London Calling (10 page)

‘Please wait a moment, Miss.’

The man disappeared through a door painted the same deep red colour as the walls. Mirabelle turned and peered outside. A man was parking a car and he kept misjudging the space. As the vehicle roared back and forwards clipping the kerb, a small white cat rubbed itself against the railings of the building beside it. Something was niggling Mirabelle. What she needed, she thought, was a cup of tea to winkle it out. Was it some crazy sense of nostalgia that had led her here? The door in the wall opened once more.

‘If you go up to the Ladies’ Sitting Room, someone will come down, Miss.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, but the steward had already retreated. Mirabelle took the stairs to the first floor. She looked around. The club had been redecorated but it looked much the same. She peeled off her gloves. The Ladies’ Sitting Room was off to the right and had been done out in a soft peach colour that reflected a warm light into the dark burgundy hall. Inside, curled up in a comfortable armchair, was an odd-looking girl with short blonde hair. She was reading a book in Russian. When Mirabelle squinted she could not make out the title, only the writer. It was by the humorist Fonvizin, although the girl did not appear to be finding the story amusing. There were so few women in the club and indeed at the universities that the atmosphere in the ladies’ rooms was usually friendly. Mirabelle was glad of the peace though – it would allow the time for reflection that she needed. She removed her coat, perched on a wooden chair near the fire and stared out of the window. The little white cat was now weaving in and out between the lampposts. Mirabelle wondered to whom it belonged.

‘Sweet little thing, isn’t it?’ a shrill voice said.

The girl reading Russian looked up, shaken by the noisy intrusion. Fonvizin must be riveting.

In front of Mirabelle, a woman in a grey pinstripe suit held out her hand. A pair of black-rimmed glasses dominated her face, which was otherwise very pretty. ‘I understand you’re a member. St Hilda’s was it? Mirabelle Bevan? I’m the membership officer. I see you’re on our register.’

Mirabelle shook her hand. ‘Yes. I haven’t been here in years. I’m only visiting London for the day and I thought …’

‘Quite. We’re always delighted when out-of-town members pop in. You know the drill? Ladies are permitted in the Dining Room but only the foremost part, and this is the Ladies’ Sitting Room. Between seven and nine we’re admitted to the bar but only if accompanied. The Library is open to you, of course.’

‘Oh yes, I remember. I’m keen to find out about one of our St Hilda’s girls. The daughter of an acquaintance. She went up to read mathematics if I’m not mistaken. A very bright spark. I wondered how she was getting on. Lavinia Blyth?’

The woman stared at her feet as she thought for a moment and then her eyes lit on the girl with the Russian book who let out a gurgling laugh and sat up.

‘Gosh. What on earth do you want to know about
her
for?’

‘Well, I rather admired that astonishing debate in which she took part. About the rights of animals. Quite provocative stuff. I read the report of it but I haven’t heard anything about the girl since. She seemed remarkable – clever and principled but in an interesting way. And very young, of course.’

The girl ran a hand over her head and plucked at her ear lobe. ‘Really? You liked all that guff ?’

‘Was it guff ? Didn’t Lavinia mean it?’

‘Just because she meant it doesn’t mean it wasn’t guff.’

‘So she hasn’t taken up with the hunt then? Rescinded her ways? Started to eat meat and kill foxes?’

‘Not the last time I saw her.’

The membership officer stepped back. ‘Well, well, there we are,’ she said. ‘So you’re very welcome, Miss Bevan. I’ll leave you both to it, shall I?’

Mirabelle nodded and focused on the girl. She wanted to find out more. She moved to sit on an armchair next to her.

‘I didn’t think Lavinia would change her ways and take up hunting. She was so very impassioned. I knew her father, you see. I can’t imagine the girl’s views went down well at home and that made me think it was doubly brave of her.’

The blonde snapped shut her book.

‘Are you a vegetarian, then?’

‘No.’

‘And you’re a friend of Lavinia’s father?’

‘I knew him during the war. Quite a character! His office was next door to where I worked and he was a stickler. I made the connection when I saw her name. He had two daughters, I think. Lavinia must be the younger.’

The girl surveyed Mirabelle carefully as if she was making a decision. ‘I’m starving,’ she said. ‘Let’s have some sandwiches, shall we?’ She reached out and rang the bell.

‘Ham sandwiches and tea,’ the girl instructed the maid who hardly had time to enter the room. ‘Lots of mustard, as well,’ she called out. ‘I can’t bear bland food, can you? It reminds me of everything that’s lousy about institutions. What did you read when you went up?’

‘Oh, that’s a while ago! Classics,’ Mirabelle replied.

She had realised after she graduated that her degree wasn’t likely to lead to much of a career and as, like most women, she was expected to meet a suitable husband while she was up at university and marry in her early twenties. She hadn’t planned much beyond her graduation ceremony and when nothing presented itself she took a Masters in Modern Languages. Mirabelle loved college – an orphan by then it gave her something worthwhile to do. Later, after she’d graduated a second time, she’d worked for a translation agency until the war broke out. Then at least her education had proved useful. But there was no need to go into all that now.

‘Classics? Crikey,’ the girl said.

Giving a little information always seemed to turn the tables. You gave a little, and then the person you wanted to talk gave back. It came so naturally she scarcely thought about it.

‘Are you still at college?’ The youngster seemed no more than twenty at most, but, still, it was hard to tell these days.

‘I should come clean,’ she volunteered, reaching out her hand. ‘I’m Deirdre. Call me Didi. I’m Vinny’s sister, Deirdre Blyth. Paul Blyth’s elder daughter. That’s why the membership lady scooted. A potentially windy situation – you enquiring about my sister in front of me.’

Mirabelle paled. ‘I’m terribly sorry … Oh dear, that was most indiscreet of me …’

Didi Blyth beamed. ‘Oh, no need. It was jolly watching Speccy Four Eyes squirm. You’re absolutely right about my father. He’s a character. In fact, he’s a beast! That’s why I’m here, actually. I’ve been staying in town over the weekends. That way I still get to spend time in London but I don’t have to see him. He’s down in the country most weekends, but I still don’t take the risk of going home. The club’s a super bolthole. To be frank, I try to keep away from the old chap as much as I can. My hairstyle seems to be particularly enraging at the moment.’

The maid brought a tray and set it down on the table. The tang of fresh mustard wafted towards Mirabelle on a cloud of steaming Earl Grey as she poured from the pot.

‘Well, it’s very decent of you not to be offended. I think your hair is chic. Very short, so you’re brave too, Didi. And I wonder do you also like jazz?’ She handed over a cup and saucer.

‘Gosh no! So you know about Vinny’s disaster this week? You mustn’t think she likes jazz. Not at all. I’ve never known her to sneak out at night, and up till now the most controversial she’s ever been musically is to say she doesn’t like Maria Callas. Vinny called her Aida controlled screeching. I mean, she’s usually such a Daddy’s girl. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Kick a lousy dog and she’ll fight as if she’s at Sebastopol but get a decent haircut or sneak out of the house? Not our Vinny.’ Didi picked up a grey-looking sandwich, slathered it with bright mustard and chewed thoughtfully. ‘So what was Daddy like when he worked in Whitehall? Just as much of a dictator?’

Mirabelle sipped her tea and decided to skip the details.

‘Well, he was Commander Blyth in those days. We weren’t friends, more colleagues. He was a stickler for detail, if that’s what you mean – a good officer – but very strict with his staff. He got results and that’s what counted.’

‘What a good memory you’ve got to spot Vinny in the paper …’

Mirabelle flirted with a smile. ‘I hope he doesn’t punish her.’

‘Oh, it’s practically insurrection in his eyes! Poor Vinny won’t be back at college for a while. I mean, the police are involved. He’ll hate that! No, he’ll hole her up down in the country until it all dies down. She won’t be allowed off the property, poor thing. And it’s so dreary down there! Especially at this time of year.’

‘Did you know the other girl, Rose? The one who’s missing?’

‘I can’t understand that either. Rose is, well, I don’t know how to describe her. She’s very confident and fashionable, and Vinny isn’t at all her cup of tea. Of course they know each other because we all know each other. From town mostly – the Bellamy Gores are neighbours. They live in the annexe of Chester House across the road. But what Rose and Vinny were doing out together I can’t imagine. Vinny is a swot, really. In America they’d call her homely. She likes animals. She likes reading. That sort of thing. But the Bellamy Gores are more … glamorous. They’re all about parties and cocktails and they just
drip
style. They’re
smart
. In truth I find them slightly Sash though what’s happened to Rose is terribly sad, of course. I do hope they find her.’

‘What do you mean Bellamy Gores? Are there more than one?’

‘Oh yes! Rose is inseparable from her cousin. Harry.’

‘And he was at the jazz club, too?’

‘You don’t get one Bellamy Gore without the other. They’re joined at the hip, practically.’

‘Except the other night. Rose was separated from him the other night, wasn’t she? She left the club without him.’

Didi dropped her voice. ‘Well, that’s the odd thing. Harry was there. It was Harry who took the girls out. But for some reason none of the reports mention him. In the papers. Boys get away with everything! I mean, it’s ridiculous – a girl steps out, goes dancing, gets her hair cut, decides to spend the summer in Italy and it’s a scandal. A chap does it and no one bats an eyelid. The police spent five minutes asking Harry questions and then hours grilling poor Vinny.’

‘Really?’

‘Makes me sick! We’re supposed to have some kind of equality, you know. Especially since the war and everything. But it’s just tripe!’

‘Perhaps they felt Lavinia was a better witness. Did your sister see anything? Does she know what happened?’

Didi shrugged her shoulders. ‘Must do, I suppose. I haven’t spoken to her. Father was in a fearful snot. Mother is so ineffective she’s practically see-through and, well, it doesn’t matter about my opinion. I just left them all to it. If Vinny did see anything she’ll have told the police, naturally. I mean who wouldn’t want Rose to be found? But what makes you so very interested, Miss Bevan?’

‘Because I can’t work out what happened. Rose appears to have gone missing and everyone assumes she’s hurt. Meanwhile, in the papers there’s nothing. As far as I can make out there’s no evidence. They haven’t discovered a body. The girl simply vanished.’

Didi was obviously relishing the conversation. ‘You’d need to speak to the police to discover the ins and the outs. Of course, there are always rumours about girls like Rose, but now that there’s something to actually base them on it’s just taken off ! So many people are gossiping about it – it’s the latest craze. I was at a party yesterday and everyone had a theory about what happened. They say that some black man raped her, that she was pregnant and killed herself, that she was stabbed in an opium den, that she was some fearful tart who slept with everyone going. God knows what else. The truth is that Rose lived life to the full. She sparkled. People love tarnishing a woman who sparkles – any woman with a bit of life about her. And I’m not sure Rose didn’t secretly want to tarnish herself a little, though that might be guff. She was a golden girl, you know. Everyone expected her to marry terribly well although now that’s unlikely. Not even Rose can disappear for almost two days in a storm of rumours like that and not find her currency devalued.’

Mirabelle finished her tea. Didi’s opinions were fascinating. ‘You’re right, of course. And her cousin Harry?’

‘Harry is fearfully good-looking. He drives one of those new green sports cars. He’s the sort of chap who practically gets away with murder all the time, I imagine. Strawberry blond, and honey eyes. Confident as hell. Still, not at all my type,’ Didi smiled. ‘Dishy, of course, and charming but not my type at all.’

‘Well, he must be frantic with worry.’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Didi said. ‘We all are.’

Later that afternoon Mirabelle walked back to Duke’s Hotel. She waved vaguely at the receptionist and wandered into the bar where some customers were finishing a long lunch with coffee and brandies. The Italian waiter floated to Mirabelle’s side.

‘Whisky sour, Madam? Your usual table?’

‘Actually, I’m looking for my friend. Eddie Brandon? We had drinks here last night. He’s a regular. Do you have an idea where I can get hold of him?’

The waiter’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘I can leave a note behind the bar.’

‘No. That won’t do. Do you have a number? An address? It’s essential I speak to Mr Brandon before I leave town.’