  ‘They never had kids,’ she said, sadly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You wonder why that happens. Why some people do and some people don’t. I didn’t even want a baby – do you remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘You were insistent. You didn’t want to tell anybody when you got pregnant.’

  Vesta laughed. ‘It seems strange now.’

  A bus passed them, but there was no question of getting on. Vesta touched her hat lightly, checking her reflection in the window of a hardware shop.

  ‘So, this case you’re working on,’ she said. ‘With the sick kids …’

  Mirabelle scrambled for the details. There seemed so much else going on. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said. ‘And not very nice.’

  ‘Murder is never nice, is it?’

  ‘You used to be interested in that kind of thing.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘The nurses are covering up something. The night Father Grogan died, there were visitors to the home after he left and Sister Taylor disappeared. They lied, you see. They probably lied about the fight they had – Father Grogan shouting at Sister Taylor. It’s likely they were all involved, but I haven’t unravelled it yet.’

  ‘And that other body? What about him?’

  ‘Gerry Bone?’

  ‘Yes. Has he anything to do with it?’

  ‘I still don’t know. He was most likely strangled and flung in the sea. I would say there wasn’t a connection, but two bodies and a missing woman in as many days – we can’t count it out.’

  Vesta sighed, as if to ask, well, what have you been doing with your time?