Authors: Sara Sheridan
So deeply was she pondering this that Mirabelle didn’t notice the man approaching her table.
‘Mirabelle? Mirabelle Bevan! Well, I’ll be blowed!’ Mirabelle started, almost spilling her drink. It took her a moment to realise who the handsome man was, now his hair was greying at the edges and he was out of uniform. Puffing laconically on a cigarette, martini in hand, he wore a lounge suit and an understated silk tie with a discreet regimental insignia woven into the fabric.
‘Eddie.’ She smiled. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Well, I could ask you the same thing. You look radiant, of course. Always do. Can I get you another?’
Mirabelle considered the offer for a moment and then nodded. This place was redolent with Jack’s memory and she had a little time on her hands. Eddie waved at the Italian waiter and motioned for a round. Then he sat on the dark velvet chair opposite her, wafting a tiny wave of spicy aftershave her way.
‘I haven’t seen you in a long time, Mirabelle. Did you hear about Jack Duggan? Dreadful business. He died in Brighton, I heard. After all he’d been through it seems ironic it was Civvy Street did for him. Heart attack, wasn’t it?’
Mirabelle nodded and managed to bite her tongue. Like all her wartime friends and acquaintances, Eddie had no idea about her relationship with Jack.
‘I keep meaning to go down and pay my respects. Gravestone Sowers and a visit to his widow. I expect she’s getting over it now and probably wouldn’t welcome the reminder.’
Mirabelle had last seen Mrs Duggan brazenly inviting Detective Superintendent McGregor for dinner the year before. They had been standing only yards away from Jack’s grave. The woman hadn’t appeared the slightest bit bereaved.
‘I expect so,’ she snapped.
‘So, for whom are you waiting in Duke’s bar? Lucky bugger! Come on – confess! What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you since things wound up at Nuremberg. Pretty grim, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m not waiting for anyone – I just fancied some jazz, Eddie. I’ve heard there are some smashing clubs up here around Soho.’
Eddie took a slug of his martini. ‘Oh God! You’re in absolutely the right place. Actually there’s no need to go as far as Soho. It’s splendid! There are a couple just round the corner. There’s even one on Jermyn Street opposite my old man’s tailor. It’s on the left in a basement and there’s another up on Piccadilly. Have you ever been? It’s marvellous! You sit in the dark, smoking. The drink is variable, of course – some places better than others. Anyway, you sit in the dark, in a very small space in the smoke, and the music is incredible. It’s different every time – that’s what gets me. It’s not like going to a dreary old-fashioned concert. The musicians just take off ! These black guys come over from the States and what they can’t do with a horn or a set of drums!’
‘Is it dangerous, Eddie? I mean, for a woman on her own?’
‘I’ll take you! I insist!’
‘So it is dangerous?’
‘Well, not for you, Mirabelle. I mean, you’re fully trained, aren’t you?’
‘I only worked in the office,’ Mirabelle cut in. ‘I never went on operations.’
‘Yes, but even so. I’m sure you picked up a thing or two. You always knew what was what, and people who know what’s what don’t land themselves in trouble. Or at least they don’t land themselves in trouble they can’t get out of. Mostly the jazz clubs are not half as bad as people say. They only say those things because they don’t know. I’ve seen a couple of fights breaking out but no worse than you’d find in a pub. They say a lot of the musicians use cocaine – you know, the stuff the dentist gives you for toothache. Creative types, of course.’
‘It’s only that I heard about a deb who went missing a couple of days ago. She was in a jazz club somewhere in Soho?’
‘Rose something or other? Yes, I read about that. The
Standard
ran a whole shock-horror about it. Terrible business. Can you imagine young girls out late at night like that? I mean to say, that’s the scandal. I couldn’t make out if the kid had a chaperone or not. I’d hate to think of my little nieces … Well, they’re probably on the young side for that kind of thing, but still. Who lets their daughter out to a jazz club, green as grass? Those places might not be the dens of iniquity everyone says they are but they’re definitely dives. No wonder the girl got into trouble.’
‘Actually, she wasn’t alone. She was with Commander Blyth’s daughter, I think.’
‘Paul Blyth? Oh God, I hadn’t heard that. Poor chap will be frantic.’ Eddie Sipped open his cigarette case and offered Mirabelle a smoke. She leaned towards him as he gave her a light. She scarcely ever smoked these days but Eddie had American cigarettes. The musky taste emboldened her.
‘So what are you really doing here?’ she whispered.
Eddie’s eyes twinkled. He lowered his voice. ‘Thing is, the palace staff come in when they get off duty. Officers, mostly. There’s nothing like a military man, even out of uniform. And apart from anything else, it’s so convenient for the park.’
‘Oh Eddie!’ Mirabelle laughed. ‘You haven’t changed a bit!’ He always sailed close to the wind – and got away with it.
The best thing for a case of nerves is a case of Scotch.
The whisky sours were stronger than expected and as Mirabelle checked her appearance in the mirror of the Ladies she realised that she was rather flushed and swaying slightly. The small crackers had not provided adequate ballast. Despite his promises, Eddie had taken off with a naval lieutenant for a ‘baccarat game’. Mirabelle decided it was time to eat something and then get going. It was well after nine o’clock and surely a respectable enough time to get to a jazz club – dive or not. Carefully checking her hat was in place she exited Duke’s and made her way to Piccadilly Circus to pick up some chips. In the doorway of Fortnum & Mason a young couple were kissing, oblivious to the world. The neon signs mounted on the buildings cast a glossy veneer over the streetscape, glowing through the smog. Around the statue of Eros there were crowds of youngsters. The girls were a mass of bobby pins and ribbons, hardly dressed for the cold weather. The boys wore suits with thin ties. They were bantering on their way from the cinemas and theatres to the bars, dance halls and music clubs further along.
‘I fancy you, Kitty Dawson,’ a lone boy shouted.
This provoked a cascade of giggles from a group of girls who then, as one, turned and walked away smartly along Regent Street. To one side a busker strummed a guitar and sang a Bing Crosby number with clouding icy breath. No wonder he sounded forlorn. Mirabelle followed her nose to a street stall and ordered chips with salt and vinegar. The newspaper poke was satisfyingly warm. She removed one glove and ate the contents with her fingers. It tasted good. Feeling fortified and a good deal less wobbly she went back down to Jermyn Street to take a look at the jazz club Eddie had recommended. She wanted to find out as much as she could about Lindon Claremont and see if anyone knew Rose.
‘Information gathering,’ she murmured.
From the pavement there wasn’t much to see or hear. The lights in most of the windows on Jermyn Street were out for the night and not many of the buildings had basement premises. Only the presence of a bouncer loitering by the railings and a single orange streetlight over the entrance below announced the club to the world. As the door opened a girl burst out pulling a pink mohair wrap around her shoulders. A snatch of music escaped into the night air. It was a saxophone solo.
‘Is that Lindon Claremont playing?’ Mirabelle asked the bouncer.
The man shrugged. His face divulged nothing and if he knew Lindon was in custody he did not show it.
‘Tone deaf, me,’ he admitted. ‘Can’t tell one from the other.’ He stepped back and gestured downstairs. Mirabelle paid at the desk where she was given a grimy ticket and waved into the club. Inside it was warm, dark and the music hit her in a wave. The saxophonist alone was loud, never mind what it might be like when the rest of the band started playing. Near the stage there were a few tables, mostly taken by couples drinking bottles of cheap plonk from shiny bucket stands. The ice had melted and the bottles bobbed in little black pools. By the bar a crowd of men stood with all eyes on the platform, which was lit by a bare lightbulb with such low wattage it looked yellow. Apart from that and a single bulb over the bar there was no light in the room. If anything the club was even darker than the street outside.
Mirabelle waited until her eyes became accustomed to it. The atmosphere felt unexpectedly intense and the music was frantic. The beat made it both difficult to think straight and pleasant to move – like swimming almost. No one was dancing but one or two of the women were swinging in time. Mirabelle felt her fingers twitch as the saxophone player continued his solo. Everyone had such serious expressions. To one side four other musicians were listening, sitting intently by their instruments – a set of drums, a guitar, a bass and a piano. Then the drummer picked up the syncopated rhythm and they joined in one by one. The feeling in the room changed instantly. The audience burst into chattering life, waves of laughter cut through the music and people lit cigarettes in a flurry of tiny flames, briefly illuminating their faces in an orange glow.
Mirabelle moved to the bar. A man with a thin moustache smiled grimly and drained the last of his pint. He straightened his tie before leaning in to shout over the music, asking if he could buy her a drink.
‘I was hoping to hear Lindon Claremont,’ Mirabelle shouted back, cupping her hand against her cheek.
‘Lindon Claremont? Plays saxophone? He’s usually over in Soho. I’ve never heard of him playing in here.’ The man’s face was shiny with sweat and he was trying to speak clearly over the music so that he sounded aggressive, punctuating his words by jabbing his finger towards the stage. ‘These guys are good,’ he shouted drunkenly. ‘The one on guitar is Len Williams. He’s only just back from Australia. He’s why I came tonight. I heard he’d be on. He’s amazing! If anything he’s got better since I last saw him, which must have been during the war. It was the Bouillabaisse in those days. There was just a crazy West Indian, some crates of booze and not much else. The music though! Christ! It feels like a hundred years ago!’
He motioned to see if she’d like a drink, leaning in too close. Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She stepped back.
Mirabelle moved away and shifting out of his line of sight, she motioned to the bartender. Someone here must know something about Lindon. The jazz world, she guessed, was tiny, and one in which Lindon’s arrest would be big news; if only she could find someone to talk about it.
‘Is Lindon Claremont on tonight?’
The man’s fingers clenched uncomfortably. ‘Lindon doesn’t play up this end of town. If he’s on he’ll be over in one of the Soho clubs.’
‘Is he playing over there then, do you think?’ Mirabelle pushed.
The bartender’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly.
‘Lindon’s not regular anywhere, is he?’ he shouted.
‘I hadn’t heard of him on the circuit for a couple of days. I wanted to find him, you see. I was wondering where he’d got to.’
The bartender weighed things up. ‘He got nicked, Miss,’ he admitted and then hurriedly added, ‘but I don’t know nothing about it.’
He turned away as a burly fellow pushed in and ordered two gins and tonics. Mirabelle loitered but the bartender studiously avoided catching her eye. When the gins and tonics were paid for, he deliberately moved to the other end of the servery and started polishing glasses.
‘Excuse me!’ She waved her hand, but he turned away clearly not willing to discuss the matter any further. How frustrating! Mirabelle tapped her foot to the rhythm. The music was infectious. She moved slightly towards the stage and hung around. A man beside her nudged her arm and proffered a cigarette straight from the packet. There weren’t many black men in Jermyn Street. Apart from the saxophonist and the bass player on stage, he was the only black bloke in the whole club. He was smoking Chesterfields. Mirabelle let him light her one.
‘Thanks,’ she mouthed. ‘The barmen aren’t very friendly in here, are they?’
The man nodded. He was dressed in a tight tan-coloured suit. The material had an unusual sheen. His hair was so short it was practically shaved and was slicked over with some kind of hair oil. Mirabelle could smell it – a tannin note on the smoky air.
The man gestured towards the stage and shouted in a deep American drawl. ‘Benny got the beat. He’s one bad brother. You like music, lady?’
‘You’re a musician?’ Mirabelle guessed.
‘Yeah. I came to hear Len, and he’s good but he’s not good, you know? Benny’s the one holding it together up there.’
Mirabelle took a deep draw on her cigarette. ‘I was hoping to hear Lindon Claremont play.’
The man looked at her quizzically. ‘Here? You don’t know one joint from another, lady. Lindon got banged up. Not much loss – he’s more a shape in a drape than a hep cat. He don’t make love to that sax of his, know what I mean? They say he plugged some solid chick. That’s what I heard.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘He plugged a chick. Over in Soho. You want to ask at Mac’s Rehearsal Rooms.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Windmill Street, lady. I wonder sometimes if you English people really speak English at all!’