The women proceeded down the road. Around the corner, the footballing boys had disappeared and the rubbish bins they had used as goalposts were abandoned, knocked over on the pavement. Vesta bent to pick them up and replace the lids. It was the deciding factor. Mirabelle folded her arms.
‘How long have you known, Vesta?’ she asked, as the girl pushed the bins back into place.
Vesta blushed. ‘What do you mean?’
Mirabelle eyed her and said nothing. Vesta’s forehead creased with both guilt and worry. ‘Does it show?’ she asked. The words came out garbled.
‘You refused pudding at lunchtime. You can’t bear the smell of exhaust fumes. You were transfixed by Mrs Randall. And her knitting. And you’re clearing up after children in the street. Of course it shows.’
‘I meant my stomach.’
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I made an educated guess based on your behaviour. That’s far more reliable. Have you told Charlie?’
Vesta’s fingers twitched. ‘They say you should wait three months. You know, just to be sure. Before you tell anybody.’
‘I don’t expect they mean your husband to be included in that embargo.’ The girl didn’t respond. ‘Congratulations, silly. Aren’t you excited?’
‘Yes.’ Vesta’s reply was knee-jerk, her tone, more tellingly, was uncertain. ‘Of course I am.’
Mirabelle smiled. ‘We have to celebrate.’
‘I could murder a gin and bitter lemon,’ the girl admitted. ‘I don’t know why, but I could really murder one.’
They continued back to the main road in silence. Mirabelle tried to imagine what it must be like, knowing there was a baby growing inside you. Those days were long gone for her. No woman had her first baby at forty-three and, besides, Superintendent McGregor was always careful. Vesta clutched her bag with an unaccustomed tenacity as they headed down the main road. ‘I don’t know,’ she said out of the blue. ‘Maybe everyone can tell.’
‘Let’s chat about it when we sit down,’ Mirabelle said, her tone soothing.
As they passed the turn-off for Hove Cars, she came to a halt outside the off-licence next to the florist’s with the hyacinths outside. ‘Do you mind if we just check in here?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’ Vesta nodded as she pushed open the door.
A bell sounded as the women walked into the gloomy interior. It was so dark inside the shop it felt like being swallowed. Mirabelle shuddered as her eyes adjusted. Vesta rubbed her arm as if she was trying to keep warm. Inside, an elderly man stood in front of the long mahogany counter. He wore a suit made of material so thick that the creases at his elbows looked like folded cardboard.
‘Rabbit again,’ he said mournfully. ‘Why she can’t get duck, I’ll never know. I ask for duck but she doesn’t listen. A nice juicy breast.’
Halfway up a ladder that reached from the floor to the top of the fitted shelves, a far younger man in a brown apron perused the stacked bottles. He was impressively steady on his feet.
‘Well, you’ve had the Pinot Noir, Major. I mean any light red burgundy would work well . . .’
‘I’m longing for a proper, robust Bordeaux. That’s the thing.’
The man dismounted the ladder and pushed it past a pile of beer crates, mounting it again to reach a different set of bottles.
‘There’s this Paulliac,’ he said helpfully, lifting a bottle off the shelf. ‘It’s very good.’
‘With rabbit though,’ the major tutted. ‘I’ve a mind to go to the butcher’s myself. I think it was the war that did it. She’ll never get used to real meat again. It’s all scraps, you see.’
As if he had only just realised the women had come in, the old man turned towards them. His eyebrows seemed oddly bright in the darkness. He tipped his hat solemnly. ‘Good morning, ladies. Goodness, my dear—’ he inspected Vesta as if she was a curiosity ‘—where on earth did you spring from?’
‘Bermondsey,’ Vesta replied.
Mirabelle heard herself sigh. Then she berated herself inwardly. There was no point in meeting rudeness with rudeness, but still. It was turning out to be a trying morning.
‘And you ladies are wine lovers?’ the old fellow continued. ‘Capital. It’s champagne, your tipple, I’d hazard. At your age, I drank champagne most of the time.’ The man on the ladder shifted and this drew the major’s attention back to the business in hand. ‘Give me the Pinot Noir then, Peter,’ he said. ‘I’ll try for the duck again tomorrow. And I need another bottle of that Armagnac. I’m almost out.’
Peter climbed down, carefully placing the bottles on the counter as the old man turned his attention back to Vesta. ‘I was stationed in Southern Rhodesia in the thirties. I lived outside Salisbury. Do you know it?’
‘Shall I put that on your account, Major Farley?’ Peter enquired.
‘Yes, yes.’ The old man hovered. Vesta smiled indulgently.
‘Will you manage all right?’ Peter hurried him towards the door. ‘We must get on, you see.’
The major tipped his hat. ‘Yes indeed. Well then, good day.’
The three of them waited until the bell had chimed and the door closed. A strange kind of calm fell over the shop. Peter looked ruefully at the women. He faced a quandary. The customer had been rude but he was a good customer and besides it was terrible manners to apologise for someone else’s bad manners.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked after he had stopped trying to work out what he ought to say.
‘I hope so.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘I’ve called to enquire about Mr Quinn’s account.’
‘Mr Quinn?’
‘From the garage over the road.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Quinn doesn’t run an account, madam.’
‘Not to worry. It was only a thought.’
The women turned to go but Peter cut in. ‘Mr Quinn pays cash. All the gentlemen from Hove Cars pay cash.’
Mirabelle caught Vesta’s eye. She let a smile spread across her face. ‘Well, in that case, I don’t suppose you recall Mr Quinn buying a bottle of gin recently?’
The man leaned on the counter, conspiratorially. ‘Mr Quinn usually buys gin. That’s his tipple.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Why?’
‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘I’m afraid Mrs Quinn was killed last night. The police suspect she was drugged. There was a bottle of gin, you see...’
The man straightened up. ‘Well, that’s very underhand, I must say. Walking in here asking loaded questions. Casting aspersions on our gin.’
‘I’m sorry. I ought to have explained. The police are testing the gin. They don’t know for sure yet.’
‘Yes. Well.’
‘The thing is, I wondered how often Mr Quinn bought a bottle and if he had a favourite brand.’
‘What gives you the right . . .’
‘We’re friends of Mr Quinn. Or that is to say, friends of friends. I might be the first to ask but I imagine the police will get here eventually. I’m simply trying to understand exactly what might have happened.’
‘We don’t sell poisoned gin, madam. Not a bottle.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d last long in business if you did. Please. It would be very helpful just to know what kind of gin Mr Quinn favoured and how often he bought it.’
The man drew in a long breath, as he considered the matter. These women, after all, had been most understanding of the major. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘I don’t see what difference it makes. Mr Quinn buys London gin. Burleigh usually, though it depends what we have. Supplies are not consistent. I suppose he might pick up a bottle most weeks.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘End of last week. It was raining. Must’ve been Friday.’
‘Did he buy anything else?’
‘Not on Friday.’
‘But generally?’
‘Fancy American beer. He likes that. In bottles, you know.’ Peter tipped his head towards a pile of crates. ‘Quite often, he’d buy a couple of crates and send them home in a car. At Christmas, he picked up brandy and port as well. And whisky – single malt – for presents, he said.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about Mrs Quinn,’ Peter said. ‘She was a nice woman.’
‘You know Mrs Quinn?’
‘Oh yes. She’s a lovely lady. The major would approve of her, all right. She came in regularly for champagne.’
‘Champagne?’
‘She had good taste. She always took Dom Perignon. She said she liked the size of the bubbles.’
‘So the Quinns weren’t celebrating with the gin?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Like I said, they went through gin regular.’
Mirabelle continued. ‘When did you last see Mrs Quinn?’
‘Last month. A birthday, I think.’
‘And her wedding anniversary would have been coming up.’
‘Oh that’s very sad. Well.’ Peter folded his arms and stood up straight to indicate the interview was over. ‘Thanks for telling me about the police. I mean, be prepared, isn’t that right?’
It struck Mirabelle that today the men she was coming across seemed to feel they were in charge.
On the street, Vesta took her arm and they turned towards town. The sun had come out and a refreshing breeze whipped up the hill. Vesta squinted into the bright light.
‘If Phil Quinn was there last week, that means there was plenty of opportunity for someone to tamper with the bottle,’ she observed. ‘A whole week almost. Mrs Quinn sounds stylish, doesn’t she? Nice to everyone and with a taste for champagne. Dom Perignon is good, is it?’
Mirabelle nodded. She couldn’t help thinking about Mill Lane. It was hardly a busy place. A stranger would be noticed. She bet not much got past Mrs Ambrose. Whoever had tampered with the gin was either local or had been lucky not to be seen. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s find you that gin and bitter. I might have one myself, what with your good news.’
* * *
More of the pubs closer to town served women because of the tourists, and Mirabelle guided Vesta through the heavily carved doors of one that looked respectable enough. She nudged the girl towards an empty table by the frosted glass window and ordered two gins with bitter lemon. The barman took a deep draw of his cigarette as if he was considering whether to bother serving them. Then he stubbed out his fag, pushed aside the newspaper he’d been reading and set to mixing the drinks, which arrived in two rather short glasses, a single bottle of bitter lemon shared between them.
As Mirabelle took her seat, Vesta sniffed. ‘It smells good. I can’t tell you. All I want is lemon. Even Vim. At the weekend, I was scrubbing the kitchen floor and I could have practically licked it.’
‘Charlie’s going to notice,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Especially if you start with that kind of thing.’
Vesta looked uncharacteristically shy. ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ she said.
‘Have you been to the doctor?’
Vesta nodded. ‘He says it’ll be a Christmas baby.’ She looked as if she might burst into tears. ‘I suppose it saves me getting Charlie a present,’ she said gamely.
‘If you want to leave, you know, Vesta. Work, I mean . . . Or if you need time off?’
Vesta had always said she would never quit the small office on Brills Lane. Now, she hesitated. ‘I don’t know what it will be like. I mean, it gets a grip of you. It’s got a grip already.’
Mirabelle tried not to show that the idea of Vesta leaving work upset her. The girl was entitled to change her mind about what she wanted. Motherhood was a woman’s greatest privilege. Before the wedding, Mirabelle had worried that marriage might make Vesta rethink what she wanted. Many women would have quit work to keep house, but the girl somehow managed to hold down her job and look after the place she and Charlie had bought. The upshot was that the Lewises subsisted on fish and chips and meals in a variety of pubs that hosted jazz nights, quite apart from whatever Charlie brought home from his job in the kitchens at the Grand. They managed, though Vesta was certainly no match for her mother, whose fried chicken was legendary. On the upside, her lack of interest in domestic duties left her plenty of time for cross-referencing the ledgers that remained the basis of all McGuigan & McGuigan’s invoicing and interest calculations. Still, Mirabelle would have to face that a baby might change things that Vesta’s wedding vows had not. She imagined how the office might feel with Vesta’s desk empty, or, she considered suddenly, even filled by someone else. Someone new.
‘Let’s see how you feel,’ she managed as she sipped her drink. ‘There’s masses of time.’
The barman lit another cigarette. He stood under a large mahogany clock and tried to look as if he wasn’t listening. Slowly, he turned over the page of his paper.
‘The thing is,’ Vesta admitted, ‘it’s one thing putting up with people saying things when it’s only me. I can take it. But I’m not sure how I’d feel if they were saying things to my child. Last night I sat at the window and I thought about our neighbours and their kids. They’ve come round to accepting Charlie and me. But we’re always going to be different. People can’t help it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mirabelle said. There was no point in pretending that Vesta wasn’t right.
‘It’s no different in America,’ the girl continued. ‘From what Charlie says. In some places, it’s worse.’ Vesta took a sip. ‘They have different entrances at the cinema.’
‘That’s terrible.’
Vesta shrugged. Her mind dotted between her worries, lighting on bits and pieces of evidence. Her elder brother had gone back to Jamaica a couple of years ago. He always said he couldn’t stand the British weather but Vesta wondered if his decision had been predicated on the fact that their mother was a force of nature. Mrs Churchill expected her children to fall into line. Any dissent caused ructions. Vesta was prepared for the battle – her marriage to Charlie had caused a family fight that was only smoothed over months afterwards. But now it occurred to her, what if Frank hadn’t left London because of the cold or their overbearing mother? What if he’d left because of the stares and the comments? The everyday humiliations of not being served in shops or constantly being asked where you came from.
‘I think you should tell Charlie,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I can’t imagine you keeping quiet about such good news for three whole months. He’s the father after all. It’s something you need to talk about.’
Vesta nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll tell him this weekend.’
‘Do it tonight,’ Mirabelle encouraged her. ‘I’ll get on with this. Don’t worry.’