Authors: Sara Sheridan
‘Yes. That’s how we got up there and that’s how we were going to get back. There wasn’t another car or van or anything. It’s very quiet up there at that time of night. I think he was trying to scare us. He screeched down the street as if he was going to run us over. He might have been drinking, I suppose. Then he ran off the road and got out shouting and waving his gun. He grabbed the typewriter from us. You know, perhaps the van already had a dent in the back …’
‘What was he shouting about?’
‘“Bloody women”, that’s what he kept saying.’ Vesta thought it was going rather well.
‘I see. So he took the typewriter back, Miss Churchill?’
‘Yes. He said it was worth more because it was the new model. Mad as a hatter – he’d already sold it. Anyway, Mirabelle shouted at him, they got into a tussle and he shot her.’
‘Over a typewriter?’ The officer’s voice was laden with sarcasm. ‘In the early hours? Can you recall the make of this foreign typewriter?’
‘It’s an IBM Model A,’ Vesta quoted from memory. ‘Green casing. They’re supposed to be awfully good. I wish we hadn’t gone now.’ Vesta heaved what she hoped was a sigh of remorse and kept her eyes wide. ‘Do you think you’ll catch him?’
The officer didn’t reply. It was patently unlikely. ‘I’ll need your contact details, Miss Churchill.’
Vesta reeled off the office number and address.
The constable narrowed his eyes as he took down the number. ‘Brighton. And you couldn’t get this typewriter anywhere closer to hand?’
‘No,’ said Vesta. ‘They’re in short supply and our old one was dicky.’ That really was true.
The constable closed his notebook and replaced the elastic band. ‘Van was stolen,’ he commented, slipping the pencil into its slot. ‘We’ll come back when Miss Bevan wakes up and see what she remembers. They’ll ring us as soon as she’s compos mentis. In the meantime, we’ll ask around. It’s not much to go on, really.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Vesta said. She sounded as if she really meant it! ‘That guy is dangerous. He must be crazy.’
‘Sounds like it, Miss Churchill.’ She didn’t seem like the wayward type, this girl, albeit she wasn’t very observant. And from what he could make out the other woman was perfectly respectable. What on earth had induced the two of them to head towards Clerkenwell in the middle of the night for a typewriter was a mystery. Occasionally nice normal people did something stupid. He’d check with the Brighton station to see if these women were what they seemed. The unconscious one wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a while.
‘Might I ask if there was drink taken?’ the constable tried.
‘On your part?’
‘Mirabelle and I?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’d had a couple of cocktails with our dinner. Just a normal amount.’
‘In town?’
‘Feldman’s. The jazz club.’
‘And the man with the gun?’
‘Well, of course he may have been sozzled. It was hard to tell, really, what with all the shouting and commotion. It would explain a lot though, wouldn’t it?’
‘And you hadn’t seen him before?’
‘Never.’
‘Right, Miss Churchill.’ There was nothing else to ask.
‘We’ll be in touch. We may have to talk to you again. I’ve never known the like. Over a
typewriter
.’
The girl didn’t flinch. ‘It is a mystery, isn’t it? A bit like a thriller,’ she said.
As the officer walked back up the corridor Vesta watched him carefully, half expecting him to turn around and ask something utterly impossible or to slap on the handcuffs and take her to Scotland Yard. But he ambled through the doors at a steady pace. She waited. She grinned. Mirabelle would have been proud of her, and if he checked them out with Brighton (which no doubt he would) he’d find they were clean – squeaky clean, in fact.
Vesta rested the back of her head on the cold wall and closed her eyes for a few moments. It was difficult to sleep upright, but she wondered if she might manage it today, when no more than a minute later, one of the doors swung open. It was Harry. He was carrying a basket. He looked much younger under the neon lights, about twelve years old, actually. The truth was, Vesta was glad to see him, but she shooed him away as he approached.
‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered. ‘You’ve just missed the police.’
‘I wanted to check how Mirabelle was,’ Harry whispered back. ‘And to give you two this to say thank you.’ He handed over the basket. A puppy’s face peeked over the edge beside a bunch of Sowers wrapped in newspaper. ‘The puppy’s name is Pong. You and Mirabelle were just terrific. I didn’t think we’d get Rose back. But we did, and it’s because of you. Is Mirabelle recovering?’
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Vesta scolded although her heart wasn’t really in it. ‘Mirabelle doesn’t want us all tied together. The police have gone now but you’d better leave. The nurses might mention something if they see you. Mirabelle has figured something out, you see.’
Harry didn’t move. Pong whimpered and settled down in the basket.
Vesta couldn’t help smiling. The puppy was adorable. ‘Is Rose all right?’ she asked.
Harry’s face broke into a grin. ‘She kept asking for gin! Course we couldn’t go out for a gin – she’d have been recognised. We had to make do with some brandy I had in the car. She’ll be fine. We’ve got it all worked out. I dropped her near her place. She’s going to say she was held somewhere near Victoria by a taxi driver. She’s going to be in shock and give a general description. That’s the plan. She won’t be able to identify where she was held. She’ll say she just ran off blindly and didn’t notice anything until she got to the station. She said the main thing was that she had to have a bath. She was in a frightful mess. She thinks you and Mirabelle are the most glamorous people she ever met. When I got home I went to my room but I was too jumpy,’ he admitted. ‘I just couldn’t sleep.’
‘If you’re out you’ll miss the news though.’
‘The news?’
‘That Rose has been found.’
‘Oh, yes. Don’t worry. I can feign surprise. Joy, even.’ Harry gave a convincing grin. ‘I’ll be back before breakfast. Where’s Charlie?’
‘He went to work as usual.’ Harry seemed mildly bemused at the idea of going to work at all. He might be in shock, Vesta realised, as she waved him off.
For what seemed like ages Vesta perched on the uncomfortable chair, her head resting on the wall. The sense of isolation was overwhelming. It was after six when the matron returned. Vesta handed over the Sowers to be arranged in a vase by Mirabelle’s bed. They still wouldn’t let her in.
‘She needs rest now,’ the matron insisted. ‘You can ring, if you like, later on. I’m sure Miss Bevan wouldn’t want you sitting here exhausted for hours. That’s no good to anyone. And you can’t have an animal in the hospital. Where did that come from?’
Vesta said nothing, and the matron did not press the point. The nurses changed shifts and the wards sprang to life. The puppy dozed in the basket. By seven Vesta shrugged. There was nothing for it, she realised, as she got up, tucked the basket under her arm and quietly left the building.
Outside, the sun was rising and a fog-softened light illuminated the busy street. The air was full of early-morning baking aromas, which Vesta, unusually, had no appetite to investigate. A small black nose protruded from the basket as she bobbed down the steps and hailed a taxi.
‘Victoria, please,’ she said to the driver.
‘No dogs,’ he insisted.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! It’s only a five-minute ride and he’s just a puppy.’
The cab driver looked unconvinced.
‘I’ll pay an extra shilling.’
‘All right then but there better be no mess.’
In the cab Vesta felt as if time had telescoped. Had it really only been a weekend? Lindon had died two days ago, on Saturday. She had met Charlie only yesterday. Since Friday she’d passed the longest and the shortest days of her life, and most definitely the strangest. Vesta put a hand on the puppy’s head and stroked him gently as she gazed in the direction of Belgravia and wondered if Rose would be able to keep her side of the bargain.
As she alighted at Brighton station just before nine Vesta felt removed from the world. Monday morning usually entailed tea and toast, a catch-up with Mirabelle and a long day of paperwork. She walked straight to the office. Pong had fallen asleep on the train and now, as she lifted him gently out of the basket, he woke, wriggled out of her hands and scampered around the floor with enthusiasm. Vesta filled a saucer with water and wondered what puppies liked to eat. She had just decided to nip to the butcher’s to investigate when the office door opened and a man’s face, pink from the cold, peered in.
‘Is Miss Bevan around?’
‘I’m afraid not. Can I help you?’
‘Name’s Bill Turpin.’ The man held out his hand. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit – navy with a moss green tie – but Vesta liked him on sight, or rather she would have if she hadn’t been so distracted. ‘I’m to start today,’ Bill announced.
‘I’m the new collector.’
‘Oh yes. Of course. Mirabelle mentioned you. Miss Bevan has had … an accident, I’m afraid,’ Vesta said. ‘I don’t expect to see her this week, Mr Turpin.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘She damaged her collarbone while she was in London.’
‘I did that once. Just a kid. Fell out of a tree. Takes a while to heal. Hey, who’s this little fella?’
The puppy was sniffing Bill’s shoes.
‘Pong.’
‘Spaniel, isn’t he? Gosh, that’s not a kind name. Pong. Where did that come from?’
‘I was given him yesterday. That was his name when he arrived. Perhaps we should call him something else, though.’
‘I’d say so. Lovely animal, he is.’ Bill squatted on the floor and picked up the puppy. ‘Aren’t you, little fella?’
‘Mr Turpin,’ Vesta seized the moment, ‘I wonder if you might like to help with, er, Pong. Do you know what puppies like to eat, perhaps?’
Bill regarded Vesta as if she was an idiot. ‘Eat? Well, you need to get some dog biscuits, something for him to chew, and the odd bit of meat. Nothing fancy. The butcher will do scraps. He only looks about three or four months old. Probably needs a bit of training.’
Vesta reached into the petty-cash box and drew out some coins. It felt good to be in charge again or at least to be efficient. ‘Well, how would you like the job? Why don’t you take him with you? I’m sure he could use a walk. Here’s your call sheet. There are fifteen addresses on there to get you started. The amounts owed are in this column. Take whatever payments you can and arrange to call back if need be. You know to note down everything?’ Vesta handed over a pencil.
Bill looked at the sheet. ‘I’ll bring the money back when I’m done,’ he said.
‘If you want to rename him, please do,’ Vesta said. ‘I think it’s family tradition that it starts with a P. His mother’s called Pooch, you see.’
‘Is he the office dog?’
‘I suppose he is.’
Pong licked Bill’s shoes and chewed on the laces. The man’s eyes shone with delight. ‘Beautiful colour. Silky coat. I reckon you’re a Panther, boy, aren’t you? A black panther. You’re a tough one underneath it all, I’ll bet.’
Pong looked up, his brown eyes wide and his bottom wriggling from side to side.
‘I had thought of getting a proper dog – maybe a Doberman Pinscher,’ Bill said with a twinge of regret as he scooped the puppy into his arms. ‘But we’ll see how you do. Miss Bevan didn’t say nothing about an office dog. You just need to grow a bit, don’t you, fella? Time will see to that. They’re loyal, they are, spaniels, and that’s the main thing. Do you have a lead?’
Vesta shook her head.
‘Leave it with me. I’ll look after it.’
‘Thanks, Mr Turpin.’ She smiled and gave him a key to the office. ‘So you can let yourself in and out.’
‘Oh, of course,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
After Bill departed Vesta slipped off her shoes. I could just lay my head down for a moment, she thought. I should probably try to eat something and then ring the hospital to check on Mirabelle. The desktop felt solid and reassuring against her cheek. The office was quiet. The puppy was gone. The money would come in later. She wondered what the papers would say about Rose. There would be nothing until the afternoon editions and perhaps not even then. Vesta’s eyes slowly closed, her breathing evened and before she knew it she let out an unladylike snore and passed into a very deep, much needed sleep.
We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.
Mirabelle opened her eyes and had no memory of who she was or where she was for what felt like several minutes. The room smelled of bleach and the walls were painted pale blue. The bed sheet was starched and turned down so tightly she could scarcely move. For a second or two she wondered if Jack was here. Had they been in a bombing raid? Had the flat come down? Then she remembered all at once that it was 1952, the war was over, and Jack had been dead for almost three years. Her heart sank and she let out a cry. Then, out of what seemed like blue sky, an older lady in a nurse’s uniform leaned over the bed.