British Bulldog (2 page)

Chapter 2

Life is understood backwards but lived forwards
.

T
he next morning the office of McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery was hardly the shipshape place of business that Mirabelle might have liked to present to Mr Lovatt. A distinct smell of wet dog emanated from Panther, the office spaniel. There had been a squally shower as Bill Turpin walked the little dog to work. Now Bill was towelling Panther dry, those on four legs always being of more concern to the stolid ex-copper than those with two.

‘Sideways rain,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t mind wind and I don’t mind rain. But not together, eh, boy?’

The dog’s glossy black coat steamed in front of the single bar fire. Sideways rain or not, they’d be leaving soon on their rounds. Tuesday morning meant a call or two out at Preston Park, and even on a day like this Bill always took Panther for a run off the lead afterwards. Meanwhile, Mirabelle’s partner, Vesta, sat at her desk surrounded by samples of chiffon in varying shades of purple.

‘I just can’t decide between the mauve and the violet,’ she sighed as she bit into a biscuit.

Bill pretended not to hear. Since Vesta had got engaged to her American boyfriend Charlie, the arrangements for their wedding had been discussed again and again. Everything, that is, except the date.

Vesta held a long strip of fabric against her face. ‘Bill?’

Bill made a noise something akin to a man in pain. ‘Very nice,’ he managed.

Mirabelle smiled as she hung up her coat. McGuigan & McGuigan frequently felt more like home these days than her flat. Bill was squinting and Mirabelle decided to rescue him. Men, after all, could rarely tell the difference between one hue and another. Jack had been colour blind. Once when she had spent hours getting ready to go out she had paraded in front of him. ‘I like you in green,’ he had said. ‘You look like a very beautiful imp.’ She had made the immediate decision not to tell him that her dress was a fetching shade of peach. Jack had been the love of her life. It seemed now, four years after his death, that there had never been bad times, though she knew that wasn’t true. Yet all she could call to mind were moments like the one she could see so clearly now – Jack staring at her in the peach evening gown as she made the decision not to correct him, or even to tease him, but to let him believe whatever he wanted as long as he thought she was beautiful. The memory turned in her stomach as she removed her gloves.

‘The mauve, dear,’ she advised. ‘If you really feel you can’t run to white or cream.’

Vesta crossed her arms. Her mother was distraught that she wasn’t going to wear white, but Vesta was toughing out the family arguments over her wedding, from the colour of her outfit to the fact that she wanted a small party for her big day – a celebration that didn’t revolve around tables piled with food and a hundred of her parents’ friends arriving to help the Churchills eat it, which was the Jamaican way.

‘It’s not as if white suits our circumstances,’ she tutted. ‘And cream is such a cop-out.’

Charlie and Vesta had been sharing accommodation for over a year now. This had been another bugbear for Vesta’s parents, although it had also proved an effective bargaining chip. The fact that their daughter was at least about to legitimise her union meant Mrs Churchill was less likely to criticise her low-key attitude to the ceremony. That did not mean that
she hadn’t argued vigorously if uselessly in favour of a white dress and a traditional Caribbean party after a service in a church – preferably the one the family attended only a street or two away from their south London home.

Vesta twisted a chiffon scrap around one of her fingers. ‘White,’ she continued. ‘If there’s one shade a woman of colour can’t wear it’s got to be the one everyone expects, hasn’t it? I don’t want to look ridiculous, and white will only make my skin look even darker. I want to get married our way – Charlie’s and mine. Not like a hick from Hicktown, Jamaica. Just the two of us, that’s all.’

Mirabelle didn’t like to comment, but she couldn’t help thinking that if Vesta was hoping to disguise her skin tone she’d need to wear a veil whatever colour she chose.

‘Now, now,’ she said.

‘I’d best get on.’ Bill rose to his feet. When Vesta got exercised about her wedding it could go on for some time and he was already out of his depth. He picked up the list of calls that had been left on his desk. The post-Christmas rush of holiday debt had been heavy this year but they’d made a good start and now at least it was on its way to being cleared. There were a few stubborn offenders with whom terms had yet to be agreed, but Bill was methodical in tracking them down. Mirabelle felt proud of what the little team had achieved. The business was making an increasing profit every month – it was an easy mark of success by which to judge her efforts. The ledger balanced. The office was well run.

Vesta pulled herself together. ‘Tea?’ she offered, casting the fabric samples aside.

Mirabelle nodded. ‘Thanks.’

She sat down, unconsciously drumming her fingers on the brown leather desktop as Bill left with Panther at his heel. Vesta placed a steaming cup in front of her and eyed Mirabelle’s manicure for chips.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

Mirabelle looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

Vesta rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly! It’s always the same when something special comes up. You become very quiet – more distracted than usual. And you drum. Next you’ll look at the paper, but you won’t really be reading it.’

Mirabelle removed her hand from the desktop and cast a rueful glance at the morning’s newspaper sitting on the edge of her desk where Bill always left it. She couldn’t pick it up now.

‘I received a letter,’ she said.

The envelope was nestled in her bag but she didn’t want Vesta to read it. Her partner always jumped to conclusions and somehow Bulldog Bradley’s missive felt, if not sacred, then certainly personal. ‘I’m sending you this,’ it said, ‘because Jack Duggan once told me you had the conscience of an angel and the sleuthing skills of the devil himself. I hope he was right.’ For Mirabelle, the very mention of Jack’s name made the letter a private matter – a window into a world that she kept not only closed but also shuttered.

Vesta sat with her head to one side, pulling her thick blue cardigan around her frame. ‘Well?’ she said.

‘Something’s come up about a missing person. A man. A soldier.’

Vesta grinned. She longed to take the more interesting cases that were periodically offered to McGuigan & McGuigan but Mirabelle generally vetoed them. She leaned casually over her desk to retrieve her tea and biscuit, and settled down for the story.

‘Like a man who has run off and abandoned his missus?’ she asked.

Mirabelle pursed her lips. This was exactly what she expected from Vesta, and the truth was that sometimes that way of thinking paid off. It was the reason that the girl was so good with paperwork – you could hand her a file of drab, seemingly
dull information and she’d construct a story from it worthy of a novel. Her instinct for making connections had nailed a case or two in the past. Mirabelle’s steely logic and Vesta’s vivid imagination were a winning combination. Still, Mirabelle didn’t relish the idea of Vesta’s mind getting to work on anything that mentioned Jack Duggan.

‘Not at all like a man leaving his wife,’ she said. ‘More like a soldier missing in action.’

‘Was he married, this guy?’ Vesta said knowingly.

Mirabelle shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. But one thing’s certain, a chap wouldn’t hole up in occupied France just to get away from his wife, Vesta.’

‘Occupied France? How long has he been gone?’

Mirabelle told herself that at least this was a sensible enquiry. She paused. Vesta realised she was counting.

‘Gosh. It must be almost twelve years,’ she said. ‘Of course, the most likely thing is that he’s dead.’

‘A case like that is going to take a while. We’d better put ourselves on an hourly rate.’

Before Mirabelle had a chance to elucidate there was a sharp rap on the office door and Mr Lovatt entered.

‘Good morning, Miss Bevan.’ He tipped his hat cheerily.

Mirabelle stood up, catching the merest whiff of aftershave. Truefitt & Hill if she wasn’t mistaken. There was a familiarity about Mr Lovatt that was comforting.

‘Come in,’ she said, ushering the solicitor towards a chair. ‘Mr Lovatt, this is my business partner, Vesta Churchill. She’s our office clerk.’

Lovatt cast a thin smile in Vesta’s direction but did not offer his hand. ‘How do you do,’ he muttered.

Vesta beamed: her standard response to embarrassed Englishmen who were not sure how to behave towards her because of her colour. Her dark eyes flashed.

‘Might I make you a cup of tea, Mr Lovatt?’ she offered, an
unaccustomed twang of Jamaica in her south London accent, inserted simply to underline the point.

Mr Lovatt declined. ‘I had an excellent breakfast at the lodging house. Thank you. I came to see you, Miss Bevan, to ascertain …’ He seemed not to know how to put it.

‘Vesta knows about Mr Bradley’s bequest,’ Mirabelle cut in, mentally ticking herself off for enjoying the solicitor’s discomfort. ‘She knows about the letter, anyway. You can speak freely.’

‘I see.’ Mr Lovatt cleared his throat. ‘Well, the bequest is contingent on your accepting Mr Bradley’s terms, as you know. I wondered if you had had time to consider the contents of his letter?’

‘There’s a bequest?’ Vesta cut in. ‘How much is it worth?’

A smile played across Mr Lovatt’s lips, as if he had suddenly been dealt the cards he needed to play a royal flush.

‘The estate remains in a condition of probate,’ he replied. ‘Mr Bradley stipulated that you should receive the remainder, Miss Bevan, after his wife’s portion, a donation to one or two charitable concerns and of course any outstanding debts that need to be covered, including death duties. At my estimate the sum coming to you will approach ten thousand guineas.’

‘Sweet Lord Almighty,’ breathed Vesta. It was a fortune.

‘Major Bradley was married?’ Mirabelle latched onto the information. ‘I had no idea. Surely it isn’t right that I should be left this money. I mean, Mrs Bradley must be provided for properly.’

Mr Lovatt was not sufficiently indiscreet to admit this had also been Mrs Bradley’s position when she heard the terms of her husband’s will. She had immediately assumed that Miss Mirabelle Bevan had been Mr Bradley’s mistress, if not recently, then at some time in the past. While her husband left her entirely financially secure, Mrs Bradley had enjoined Mr Lovatt to allow her to read her husband’s letter to the woman she had immediately termed ‘this hussy of Matthew’s’. Mr Lovatt had resisted, though the truth was he had wondered whether it
would be a woman of considerably more easy virtue than Miss Bevan that he would meet upon his arrival in Brighton.

‘Mrs Bradley is most comfortably off, I assure you.’

‘But what must she think?’ The words escaped Mirabelle’s lips almost involuntarily.

Neither Mr Lovatt nor Mirabelle or indeed Vesta gave voice to the obvious answer. Mirabelle ran back over the evening before – Mr Lovatt pursuing her in the street, eyeing her over the dinner table, and lingering ever so slightly too long as he bade her goodnight in the hallway of the Grand.

‘Really, Miss Bevan,’ the solicitor insisted. ‘I assure you, financially there is plenty to go round. Mrs Bradley and her daughter are well provided for.’

‘There is a child as well? My goodness! I shall have to write the poor woman a letter. This must have been dreadfully difficult for her.’

‘Quite.’ Mr Lovatt restrained himself from saying anything more. Mrs Bradley’s feelings, after all, were not his business. Miss Bevan’s reaction to the letter she had received was. ‘And as to the condition Mr Bradley imposed upon your inheritance – the letter, I mean? I feel bound to enquire …’

‘It’s quite some mystery,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I can’t imagine why he has come to me, or indeed why he waited so long.’

Mr Lovatt reached for his cigarette case. Both women declined as he waved it in front of them before slowly lighting up.

‘Might you be prepared to share some of the details?’ he asked.

‘I was just telling Vesta,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Major Bradley would like me to track down an associate from his wartime days. He supplies little more than a name and a broad outline of the last time he saw the fellow, which is now of course several years ago. They escaped together from a German prisoner of war camp and appear to have become separated in France on their way back to Blighty. What I don’t understand
is why the major didn’t try to find his friend after the war. I mean, there were agencies for that sort of thing.’ She paused as she recalled the confusion that pervaded Europe long after the guns had stopped. ‘The major was perfectly well connected and besides that, it’s now clear he was a man of some means. If he lost touch with this person why didn’t he find him again himself – in his lifetime? The man was a British officer. If he came back to England, it wouldn’t have been too difficult. And if the poor chap didn’t make it, one way or another it would have been easier to find out at the time than it is now. I don’t understand why Bradley didn’t just get on with it.’

Mr Lovatt took a deep draw and blew a robust jet of smoke across the desk. ‘I might be able to illuminate matters,’ he admitted. ‘The letter you received and the accompanying bequest were only inserted into the terms of Mr Bradley’s will when he knew he was dying.’

‘Major Bradley’s death was expected? I don’t understand. He was still a young man. Why, he can scarcely have been forty years of age.’

‘Forty-two.’ Mr Lovatt inhaled. ‘Cancer of the lungs. Tragic, really. Bradley had always been such a fit fellow. He was a stalwart of the local hunt. He quite threw himself into that kind of thing. In such cases the news of one’s own mortality is deeply affecting and it strikes me this bequest might be a matter of conscience. Knowing he had hardly any time left the poor fellow suddenly felt the matter was pressing but realised he wouldn’t be able to deal with it himself. That sort of thing takes on a whole new meaning when one is about to face one’s maker.’