Authors: Sara Sheridan
Charlie explained: ‘When I’m not drumming I work a kitchen across town.’
Max wasn’t going to let Charlie get away with the understatement. ‘Charlie works in the Dorchester Hotel. He didn’t tell you? Charlie, you mustn’t hide your light like that!’
Charlie looked at his shoes. ‘I hope it’s all right, Vesta. I mean, I know working in a kitchen isn’t cool. I play the drums on my nights off. Making a living out of the music though, man, that’s hard.’
‘Just make me pudding,’ Vesta mouthed and followed him into the kitchen.
Charlie put on a grubby apron and started to whisk eggs, Sour and milk. Max brought a flask of orange liqueur. Somewhere he found a lemon.
‘Crêpes Suzette,’ Charlie announced.
Watching him cook, Vesta felt herself relax. How could she possibly have wanted to go to a snobbish French bistro or a pub dining room when she could be here, in a cramped kitchen on the edge of Chinatown watching Charlie make pancakes? It fascinated her. His movements were so precise and quick. He knew
exactly
what he was doing. As the pan heated, Vesta smelled the sweet scent of pancakes wafting around them.
‘It’s a shame we can’t do coffee,’ Max remarked. ‘Not proper coffee. We got chicory, of course, but it just ain’t the same. Weekdays I can send out to the Italian round the corner on Leicester Square but Sunday night they’re closed.’ Charlie set the pancakes alight and then doused the Same.
He positioned the crêpes on a serving plate and bowed, offering Vesta a fork and setting the plate on the low sideboard. Max brought her a chair. The men hovered. Vesta took a bite. The crêpes tasted like sweet clouds with a tang of orange that lingered in her mouth. It was without question the most delicious thing she’d ever eaten. She helped herself to another spoonful.
‘
Amazing
,’ she declared. ‘Charlie, can you make pies?’
‘Anything with Sour, baby. Bread, cakes, pies, you name it. I spent most of my service days cooking. Officers’ Mess. If you can get me the chocolate I can make you a mousse that’ll have you singing, I swear.’
‘I thought you were in the medical corps.’
‘Everyone gets training with the bandages, sugar. This is what I really do. You okay with this? I mean, you thought I was a mean jazz dude and now …’
Vesta giggled. ‘Are you kidding? Charlie, I think I’m in love!’
The cold air was refreshing as they walked to Feldman’s. Inside, they found a table and Charlie ordered house cocktails. It was busy but not overcrowded and the band was playing old-style classics and blues. Everyone seemed very relaxed.
‘I don’t know if Mac’s will open tonight, after everything,’ Charlie said as they danced, ‘but we could go round later if you want to see it in action.’
Vesta swayed to the rhythm. The band sounded good, she was full of delicious food, and, best of all, she was with this gorgeous man. She’d almost forgotten about Mac’s and what had happened. A needle of guilt twisted in her gut as she became aware of the space left by Lindon. Suddenly it seemed as if she was having too good a time. She needed to sit down.
She was checking her lipstick and resolving to have a look for that Barney character when she saw Mirabelle enter the club. It was an unexpected surprise. Perhaps she’d found something! Vesta stood up and waved, trying to attract her attention, and then she saw Mirabelle wasn’t alone. A smartly dressed youngster was bobbing in her wake.
‘Is that kid with Mirabelle?’ she asked Charlie. ‘Do you think it’s Harry? The one who was at Mac’s on Thursday?’
‘Yeah. That’s the same boy all right, honey.’
Before Vesta had time to pass comment Mirabelle and Harry had moved through the crowd and were at the table. Mirabelle introduced everyone. Harry lit a cigarette and offered the pack around. Both Vesta and Charlie refused.
‘Have we time for a drink?’ Harry asked. ‘I could go to the bar.’
‘Fetch me a whisky, please,’ Mirabelle directed.
Vesta waited until Harry was on his way. ‘What the hell are you doing with him?’ she hissed. ‘You thought he might be the kidnapper!’
Mirabelle sat down. ‘It’s a long story, and it’s all my fault. I got it wrong. Harry is the one being blackmailed. He’s high-spirited, but there’s nothing wrong with that when you’re eighteen. He’s not a kidnapper and, to be honest, he’s not so bright, all in all. But he’s willing, if slightly arrogant, and it seems we’ll have to work with that. It’s Lavinia Blyth’s father who has Rose. It’s a long story. Charlie, do you know where Lindon lived? He said he had a place north of the city somewhere near London Spa. Have you been there? Do you know where it is?’
Charlie sipped his cocktail. ‘Yeah. More Finsbury, really. Or Clerkenwell. Chadwell Street.’
‘Do you know the number?’
‘No, but I know which it is. It’s a brick building – an old house. He had a bedsit on the top floor.’
‘The girl won’t be there,’ said Vesta. ‘If the police think Lindon took her then they’ll have checked his place. They’d be crazy not to. First place they’d go.’
‘Yes.’ Mirabelle was thinking things through.
Harry returned with the drinks. Mirabelle savoured her whisky and ate a solitary potato crisp from a small plate on the table. The band changed key and played a mournful blues number.
‘The thing is, Paul Blyth wants to fix Lindon in the police’s minds. If he’s holding her it’ll be somewhere associated with Lindon. He’s going to set her free tomorrow. Blyth will want to lay the blame on Lindon if he can. So, if I were him I’d want to make it look as if Lindon tied her up, panicked and then ran away. Tomorrow the story will be that it’s just taken her this time to escape. He can’t leave her in Lindon’s flat – I mean, you’re right – they’ll have checked there. But he can leave her somewhere that will be associated with Lindon – somewhere nearby. Somewhere it can be assumed Lindon had access.’
‘But Rose wouldn’t go along with that, would she? I mean, if he frees her she’ll be able to clear Lindon. If this Blyth fellow kidnapped her then she’ll say it was him, won’t she?’
‘She may not. Harry thinks she’ll go along with whatever Blyth says. Actually it suits Harry if she goes along with it some of the way – at least not dragging Paul Blyth into her story. She’s going to say she can’t remember anything. Though if we get to her first we can alter the script. The story can be that she got into the taxi with Lindon and dropped him off. That’ll clear his name. She can say the taxi driver kidnapped her. Of course, there wasn’t a taxi driver but they’ll never find out.’
‘Why would she do that? Shouldn’t she tell the police the truth?’ Vesta insisted. ‘Shouldn’t she tell them about this Paul Blyth character? He ought to be arrested, surely?’
‘No. That implicates Harry for a start. And Blyth’s dangerous. And there are a couple of other things I haven’t quite worked out yet … Anyway, the important thing is to get to Rose. Once we’ve found her she can clear Lindon’s name, even if she doesn’t name Blyth. She’d do that, wouldn’t she, Harry?’
Harry nodded. ‘Definitely. But you think he’s holding Rose near Lindon’s rooms? Not at the Blyth place down in Sussex? It’s a big property. There are outhouses and stables.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! With his own girls there? Lavinia’s already as good as apologised to you, for heaven’s sake. He’d never be able to trust them, and if it came out there’d be no denying his involvement. No. From his perspective things have got out of hand. He needs to be able to tie things up easily. It’s safer in London. If things go wrong he’s not so connected to it, and he has more control. Besides, the minute Rose is set free she’ll be conspicuous wherever she is. The police will make assumptions based on that. If it’s near Lindon’s Sat, then it’s just further proof. That’s the only address – he couldn’t arrange something near Lindon’s parents or anything like that. It would only complicate matters. No, near the boy’s flat is the best idea and he’ll want to tie her to Lindon, I’m sure of it.’
‘Is that why he left a piece of her dress at Coram’s Fields?’
‘We used to do it all the time,’ Mirabelle said distractedly.
‘What
did
you do?’ Harry leaned in.
Mirabelle pulled back. ‘If you want someone to swallow a story you have to know how to make it look. Nothing heavy-handed. You never plant one big clue where you can use a series of small ones. You build up a picture. That’s how people process information – it’s a balance. If most things point to one conclusion then that’s the conclusion they’ll draw. They’ll fill in the gaps. Paul Blyth knows that.’
Charlie caught Vesta’s eye.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘So Rose is north?’ Harry checked.
‘Somewhere near Chadwell Street. We’ll start there,’ Mirabelle confirmed, drawing the street guide from her pocket. ‘We’ve got all night,’ she said as she Sipped the book open at the right page and finished her drink. ‘We can look within half a mile or so of Lindon’s flat in all directions. That’s our best chance.’
‘I was going to speak to Barney,’ Vesta said.
‘Oh, no need for that,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘I think I know what happened there. They simply paid him off. He might not even know everything that was going on. He just got Lindon out of the way and made sure no one in the club could give him an alibi after Rose had left. They probably had a drink together – that would keep Lindon busy long enough to allow Barney to nip up and get the sax. Then Barney told Lindon the rumour about the police looking for him. Lindon leaves and Barney goes back to the club before the police arrive. Barney doesn’t matter. Not really.’
Vesta’s eyes lit up. ‘In the basement at Mac’s there are jam jars used as glasses. They had brandy in them. But, Mirabelle, that’s still illegal. I mean, he framed Lindon.’
‘The main thing now is to find Rose, Vesta. Then we can clear Lindon. That’s what we need to focus on. Barney’s just a sideshow. We’re on the hunt now.’
‘Tally ho!’ said Harry, attempting to lighten the mood.
‘Horse to hounds and all that!’
‘What did you say?’ Mirabelle said sharply.
‘I didn’t mean …’
‘No. What did you say?’
‘You know, when you’re hunting. It might not be my greatest analogy. I was only trying to keep spirits up, you know.’
‘Your mother keeps spaniels, doesn’t she? Black ones?’
‘How on earth did you know … Eh, yes.’
‘Does Rose have a dog?’
Harry grinned broadly. ‘Rose
loathes
animals. Vinny used to try to argue with her about it because, well, she’s a vegetarian – bloody invert. But Rose always says animals only have two uses: to be eaten and to be worn. So, no, she doesn’t have a dog. Strangely though, dogs love her. Especially Pooch. Follows her around. Makes quite a nuisance of herself. Rose couldn’t care less.’
‘And spaniels are gun dogs, aren’t they?’
‘Well, of a sort. Ours are only pets, really.’
‘We need to fetch the dog who loves Rose, Harry. We’ll take her for a walk around London Spa. Perhaps she can help us to find your cousin. Where’s the dog kept?’
Charlie whispered in Vesta’s ear, ‘Your boss is something else.’
Harry downed his drink. ‘She’s back at Wilton Crescent. Had pups a couple of months ago. My mother is obsessed with them. The day room smells revolting and the staff hate them.’
‘Perfect,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Let’s get going.’
The team with the best players wins.
At midnight on the dot they parked a few blocks away from Chadwell Street as Vesta and Charlie emerged from a taxi.
From the start Pooch seemed set to slow them down. She was on the plump side, but she seemed good-natured and delighted to be out. She wanted to sniff everything.
‘We should start at Lindon’s place,’ Mirabelle said.
Charlie led them to Chadwell Street and pointed out number fifteen.
‘It’s pretty close to Claremont Square. That tickled Lindon,’ Charlie said as he stopped at a front door with a dull brass knob and a hand-painted numeral on it. ‘Claremont is probably the name of the family who owned Lindon’s people. It was just strange it was nearby. He thought it might be lucky. Coincidences always seem lucky, don’t they?’
Like the rest of the buildings on Chadwell Street, number fifteen was a dirty three-storey Georgian house that had been divided into bedsits. The fanlight was smashed and the window frames had seen better days. The panes were so filthy there was little need for curtains, but a few ragged ill-fitting nets were visible. Most of the premises nearby were in similar states of disrepair.
‘We’ll have to get his mama to come and clear it out, I guess,’ Vesta said sadly. ‘Or I could do it for her. That might be best.’
It occurred to Mirabelle that the tenants on Chadwell Street, Lindon included, probably had very little of their own behind the shabby walls. The whole area was a slum, despite its faded grandeur. As if she was reading Mirabelle’s mind, Vesta piped up. ‘I’m sure he’s got sheet music and maybe a couple of suits.’
The street was deserted. Harry pushed the door and it opened onto a damp-smelling communal hallway. The lock on the front door might have been broken but every room had its own padlock. The only light came from a cupola in the roof and a long window halfway up the staircase. Bathed in moonlight, the hallway was striped with eerie shadows cast by the banister. It was as if some strange black vine had a stranglehold on the place.