Beyond the kitchen, the house smelled of fresh paint and cigarettes. It was enormous. It reminded Mirabelle of a smaller version of Brighton Pavilion, where she had tracked down a murderer only a few years before. Then the Pavilion had been in disrepair whereas here the countess’s house was light and, although not completed, seemed in good order. Crystal chandeliers with cameos set into the frames were hoisted over thick carpets and the rooms were mostly decorated, downstairs, at least. There was hand-painted red wallpaper of a Chinese design in the dining room and then, further along, a games room with the billiards table Cook had mentioned. It might be smaller than the Pavilion, but the place was better appointed. It felt very private – close the door on one of these rooms and you could get up to whatever you wanted.
Mirabelle was considering this when she found herself distracted by the sound of men laughing and, checking over her shoulder, she decided to investigate, setting off past the billiards table. Loitering in the doorway of the room that led off it, she noted half a dozen card tables had been set up and, at one end, a roulette wheel. The room itself, however, was deserted. Then the laughter sounded once more – this time from a room off that. The door was ajar and Mirabelle approached with caution and glanced inside. The anteroom was smaller – only one table had been set up inside. Leaning against the wall, the driver she’d seen at the Grand smoked a cigarette, while round the table Billy Randall was holding court. He looked as if he belonged there. In front of him, three young men were observing carefully as Billy dealt cards.
‘You think this is a face card,’ he said, turning one over with an elegant flick. ‘But it’s a two. And this is the three. And here is the four.’
The sound of young men being impressed emanated, as Billy casually worked the pack, naming each card before he turned it over.
‘Are you dealing from the bottom, Mr Randall?’ one of the boys asked.
Billy laughed. ‘Fool’s game. You’d spot that.’ He continued to turn the cards effortlessly on to the surface in front of him. So this was what he could do for the countess. This was why the Randalls had left London. This was what Vi meant when she said Billy was good with numbers. This was worth a fortune.
Mirabelle shifted in the doorway, as she realised the possibilities. Spotting her movement, the driver looked up. He swung back the door and glared.
‘Sir,’ she said, bobbing a curtsey. ‘I came to see if you might like tea?’
Billy looked alarmed. He stopped dealing.
‘Tea?’ The driver’s tone made it clear that tea would be unnecessary. ‘We’re busy in here, love.’
‘Yes, sir. Cards.’
‘Play a little, do you?’
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Not even canasta? You must like a flutter now and then. Come on. Take a seat. Let Billy deal for you.’
‘Leave her alone, Roberts,’ Billy objected, but the man was not to be put off. He took Mirabelle’s arm and pulled her into the room. The young men shuffled to make space. ‘She’s a punter, Billy. A green one. Go on. You show them how it’s done. You don’t mind, love, do you?’
Mirabelle sat at the table. Billy motioned one of the men to take a place opposite her. ‘Five card poker,’ he announced. ‘Might as well start at the beginning. Now, we want the punters to gain confidence. Nobody plays cards to lose, do they?’
There was a general murmur of assent.
‘So let’s say they get half a dozen decent hands just playing straight. They might win, they might lose. If they’re losing too much you give them a nudge, so they win. We want them to win, see. At first. The stakes are never less than ten guineas here and, on the private tables, higher, so on a table like this, this lady might have won fifty guineas before I’d step in. Some nights, a hundred.’
He started to deal – one hand for Mirabelle, one for the man and one for the house. ‘I’ve given you two sevens and smash, you got three twos. But the house has four tens. Nothing flash, see. Hope is interesting. It makes people do all kinds of things. Now, miss, if you give back three cards, not the sevens, mind.’ Mirabelle obliged, sliding the cards across the table. ‘Now, I’d deal you a sneaky third seven and an ace. The ace doesn’t do nothing, but people like them. They think they’re lucky. You’ve got to give the punters enough to keep them betting. Three sevens is a good hand. This lady thinks she’s winning.’
‘I can’t see how you’re doing it,’ one of the men complained.
‘’Course you can’t, son,’ the driver snarled. ‘That’s what you’re here to learn.’
Mirabelle stared at Billy. She couldn’t see how he was doing it either. ‘What do I do now?’ she asked.
‘Well, if you were sensible you get out. Walk away.’ Billy looked her directly in the eye. He wasn’t talking about the cards. ‘But you won’t, will you? People like to gamble. So probably you’ll up your stake.’
‘And I’d lose?’
‘Over the course of the night I make sure of that. We set up one or two big winners but the biggest winner of them all is Her Ladyship. The house, I mean.’
‘Oi,’ the driver objected, as if stating it so baldly was going too far.
Billy didn’t reply. ‘So, now you’re betting on each round and you’re confident so you’re betting big. There’s, say, the full fifty guineas in the pot. And—’ he flipped over his cards to reveal his run of four tens ‘—the house wins.’
A murmur of satisfaction assailed the table. Mirabelle folded. ‘How do you do it?’ she asked.
‘I’ve always been able to do it. I see the numbers. I have done since I was a kid. But it can be taught.’ He pulled out fresh decks and handed them to the men, who eagerly tore open the packs. ‘Thank you, miss,’ he said, dismissing her. Mirabelle slipped off the seat. Roberts held the door. ‘Pays your wages,’ he said sagely, almost as if it was a threat. ‘Pays all our wages.’
Billy’s eyes were still. He seemed resigned.
‘Will you be working tonight, love?’ Roberts asked, eyeing Mirabelle as she passed into the main gaming room.
‘I think so,’ she replied. ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’
‘Not now.’
‘Well, I best get on.’
‘I’m going to the lav,’ Billy announced. ‘You lot shuffle. I want to see your pivot cuts. That’s the first thing.’
‘Pivot cuts,’ one of the men complained, as if this was too basic.
‘Oi,’ said Roberts again.
Mirabelle remembered this was Vi’s speciality. Billy had been impressed with her when they first met. It seemed sad now. She walked past the empty tables in the main room and wondered if the roulette wheel was loaded. Of course it was. Out in the hallway, Billy rounded on her.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘These men killed Helen Quinn, didn’t they?’
‘Of course they did.’
‘They killed her because they wanted you.’
Billy sighed. Then he came clean. He owed her the explanation. ‘We thought we’d got away. I had a job. Nothing much, but it was out of this. It was good for a while. But these people . . . when they found me . . . I didn’t want to come back, you see. You should get out of here, Miss Bevan.’
‘They were trying to scare you, weren’t they? To make you work for them. That’s the motive.’
‘They scared me all right. Look, there’s nothing you can do.’
‘And they stabbed Helen Quinn in the stomach because Vi is pregnant. It was a warning. But it wasn’t aimed at Phil Quinn. That’s where we all went wrong. It was for you. God, you must have been terrified.’
Billy didn’t answer.
‘You need a safe house, Billy. You and Vi. I’ll see if I can . . .’
‘No. They’ve made it clear what’ll happen.’
‘But Vi must be beside herself.’
‘Vi hasn’t figured it out yet. And I’m not going to tell her till after the baby arrives. Look, you should get out. You’re in danger. If they find out why you’re here . . .’
‘But the police . . .’
Billy snorted. ‘Don’t you understand? The police won’t tackle this. You don’t know who she entertains in her place in London – judges and MPs. There’s actors too – a bit of glam. Half the room’s got a title any night of the week. People of standing. They call it the establishment. They like her and they aren’t going to put her away. She’s got too much on them. Don’t you see?’
‘Helen Quinn was murdered . . .’ Mirabelle objected.
‘Better Helen than Vi. Better Helen than me,’ Billy snapped.
‘And what about Phil?’
‘The police have got nothing on Phil. They’ll have to let him go.’ Billy dropped his hands by his side as if he had given up. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Don’t you get it? People like this, they love it. They want the thrill. They’d screw the house if they could. And, instead, the house screws them. Everyone wants risk since the war. Luxury and risk. It’s like a drug. There are drugs here too. They get themselves into it because they want to. And there’s so much money that nobody matters, not you, not me and not bloody Helen, that’s for sure.’
Mirabelle was about to push him further. But, before she could find the words, the front door swung open at the other end of the hall. There was a pause and then the countess wandered into the vestibule dressed in a long mink coat. She was followed by a man. With the light behind them, it was difficult to make them out. It was not the same in the other direction.
‘What are you doing?’ The countess’s sharp eyes spotted Mirabelle and Billy immediately, out of place.
‘I’m giving the girl directions,’ Billy said. ‘She’s new.’
Mirabelle bobbed a curtsey. The countess clearly didn’t recognise her, but then why would she?
‘Well, get on then.’ The woman raised a languid gloved hand and flicked it in the general direction of the interior. ‘Haven’t you got things to do?’
Billy dropped his head and, with only the merest hesitation, he turned back towards the gaming rooms. Mirabelle watched him. She was about to step on to the stairs when the man behind the countess followed her into the hallway.
‘Well, well,’ he said.
Mirabelle blushed. In the light, she could see the countess’s companion. Ernie Davidson was eyeing her with a look of delight on his face.
‘What are you doing here?’ The words were out of Mirabelle’s mouth before she could stop herself.
‘I’m visiting the neighbours, as it were. But you know all about that. I thought I’d come and see the new establishment,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘You know this girl?’
Davidson hesitated. He winked. ‘She used to work for a friend of mine,’ he said. ‘She showed promise, as I recall.’
‘Brighton. So small.’ The countess removed her mink coat and gestured Mirabelle to take it. As she did so, Davidson patted Mirabelle’s bottom and handed her his hat. A seam of outrage flashed through her gut and she struggled to control her temper. It felt as if all the evil in Brighton was converging on this grand house and there was nothing she could do.
The countess stalked towards one of the public rooms. ‘It’s not nearly finished,’ she drawled.
Davidson leaned in. ‘Our little secret, Belle.’ He winked. ‘I’ve got you now.’
‘We need discretion, you can see how it is . . .’ the countess continued, her voice disappearing as she walked away.
Davidson followed, leaving Mirabelle alone in the cavernous hallway with the mink draped over her arm. Which one of these men murdered Helen Quinn? she wondered. Who had come up with such a cruel, horrible idea? The only decent soul was Billy, she realised. She’d misjudged him. He didn’t want to be caught up in this, but there he was, fighting for his life and for his wife and child, and all anyone else seemed to care about was money.