Authors: Sara Sheridan
Vesta wanted to slap Charlie but instead she finished her tea and put the cup and saucer on the table. ‘You’re pretty sure of yourself.’
Charlie laughed. ‘I’m American,’ he said. ‘That’s all. And what we do is help you Brits out, ain’t that the truth?’
‘Well, help me out, Charlie.’
He looked delighted. ‘Really? You’ll go for dinner with me?’
‘Perhaps,’ Vesta conceded. ‘Put me in touch with those fellas and I’ll think about it. I want to find out what happened. So, was Lindon drinking?’
‘Yeah. Everyone drinks in those places. That’s what you go there to do – play music, smoke a little reefer and get boozed up. It’s pretty wild! I could take you to see it if you like? You name the club and I’ll get us in – best seats in the house.’
A smile played around Vesta’s lips. He was irresistible! ‘So everyone was drunk?’
‘Pretty much. Of course, Lindon would have stopped before everyone else. He usually did.’
‘Why?’
‘Lindon didn’t drink beer. You didn’t know that? I thought you two were big childhood friends and all. No, the man only took spirits and ten times out of ten they run out first. Round about midnight, usually. After that the boys drink beer just to stop them sobering up too quickly. Beer takes off the edge so you can keep going. Not Lindon – he drank whisky, brandy, rum, and that was it. Didn’t like gin. Didn’t like cocktails. He was strictly straight up, strictly shorts. And that night there was only rum. Anyway, the hard booze ran out early and Lindon would have stopped drinking as soon as it did … What time will I pick you up, Vesta? We’re now up to dinner and a club, you know. You’re gonna have to dance with me if I keep on being so helpful.’
Vesta couldn’t suppress her smile any longer. ‘First, you’ve got to point out Tombo,’ she insisted.
‘Tombo?’
‘You said he was here.’
Charlie stood up, straining to find his friend across the sea of Sunday hats. ‘You stay right here. I’ll fetch him.’
Vesta regarded the two teacups perched on the small table. She wondered if Charlie had been a GI. She wondered if he was set to stay in England. She wondered where they might go for dinner. The idea of dancing with him was almost overwhelming. It had been a long time since Vesta felt shy, but now the sensation crept over her as she sat with her legs crossed, swinging an ankle as she waited.
She felt a wave of guilt that she was having such a nice time. Lindon’s mother was crying, people around her at the front of the hall. After this gathering everyone was going to the Claremonts’ house. She’d do her duty there, she promised herself – the loyal friend and neighbour pitching in for Lindon’s memory. Her mother had made a tray of ‘fried chicken thighs’ with Mrs Claremont the night before. The thighs, she’d confessed earlier, were actually rabbit. The local butcher, Mr Stott, had a cousin in Kent who supplemented official supplies. Mrs Churchill disapproved of black-market goods but wild rabbit was unrationed. Perhaps, Vesta mused, she might ask Charlie to come to the wake.
The crowd began to thin. Vesta’s mother joined her, sitting in Charlie’s chair.
‘These are great people we got around us, Vesta,’ she declared. ‘Have you spoken to the Claremonts yet? You should, before we head over there.’
‘Can I bring someone, Mama? A friend of Lindon’s who came to the service?’
‘Sure you can. We’re all friends of Lindon today. Who you thinking of ?’
Vesta peered through the crowd. She got up on the chair so she could get a better view. Then she went to check inside the church. When she returned she realised she was clenching her fists.
Charlie had vanished. No, not vanished, he had sneaked off. The snake.
All you need is a tiny foothold and the rest will take care of itself.
Mirabelle hadn’t loitered in the White Hart. She’d paid for the food, headed back out into the cold and with a renewed sense of purpose set off towards Aldwych. She was too impatient to wait for the bus and the walk would give her time to consider what Charlotte had told her.
A guardsman wearing a bearskin, hands in his pockets, loomed out of the smog and paused to light a cigarette. Mirabelle wondered where he was going and if he should be smoking while he was in uniform.
Jack always said that surveillance required very open-minded concentration. ‘It takes a certain kind of person to gather intelligence – the kind of person who is never bored. It’s a different skill from taking action.’ Mirabelle felt as if action was now required but she was unsure what she ought to do. When it came down to it, she had formed no alternative theory to the official line that assumed Lindon Claremont’s guilt. But too many doubts and questions continued to niggle her – like an itch she couldn’t scratch.
As she turned into Pall Mall she sneezed. The winter weather in London was notorious, with half the city suffering from respiratory complaints from October to March. She scrambled in her handbag for a hankie just as she reached the grand entrance of the Oxford and Cambridge Club.
‘I was here yesterday,’ she identified herself to the steward inside, blowing her nose discreetly. ‘Miss Bevan, if you remember? I was hoping to see Deirdre Blyth today.’
‘I’m afraid Miss Blyth departed early this morning, Madam.’
‘Harry Bellamy Gore?’
‘He’s gone out, Madam.’
‘In that case, is Miles around?’
‘Certainly. I’ll find him for you, Madam.’
‘I’ll be in the Ladies’ Sitting Room.’
The room was empty but the clink of cutlery from a few solitary Sunday diners emanated from the Coffee Room as she slipped by the half-open door. Mirabelle warmed herself at the fire before taking a seat by the window where she could stare at the foggy street. It helped her to think and she needed to think quickly. Even though Miles was on his way, she wasn’t yet sure how best to tackle him. She reasoned that in all probability Harry’s man was accustomed to ushering females of several persuasions, jazz singers included, in and out of the club on his master’s behalf. Still, she’d need to think of something plausible to explain why she wanted to see the boy. She put a hand to her hair and checked her appearance in her compact. The tweed suit was holding up fine, though she looked a little tired. Perhaps she could get away with being an aunt again. She looked like one, she realised – a spinster aunt. Mirabelle straightened her jacket. Harry seemed rather removed from the events of Thursday night and she wondered if the police had questioned him sufficiently. She was still lost in thought when a sharp knock cut into her concentration and a bulky man dressed in overalls entered the room. Mirabelle sized him up. He was definitely ex-military, his bearing alone told her that. Part of what appeared to be a regimental tattoo showed at his wrist and there were smears of engine oil on his trousers.
His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back with Brylcreem. Despite his grubby overalls the man looked smart and capable.
‘Ma’am, you asked to see me?’
‘Are you Miles?’
‘Yes, Madam.’
Mirabelle decided to try authority. It usually worked with military men. ‘I’m looking for Harry Bellamy Gore.’
‘Mr Bellamy Gore isn’t in the club at the moment.’
‘Yes. Quite. But I understand you might be able to help me find him.’
Miles’s eyes darted around the room as if he was looking for clues. ‘Have you tried him at home?’ he said.
The man was nervous, a good thing. Gradually he controlled his gaze and focused steadily on the lapel of Mirabelle’s jacket, avoiding her eyes. It was time, she judged, to apply some pressure.
‘Please,’ she held up her hand, ‘your loyalty is very touching, Miles, but I know you’ve been helping my nephew with some of his,’ here she inhaled deeply, ‘
activities
.’
The man’s shoulders tightened.
‘You’ll only make things worse if you prevaricate. Let’s just say Harry comes from a long line of gentlemen with nefarious interests. He’s an active, interesting chap, isn’t he? Certainly likes the girls. A certain sort of girl especially.’
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘But that doesn’t concern me. I want to find him. And I am less interested in who has been aiding and abetting young Harry in his
activities
than in managing to have a word with him. Rose, as you are probably aware, is missing.’
Miles opened his mouth and paused, assessing his options.
‘I’m sorry, Madam,’ he said, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
‘I don’t know the whereabouts of Mr Bellamy Gore. I can certainly give him a message if I see him.’
‘I understand you look after Harry’s interests here at the club. I understand that should a young lady be looking for my nephew you are the fellow to contact.’
‘I don’t know where he is today, Madam. I’m sorry.’ Miles was sticking to his guns.
‘Is his vehicle here?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’ve been working in the garage, I see. Is Harry’s vehicle parked here?’
Miles looked down at his overalls. He ran a palm over his thigh as he realised he couldn’t lie outright. ‘Yes. The Aston is round at the mews.’
‘He’ll come in for that, then.’
‘I expect so, Madam. He often parks it here when he stays.’ Mirabelle wondered if it was worth pushing any further but she quickly dismissed the thought. Clearly, Miles was loyal to Harry, and when it came down to it, she wasn’t really the boy’s aunt.
‘Where is the mews from here?’ She craned to look out of the window.
‘They got the whole of Russell Court, Madam. Behind Spencer House. Across the road.’
‘Thank you, Miles,’ she said and waved him away.
Once the man had disappeared down the backstairs, Mirabelle strode into the hallway. She rapped on the glass of the secretary’s office. From inside, a man she hadn’t met before emerged.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I wondered if you might know when Harry Bellamy Gore would be around?’
The fellow thought for a second before he answered. ‘I couldn’t say, Madam. He doesn’t keep regular hours.’
‘But he was staying last night?’
‘Mr Bellamy Gore stays quite often, Madam. I’m almost certain he was at the club last evening. He went out a couple of hours ago – for luncheon, I imagine. If anyone knows where he might be, it would be Miles. I can send for him if you like.’
‘No, no, it’s fine. I had a super chat with Deirdre Blyth yesterday. Gosh, it’s such a home from home for young people,’ she gushed. ‘I expect they even stay in the same rooms again and again.’
‘Usually,’ the secretary smiled. ‘People get quite attached to their favourite views and so forth. I can check you in if you like. We’re quiet on Sundays. I could book you into a suite and only charge you for a single. Bit of a treat, Madam.’
‘It’s very kind of you, but I can’t stay tonight.’
The telephone rang, and the secretary apologised before heading back into the office. Mirabelle checked the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. Behind a desk at the foot of the stairs to the upper floor there was a board of numbered key hooks mounted on the wall – forty in all. The club had several bedrooms for the use of members. She wondered how long she would have to put the upper storeys of the Oxford and Cambridge Club under surveillance in order to establish who was staying where. Though it was probably what Jack would have advocated, Mirabelle dismissed the notion immediately. Instead she carefully counted how many keys were missing. Eleven. These were people who were presumably upstairs or still in the club. She memorised the room numbers using an encryption code. Twenty-nine rooms unaccounted for. She delved behind the desk for a registration ledger but it must have been kept elsewhere. As she stood staring at the door to the administration office and wondering if the information was there, an elderly man came out of the Coffee Room and strode across the hall.
‘Number twenty-five,’ he barked, without even looking at her.
Mirabelle didn’t quibble. She reached out and handed over the key with a polite smile. People see what they expect to see, she remembered Jack saying. People assume. She waited until the man had mounted the stairs. Twenty-eight to go. With a barely perceptible shrug she followed the gentleman upstairs. She’d work it out without a register. Stealing the keys from the board was not an option – even if she sneaked them off one by one she’d be bound to get caught. The downstairs hallway was far too public. As she reached the landing Mirabelle put up her hand and removed a hairpin. She’d start on the top floor. It was only a process of elimination. If the locks were the usual tumbler-and-bolt fittings, it really oughtn’t to take that long.
No party is any fun unless it is seasoned with folly.
As she left the church Vesta calculated there must be over thirty people walking over to the Claremonts’ house.
Most of the women were carrying huge casserole dishes with rattling lids that occasionally slid aside and released wonderful aromas. Last night had been the first of Lindon’s nine nights and this afternoon would be the start of his second. It was an old tradition – a Jamaican way to say goodbye.