England Expects (17 page)

‘What’s close by to someone in a vehicle isn’t necessarily close for a pedestrian,’ Mirabelle said ruefully.

‘Do you think Sid will come after us?’ Vesta glanced behind.

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I hope not. It’ll take him a while to get out, don’t you think? There must be a spare set of keys but even so . . .’

By the time they found the cab it was almost two in the
morning. The Austin was parked in front of a two-up two-down a good half-mile from the college. Mirabelle strode to the door. She pulled back the brass knocker and rapped several times. A thin woman in a white nightdress appeared in the upstairs window of the house next door and glared down at them. Mirabelle gave the knocker one more try. At last, from inside, they heard muffled voices and the sound of someone trudging downstairs. The front door opened to reveal the driver who’d picked them up at the station. He was wearing a pair of striped pyjamas. His hair was standing on end.

‘Yes?’ the man said, annoyed and sleepy.

Behind him at the top of the stairs Mirabelle could see a woman pulling a pink dressing gown around her shoulders. ‘Cyril, what the hell is going on? It’s the middle of the night. Oh, sweet Jesus!’ She caught sight of Vesta. ‘What’s a darkie doing here? What’ve you been up to?’

‘I’m so sorry to trouble you,’ Mirabelle interrupted. ‘You picked us up at the station earlier. We need a car to take us out of town. It’s an emergency, I’m afraid, and we don’t know anyone else in Cambridge to drive us.’

‘Out of town? Where?’

‘Brighton.’

‘Cyril?’ shouted the woman.

‘I’m seeing to it,’ the man growled back at her. ‘Brighton? You’ve got to be joking. That’s over two hours away. Maybe three even. It’s the middle of the night. What kind of emergency?’

‘It’s very important. Police business.’

The man looked dubious. ‘Well, get the coppers to take you then.’

‘The policemen we need are in Brighton. We desperately need your help, Sir. Neither of us knows anyone here and we have to leave immediately. I can pay.’ Mirabelle reached into her bag. In the lining she kept a slim wad of emergency
cash. Now she pulled out two five-pound notes and unfolded them.

The man scratched his head and looked longingly at the money. ‘It’s a lot of petrol. Cash or no cash. Who do you think you are? The queen or something? My tank’s half-empty. Why don’t you just hop the train? The first one’s half four. It’ll take you straight to London.’

‘That’s more than two hours away. Every minute counts. It’s important we get back. Please.’

‘The train’s quicker.’

‘Not if we leave now . . .’

‘I can’t magic it up, love. I can’t help you if I ain’t got the juice.’

Mirabelle would not give up. ‘Have you got enough to get us there?’

‘Yeah, but I’ve got to get back, don’t I?’

‘I’ll pay for a full tank to get you home again.’

The driver leaned against the door jamb and rubbed his eyes. ‘Nah,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the banknotes. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Tell you what, though, there’ll be a milk train from Victoria. I could take you to London and you could pick it up good and early. There’s plenty goods trains leave first thing.’

‘How long will it take us to get there?’ Mirabelle checked.

‘A bit more than an hour, I reckon. An hour and a half?’

Mirabelle nodded. It was a good deal quicker than waiting for the train, given they’d have to cross town from King’s Cross to Victoria. ‘All right.’ She held out her hand and the man shook it. She handed over one note. ‘I’ll give you the rest when we get there.’ Then she paused. ‘Oh,’ she added, pulling out a bottle of the 1914 Speyside. ‘I’ll throw in one of these if you get us there inside ninety minutes. Do you like Scotch?’

This was one of Jack’s tricks in the field. Soldiers would give you their loyalty regardless but civilians were trickier. If you were unsure of someone, he said, once you’ve done a deal,
always give them something extra they aren’t expecting if they do what they said they’d do. If you can get people to like you and still not think you’re a pushover, you’ll get more out of them in the long run.

The cabbie grinned. ‘You’re on,’ he said. ‘I’ll just get dressed.’

Chapter 21

A journey is the best medicine
.

T
he sun was rising as they arrived in London. Vesta had as good as passed out on the back seat after they got going. She managed to sleep most of the way to Victoria while Mirabelle watched the flat countryside slip past the car windows in the moonlight. Cyril had driven in silence and Mirabelle had time to consider what she’d heard in Marsden’s rooms. What was it, she wondered, that Daphne had found in the Pavilion that was so important? And if the men she’d overheard hadn’t killed Elsie Chapman, had they murdered Joey Gillingham, or was that someone else? The connection between the murders still wasn’t clear. Mirabelle had imagined the masons worked like a spy network, with fluid communication between their different chapters – a well-oiled machine. But it seemed not. It was obvious from the men’s conversation that one lodge had little idea what the other was up to. For all its reputation, it wasn’t much of a deadly secret club. Not a patch on the Secret Service.

Considering this, she realised it made it more difficult to anticipate what was happening. Inefficiency was erratic. If you knew what somebody wanted, you knew how they were likely to behave. In the old days there had been only two sides: you were either with the Allies or against them. The game was to outwit the other party: everyone’s concerns were clear and their moves relatively easy to anticipate. In this situation, however, everyone was in it for their own interests: Elsie had
tried to get money out of the masons, one of whom was her lover; Daphne was hell bent on revenge on her father. And heaven knew how Joey Gillingham fitted in. It was an untidy jumble that was only loosely interconnected. Everything seemed too personal.

She resisted the urge to drink some whisky and glanced enviously at Vesta, stretched across the leather seat. She used to be the one who fell asleep while Jack stayed up thinking things through. Mirabelle imagined how it would feel if he was here now and she could simply let go and not have to be the one who was holding everything together. Had Fred been right, she wondered. Would Jack be shocked at her inability to get over his death? Would he tell her to move on and find someone else to love? She didn’t want to think about it.

In the lemon-tinted early morning light at Victoria the women waved off the cab driver who was delighted with his bottle of whisky. ‘Just made it,’ he beamed.

The train was almost empty and the women had a compartment to themselves.

‘Well,’ said Vesta as they pulled out of the station, ‘everyone seems to have forgotten about Joey Gillingham. It’s strange – we don’t even know what the poor fella looked like. I can’t see him in my mind’s eye.’

Mirabelle thought back to Bill’s description of Ida. It’s always the women who are left, she thought. Ida and Ellie, clearing up what was left of their loved ones’ lives.

‘He probably looked like his sister. Fair hair and pale skin – that’s what Bill said. What’s on my mind is that Henshaw is in a tricky position. I wonder how much he knows about what else is going on? The first thing we need to do is get him taken into custody and then McGregor can untangle it all. These men all have different priorities, but whatever Daphne has laid
her hand on is very valuable, and that makes it dangerous. McGregor will need to be on top of his game, that’s for sure.’

Vesta’s eyebrow arched. It was the first time she’d ever heard Mirabelle defer to the Superintendent. ‘It didn’t seem like Henshaw murdered Elsie to me.’

‘No. I agree. But he did have a motive,’ Mirabelle reasoned. ‘And the men we saw won’t take long to figure that out. They certainly didn’t kill her. Not by what they said. So, they’re going to take a long hard look and track down whoever might have done it. Henshaw first, and then anyone else they reckon might be a suspect. There’s a lot at stake.’

The early morning air was chilly in Brighton, and the women shuddered as they walked up the platform just before six o’clock. Porters were unloading boxes and trunks from the freight cars. In a solemn procession a coffin was picked up by two men driving a hearse. The porters doffed their caps in respect as it passed. Consequently, the women didn’t notice the uniformed policeman striding in their direction.

‘Miss Bevan?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Mirabelle, who, Vesta noted, managed to sound as if she expected him.

‘I thought it was you, Ma’am. If you don’t mind, you and Miss Churchill are to accompany me to the station.’

‘Did Detective Superintendent McGregor send you, Constable?’

Perhaps the Superintendent was further ahead than she expected. Perhaps he already knew at least some of what had been going on. The constable did not reply. He simply motioned them towards a black police car that was parked under the canopy at the front of the station.

‘This way.’

‘We can walk, thank you,’ said Vesta sweetly. ‘It’s a lovely day and it isn’t far to Bartholomew Square.’

The constable thought for a moment. ‘I think it might be a matter of more urgency,’ he said, opening the car door. The women obediently slipped into the back seat. The car pulled off, heading towards the sea. It sailed past the usual turn-off to the left.

‘Excuse me,’ said Mirabelle. ‘But I think you’ve missed the turning. Bartholomew Square is back up the hill.’

‘It’s not Bartholomew Square today, Ma’am.’

‘But Detective Superintendent McGregor doesn’t work in Wellington Road.’

The man cleared his throat. ‘It’s not McGregor who’s asked for you.’

This prospect was mystifying. ‘Well, who has?’ Mirabelle enquired.

The man said nothing.

‘Ah,’ she said, realising.

‘What is it?’ Vesta asked. ‘Who’s asked to see us?’

‘Belton.’ She tapped the man on the shoulder. ‘He’s had you keeping an eye out for us, hasn’t he? Is that it? You’ve been watching the railway and bus stations.’

The man kept his gaze fixed on the road. Mirabelle momentarily considered bolting. She put a hand to the door handle but realised it was locked. Besides, she couldn’t leave Vesta alone. Not again. This was all wrong.

‘I have to speak to Detective Superintendent McGregor.’ Her voice was officious, schoolmarmish. ‘Please. We have to go to Bartholomew Square straight away. You can take me to Belton afterwards if you like, but I need to speak to McGregor, or at the very least Sergeant Simmons. Mr Belton only wants to tick us off for leaving town, but I have information that is genuinely important. McGregor needs it.’

The man didn’t respond.

Vesta slipped forwards in her seat. ‘Look, it won’t do any harm if you take us to Bartholomew Square first, and it might do a lot of good. What’s your name, anyway?’

The man ignored her. ‘We’re almost there,’ he said, rounding a corner smoothly. ‘You can’t go off like that, ignoring police orders. You can’t just waltz out of town when you’ve been explicitly told not to. It’s a serious matter, Miss.’

‘It’s a free country,’ said Mirabelle.

‘Where did you go?’

‘Cambridge, if you must know. It’s hardly a criminal bolthole.’

The constable parked beside the station and switched off the engine. ‘If you’re on a report you’ve got to stick to it,’ he said. ‘Otherwise it’s just anarchy. This is England, you know.’ He got out and opened the car door, standing as if at attention.

‘We’d better face the music, I suppose,’ said Vesta.

Mirabelle remained frosty. As she slipped out of the car she refused to even look at the fellow. She checked her watch – perhaps if they simply took a dressing down they’d be able to get to McGregor without too much delay.

Inside the police station, Belton was at the front desk. The large clock on the wall behind him clicked towards six.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘There you are, ladies. I was getting worried. We’ve been looking for you for some time.’

‘They came off the London train, Sarge,’ the constable said. ‘Miss Bevan says she’s been in Cambridge.’

‘Cambridge, is it?’

Mirabelle drew herself up to her full five feet five inches.

‘Sergeant Belton, I need to speak urgently with Detective Superintendent McGregor. I have some information relating to a murder case which is of life and death importance.’

‘Which murder case, Miss?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘Where were you yesterday evening between eleven o’clock and approximately one a.m., Miss?’

‘I told you. Cambridge,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘Look, Sergeant . . .’

Belton didn’t let her get further. Instead he loomed over the desk.

‘I saw you in Brighton at not long past four o’clock. I asked you not to leave, Miss Bevan, but it seems not more than an hour later you did just that.’ He checked his watch and totted up the hours she’d been away. ‘Can you prove you went to Cambridge?’

‘Why on earth would I require to prove such a thing? Sergeant, we’re wasting valuable minutes. A man’s life is at risk. Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear.’

‘Which man?’ Belton asked. ‘If there’s someone at risk, you can tell me. I’m a policeman, Miss Bevan.’

Mirabelle paused. ‘Are you also a freemason, Sergeant Belton?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. What has that got to do with it? Ma’am, you are obstructing my inquiries and frankly that question only serves to make me more suspicious of what you’ve been up to. Constable, would you please escort these ladies to the cells? We’ll need to question them more closely in due course.’

Both Mirabelle and Vesta burst into a chorus of objection.

Vesta suddenly felt terrified. It was only the year before that her friend Lindon had died in police custody in London. In adding her voice to Mirabelle’s she injected a tone of panic to the proceedings. It had no effect. Belton overruled them both.

‘The Detective Superintendent is engaged on a murder inquiry, Miss, at Bartholomew Square. As are we at this station. You’re wasting police time with these histrionics. Once you’ve calmed down and answered my questions satisfactorily, I might get in touch with McGregor. But we have a policy of first things first here.’

‘This is unconscionable,’ Mirabelle objected once more but it was hopeless.

The burly constable bundled the women through the door and along the corridor that led to the cells. Wellington Road
did not have separate facilities for female prisoners and she knew the cells downstairs were particularly grim.

‘Will you put us together, please?’ Vesta implored.

The constable did not reply. He just kept pushing them along the stairwell. Vesta gripped Mirabelle’s hand. Her nails cut into the soft flesh of Mirabelle’s palm and tears welled in her eyes.

‘Are you charging us?’ said Mirabelle. ‘You can’t detain us like this if you’re not charging us with anything, surely?’

The constable’s glance betrayed his lack of concern.

Mirabelle made her decision. ‘All right,’ she acquiesced. She’d play his game if she had to. Vesta was clearly terrified. ‘There’s a cab driver who can vouch we were in Cambridge.’

The man stopped. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Cyril Fanshawe. And I have an address,’ said Mirabelle.

‘And the information you have for McGregor?’

Mirabelle shook her head.

The man laid his hand firmly on Vesta’s shoulder and pushed her towards a cell.

‘Mirabelle,’ Vesta squealed.

Mirabelle interposed her body as best she could. She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘All right. All right. I fear a man called Captain Henshaw may be in danger.’

The constable laughed loudly. ‘You can say that again. None of that is going to get you off, you know. You’re going to have to tell us everything.’

‘But it’s true,’ Vesta exclaimed.

‘I take it you haven’t read the paper?’ The constable was genuinely unimpressed. He smiled a broad unpleasant grin and twisted his hands together as if he was wringing out a wet cloth. ‘Henshaw topped himself. He jumped off the roof of his house. Last night. Hear that sound?’ He put a mocking hand to his ear. ‘That’s the sound of his poor wife trying to hush it up, poor soul.’

‘But he can’t be dead,’ said Mirabelle earnestly. She cursed herself silently. She’d been too slow. They’d got to him more quickly than she’d expected.

The constable continued. Now he’d started he was eager to tell the story. ‘The wife was out playing canasta and found him on the lawn when she came home. Poor bloke shattered his gammy leg and all. The coroner’s insisting we pick up every splinter. There’d be nothing worse, would there, if you was his missus and there were bits of your dead husband on the grass. We’ve got a team up there now.’

‘When did Henshaw jump? Do you know the exact time?’ said Mirabelle.

‘While you were in Cambridge, Madam,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Some time in the early hours. Why do you think Belton was trying to ascertain your whereabouts? Let’s put you in this cell together. It’s bigger. The sergeant will get to you in an hour or two. You’re helping the police with their inquiries, that’s all. I ain’t taking your possessions or nothing.’

‘If you’d just let me use the telephone,’ Mirabelle tried to cut in, but the door was already closing and if the constable replied she couldn’t make out what he said, only the sound of his measured footsteps receding down the corridor.

As Mirabelle turned, Vesta sank into the corner of the dingy cell. She covered her face with her hands and started to cry.