Authors: Sara Sheridan
‘Miss Bevan,’ she said, ‘you’re awake. I’m Sister Dalby.’ Mirabelle tried to speak but her mouth was too dry. The nurse lifted a glass of water to her lips. As Mirabelle moved the pain kicked in. It surged across her upper chest and down one arm. When she looked down she could see she was bandaged to the wrist and there was something binding her chest and holding her head in place. It all ached.
‘Has anyone been to see me?’ she asked.
Sister Dalby shook her head, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Missing your fancy man, are you?’ she said. ‘He’ll be waiting for you, I’m sure. And there’s been the police, of course, and a coloured girl. She phoned last night and again this morning.’
‘Vesta?’
‘Yes. She’s very concerned. You have a good friend there. We need to get some food into you, Miss Bevan. Before anything else. You’ve had a nasty shock.’
‘Could I see the newspaper? I’d like to keep up with what’s going on.’
‘Well, that’s ambitious, I must say. Newspapers, indeed, with a shattered collarbone! I’ll fetch some milk pudding to start with and then we’ll see.’
The pudding tasted good. The sweetness melted in Mirabelle’s mouth, an unaccustomed pleasure as she usually didn’t enjoy sugary food. Sitting upright, the details of everything that had happened came into focus.
‘How’s your memory?’ Sister Dalby asked.
‘Hazy,’ Mirabelle lied. ‘I don’t remember getting here. Or much about being in London. I remember leaving the office on Friday. And seeing Vesta on Saturday.’
‘The police want to ask you about what happened on Sunday night. They’ve checked a few times.’
‘How long have I been here?’ Mirabelle asked.
The nurse took Mirabelle’s pulse and checked the pace against her watch. ‘Well, you seem quite excited to be up,’ she commented. ‘You came in early on Monday morning and now it’s Tuesday.’
‘What time is it?’
‘One. You can have a cup of tea and then nothing until you eat with the rest of the ward at five. I’ve informed the doctor and he’ll examine you on his evening rounds.’
‘Did you get the bullet out?’
‘It went straight through.’
‘Clean?’
‘Very.’
‘And the pain?’
‘I can give you something for that. Medicine round is at two. How bad is it?’
Mirabelle didn’t reply. She didn’t want to take anything that would make her drowsy. She had to keep on her toes. Her eyes wandered to the cupboard beside the bed.
‘We’ve all your things, don’t worry. The jacket and blouse have been laundered. You’ll be able to patch them, I imagine.’
‘Thank you.’
When the sister left the room Mirabelle pulled back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She wobbled slightly as she went to the cupboard. She was already anticipating the pain in putting on her jacket. At least she hadn’t worn a pullover – getting anything over her head would be impossible. She slipped on the tweed skirt and her shoes. Somehow, the heels helped her concentrate. She took off the hospital smock and, deciding to abandon her blouse, slowly got her arms into the jacket and did up the buttons. The bandaging was almost completely hidden. Across the room there was a tiny mirror fixed to the wall. By tortuous degrees she fixed her hair and pinned on her hat. With her handbag over her least painful arm Mirabelle crept to the door. The hospital corridor was populated with nurses and the occasional patient, the latter mostly wheelchair-bound. She drew herself up as tall as she could and stepped out, closing the door behind her as if she had been visiting a patient. The smell of cottage pie and the clink of plates being cleared came from the wards. A burst of laughter sounded as two nurses rounded the corner, gossiping. Mirabelle followed the exit signs. Approaching the front door, she saw a policeman heading towards her. She paused and turned aside, pretending to rummage in her handbag.
Outside, it was sunny and cold. The fog had lifted and it felt like spring, the air as clear as gin. Mirabelle felt like skipping down the steps. She was in the East End. Of course, she would have been sent to St Bartholomew’s.
She quickly realised walking into town was out of the question. The pain was sharp now and she had too far to go. She gingerly raised a hand to hail a cab.
‘Duke’s Hotel, St James’s,’ she instructed the driver.
As Mirabelle alighted at Duke’s she realised how little money she had left. Still, she tipped the driver before making her way gingerly up the steps and through the hallway to the bar. At least she could sort it all out now – she’d find out what had really been going on.
‘Is he in?’ she checked with the barman. He nodded in the direction of the back room.
Mirabelle knocked sharply on the black door. Eddie opened it.
‘I thought you chaps were caught up in Eastern Europe,’ she said smoothly. ‘The Russian Menace and all that. What the hell are you doing with this little domestic drama in Belgravia?’
Eddie ushered her in. ‘Actually, I was stationed in East Berlin for a while but then it turned out we had trouble closer to home. How did you know we were involved, Mirabelle?’
‘The policeman …’ she admitted.
‘The policeman. The one outside Blyth’s house and the one over in Marylebone. Same man, I think. He was on the short side, you see, so I couldn’t help but notice. And, looking back on it, the fact that you came to my room and buttered me up with all those details about Harry. And you apologised to Vesta for being thoughtless about Lindon. There was that, too. You’ve been tied up with this all along, haven’t you? Lindon’s death is the department’s fault.’
‘You noticed the policeman?’
‘I didn’t realise at first, to be honest, but then it dawned on me. You better have a bloody good reason for killing that boy, Eddie.’
‘Lindon?’ Eddie sank into his seat. ‘Yes. Frightful mess.’
‘So we aren’t strangling young men in police custody now? Is that what you’re saying? It wasn’t deliberate?’
‘No. We do. We do strangle people in police custody. You know we do. It’s only that this time we didn’t mean it. It wasn’t properly authorised. A bloody shambles. We weren’t sure how to deal with Blyth, you see. The kidnapping of Rose caught us on the back foot. We were gearing up, batting around some options of what to do with him, and then,
wham
, suddenly Blyth had snatched her and we didn’t know the parameters any more. With Lindon it was only supposed to be a scenario, but the wires got crossed and the agent took it on as a job. A bloody eager beaver and damned bad luck. Of course, then I had that on my plate, as well. As soon as you turned up I realised you’d uncover what was going on more effectively than anyone I could bring in. You were practically on the inside already. I knew you’d track down the girl if it killed you. Then we’d be able to deal with Blyth, which is what we were really after. If it’s any consolation, the man responsible for Lindon Claremont’s death has been punished …’
‘Oh, don’t tell me. Rapped his knuckles, have you? But he won’t face charges, of course. It was murder, Eddie.’
Eddie lifted a glass to his lips. It looked disconcertingly as if he was drinking water. ‘He was a rogue agent, Mirabelle. He exceeded his orders. It happens sometimes. Very regrettable, of course, but do I have to remind you we’re not the bad guys? We’re the British Secret Service and we made a mistake in the course of our operation. It’s regrettable, but there you are. You were a tremendous help. I’m sure that’s what you’d want, of course. We’re very grateful. Forgive me, I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a drink? May I get you something?’
Mirabelle didn’t reply. She wasn’t finished yet. ‘What the hell did Paul Blyth do anyway? From your perspective you should be giving him a medal, surely, not putting him away?’
‘Oh, it was all over the papers this morning. Once we knew Rose was safe we got on with it. He’s a pornographer. He’ll never live it down. His wife has already booked tickets for herself and the girls. New York, I believe. They’re going to have to go further west than that to get away from it though. The trial will be sensational. Some of the books he was selling were national treasures. He nicked them from the library at the British Museum among other places. Absolutely shocking. And national treasures are our department, to some degree.’
Eddie turned over a couple of newspapers. The front pages showed photographs of Paul Blyth being taken into custody.
Mirabelle scarcely looked. ‘Yes, but what was Blyth actually up to? The Secret Service doesn’t put pornographers under surveillance, Eddie. That’s a police investigation in the normal run of things. I’ve never known us mobilise over a book, for Christ’s sake. You just found something to put him out of operation in terms of whatever he was really up to. Like prosecuting Al Capone for tax evasion. Paul Blyth is a pornographer, but that’s the least of it. Is he a spy?’
‘You know I can’t tell you. It’s classified. Let’s just say that there are some forthcoming events that are of national importance and Paul Blyth was endangering those events.’
‘Selling information? That was always his field.’
‘I don’t think he was selling it, actually. He was more of a security leak. He’s not a traitor. Well, not exactly. You have to trust me, Mirabelle, it’s a serious matter and we had to deal with it. I was glad when you walked into Duke’s on Friday. I knew you’d help and you have.’
Mirabelle stared at Eddie coldly. She was thinking hard: what was the best she could get?
‘I think you owe Lindon’s family something,’ she said.
‘His parents have lost their son. Actually, I think you owe me something, too. I got Rose out and I didn’t blow your cover. You’ll be damned lucky if I don’t blow it now. I’ve been shot, you know.’
‘Oh, Mirabelle, you’re a patriot. You wouldn’t blow anything. You and I know that perfectly well.’
‘Or perhaps you’ll strangle me in a police cell somewhere and make it look as if I killed myself ?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I want death by misadventure,’ she snapped.
‘Pardon?’
‘At Lindon’s inquest. It hasn’t happened yet, has it?’
‘It’s tomorrow morning.’
‘I don’t want a verdict of suicide. It’s not fair to his family. I want a verdict of death by misadventure.’
Eddie shook his head. ‘Well, that’s not going to look very good, is it?’
‘It’s the best offer I’m going to give you.’
‘What? From a washed-up secretary turned debt collector? Come on, Mirabelle. The department is grateful, I’m sure, but …’
‘I’m a washed-up secretary turned debt collector who just got you out of a fix.’
‘Is this your idea of revenge?’
‘No. But it’s the closest Lindon’s going to get to justice, isn’t it? My friend lost one of her closest people. We can’t bring him back – that’s what she wants. That’s what the boy’s family will want. Look, I know the truth can’t come out, Eddie, but you have to do something. Something to allay their loss, just a little.’
Eddie thought for a moment. ‘And if I organise the verdict you’ll keep everything quiet?’
Mirabelle nodded. ‘I’ll go back down to Brighton this afternoon.’ She held out her hand and adopted a distressed tone. ‘I’ll give a statement to the police before I go. About the shooting. It’s so difficult to see on a dark night, and the lampposts on the north side of town are in a state of terrible disrepair. I can’t remember much, of course. Because of the shock, you know.’
The police would accept that; Mirabelle could be trusted to be convincing. Eddie held out his hand. ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Death by misadventure it is, if it makes things tidier for you. As a favour, a one-off. I might remind you that you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act and I don’t have to do this. I’ll organise your interview at Scotland Yard. And if it’s any consolation I’ll make sure His Majesty is made aware, Mirabelle.’
Eddie picked up the phone.
Mirabelle studied Brandon carefully as he organised a car and a driver. Generally, as far as she recalled, people said the department would be grateful or perhaps the country would be grateful. As far as she could remember she’d never heard anyone say the King himself would be informed. The person to whom Paul Blyth had been supplying information was clearly someone special. But who was it? Often these things were about asking the right questions. She wondered momentarily why Eddie was stationed within spitting distance of Buckingham Palace. Then she remembered something about Eddie’s expertise – he spoke French like a native. During the war he had run several resistance cells in Normandy. Although these days, of course, France was less important, politically speaking. Her eyes scanned the room. She noticed a Paris street guide and a map of New York on a side table below the obligatory portrait of the King. Paul Blyth hadn’t been selling information, Eddie said. He wasn’t a traitor
exactly
.
At that moment Mirabelle knew why Eddie was stationed here. By the palace. With guidebooks for Paris and maps of New York.
‘Oh my, I don’t envy you dealing with that,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Pardon?’ Eddie hung up.
‘The Duke of Windsor, Eddie. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Our abdicated king. Paul Blyth has been passing information to the Duke of Windsor, hasn’t he? Keeping him in the loop. News of home after his exile. Not just news, but the inner workings. He and the Duchess are living in Paris mostly and visiting New York. But never London, of course. And Blyth has been sending his Grace information. That’s what Blyth’s good at. He probably saw it as his duty, if the Duke enquired. You must have been frantic. Paul Blyth has some of the best inside contacts in the world – he could find out anything. That’s why you’re stationed at Duke’s – it’s palace business. You couldn’t get much closer without being inside Buckingham Palace itself, and that would never do – it’d be as good as an admission. You’re on secondment of a kind and you had to stop him any way you could.’