Mirabelle stopped at home and slipped the spare key out of its hiding place on the door frame. The flat seemed too quiet. Inside, she discarded the muddy, blood-smeared chambermaid’s uniform on the floor of her bedroom, gratefully slipping into a plain but well-tailored blue suit that was clean. She swept her hair into a bun. There seemed no point in applying make-up when her skin was mottled with bruises. Still, she dabbed on witch hazel and contented herself that at least now she was tidy. She picked a navy handbag from the wardrobe and slipped in some cash, two clean handkerchiefs and a spare set of keys she kept in the kitchen cupboard. Forty minutes later, she tripped up the steps of the hospital and turned in the opposite direction to the baby ward, passing a row of tea trolleys abandoned after the four o’clock service. A small pile of leftover Huntley and Palmers tumbled across a green plate.
The ward was quiet. She made straight for Fred’s bed, where he was lying flat, heaving for breath. His eyes lighted as Mirabelle appeared.
‘Gosh,’ she said, ‘would you like a pillow?’ Fred shook his head. Then his brow furrowed as he took in her appearance. ‘I know,’ she confirmed. ‘Sometimes I wish they’d given me combat training.’
Fred’s exhalation rattled with a chortle. On the other side of the bed, a young nurse appeared.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not visiting time. Are you a relation?’
Fred reached out his hand and, vice-like, curled his fingers round Mirabelle’s wrist.
‘Please. I need to talk to him,’ Mirabelle pleaded.
The girl looked over her shoulder and Mirabelle wondered if every matron terrified her charges in the same way. ‘I’d offer you money,’ she continued. ‘I’m desperate. But you’re a nurse.’
The girl looked embarrassed. ‘It’s what’s best for the patients. Routine,’ she tried to explain.
Fred’s breath betrayed another chortle. ‘I’ll . . . be . . . gone . . . by . . . tomorrow,’ he managed with considerable effort.
The nurse didn’t deny it. She hesitated and stepped away. Fred cast his eyes at the chair beside him and Mirabelle sat.
‘Where’s your wife?’
Fred looked upwards this time. He reached on to the bedside cabinet and, with his hands now quivering, grasped for a pencil and a notepad. Don’t waste my time, he scribbled.
Mirabelle smiled. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ve come about Marcus.’ Fred’s head moved fractionally away from her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I think he’s involved in something bad. Something dangerous.’
Fred closed his eyes. When he opened them again he reached for the notepad. He was always trouble. The things he saw before I brought him back.
‘Is that why you kept him away from your wife?’
Fred shook his head. Again, the movement was tiny, but it was clear he was making a huge effort. Bitch, he scribbled, now unable to keep the letters in a straight line. Mirabelle took his hand. She squeezed it.
‘The boy might have killed somebody, Fred. A woman. That murder in Portslade.’
Fred’s cough faltered. His eyes were rheumy. He pulled back his hand. It was then she understood. ‘You know about it,’ she said. ‘Oh God.’
‘He’s . . . my . . . son,’ Fred managed. ‘Manners of a saint. He loves me. But a black heart.’
He was drawing in breath desperately now, as if he had a vacuum inside. Mirabelle couldn’t think what to say. Fred’s eyes focused once more. He fumbled with the pencil as she held the pad in place. Keep away from him.
‘This wasn’t his first murder?’
Fred didn’t bother to reply. Does anyone else know? he scribbled.
‘If you’re asking will the police prosecute, I don’t know. People have died. A local man as well as the woman. I was there when they shot him today. In cold blood.’
A sliver of a smile crossed Fred’s face. Not Marcus?
‘No,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t Marcus.’
He gave a half-shrug and Mirabelle felt her temper rise. ‘You’re his father, you should have reined him in,’ she snapped. ‘Your son murdered a woman just to scare her neighbour into doing what he wanted. What kind of man . . . ’
Fred’s breath rattled again. He looked as if he was remembering something. Mirabelle stopped. During the war, they’d have encouraged this kind of criminal behaviour if it had advanced the Allied cause. She knew what he was thinking. Fred had done worse. And this boy was his son. She sighed. There was no point in berating a dying man – least of all someone she cared about. Fred managed a smile and the picture of Marcus Fox sitting in short trousers on the grey sofa at the Marylebone Hotel all those years ago returned to her mind’s eye. She cursed herself for being naive. Not everyone who was rescued from Europe was an angel. She wondered what the boy had experienced before Fred found him. What allowed him to be so personable and yet so deadly. Whatever it was, he had been old enough for it to affect him. Still, anyone who could poison a bottle of gin and stab a drugged woman to death, just as a warning – well, it didn’t bear thinking about. When I die, it’s Marcus who’ll be here, Fred managed.
‘Has he been like this since the beginning? Since you brought him home?’
Fred tried to breathe. She gave him plenty of time, but he didn’t reply. There was no point. He wanted Marcus to get away with what he’d done.
‘I’m going to do something about it,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t leave it. I’m sorry.’
Fred looked perturbed. He picked up the pencil. He’ll have you, he wrote.
‘Maybe,’ Mirabelle admitted. She shifted in her seat. ‘They have a cottage where he’s working. It’s tiled floor to ceiling. Do you remember, Fred, during the war? The ones who killed themselves – soldiers on their last night of leave. Women desperate for their husbands. Men who just couldn’t take it. We used to play it down – the newspapers wouldn’t report it. Bad for morale, they said. Well, they’ve made a game of it. People pay to play – Russian roulette. You know – a single bullet in a chamber and you don’t know who’ll be the one to die. It was a war hero who died first. A pilot.’
Fred’s movement was a mere shrug. There was no point in staying here, she thought. It would only torture him. He grappled the pencil as she rose. Everyone wants something. That’s how I always made money. She didn’t reply, only nodded in the direction of the nurse, who was stripping a bed on the other side of the ward. ‘Goodbye,’ she said and planted a kiss on Fred’s forehead. His skin seemed too thin, but he was still there. His eyes lingered. ‘If there’s anything you want to say, you better say it now.’ She waited. But Fred stayed silent and, after a minute, he closed his eyes.
* * *
It took almost an hour for Vesta to make it back to the office, finding the stairs, surprisingly, easier than walking on the flat. As she burst through the door, she hopped to the cupboard and pulled out the first aid kit. Unused for long periods, the kit contained a few aspirin, a small bottle of iodine, another of witch hazel, a tube of arnica cream, a thick roll of Elastoplast and two rolls of crêpe bandage fixed with safety pins. Vesta sat heavily on her chair and stared momentarily at the kettle, deciding for the first time in her life, it seemed, that it wasn’t worth making tea. Her ankle was swollen and bruising was coming up on her dark flesh. She thought she might cry. Mirabelle was so much braver. She always seemed to know what to do. Vesta removed one stocking and was about to address herself to the bandages when the door opened and Bill swept in with Panther at his heel. The dog trotted over and licked Vesta’s knee.
‘You look like you’ve been in the wars,’ said Bill. ‘What happened?’
Vesta sighed. It was a very long story and Bill couldn’t help much. He always disapproved of these kinds of cases when what the women had got up to came out later. ‘I tried to drop and roll,’ she said. ‘But I dropped too hard.’
Bill accepted her explanation without question. He picked up the aspirin and fetched a glass of water from the sink.
‘Start with that, eh?’ he said, dropping to his knees to inspect the injury. ‘Go on, wiggle your toes.’
‘It’s not broken.’ Vesta sniffed.
Bill smiled. ‘I’d say you’re right. But that doesn’t mean it’s not sore, does it?’
Vesta gulped down the painkillers.
‘May I?’
She nodded. Bill prodded the injury with some expertise and Vesta winced. Then he carefully applied a long smear of arnica cream. ‘It’s a bit late for this but all hands on deck, eh?’ he said, as he picked up one of the bandages. ‘It needs support.’ He began to wind the crêpe tightly round the swelling. It felt better immediately. ‘You’ll need a lift home,’ he said cheerily, as he pinned the bandage in place. ‘You shouldn’t walk too far on it. I’ll call a cab, shall I?’
Vesta sighed. She’d walked quite far already. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll get one myself, thanks.’
‘It needs rest.’ Bill continued his diagnosis. ‘Though, of course, women in your delicate condition actually heal faster.’
Vesta let out a frustrated yelp. ‘How come everybody knows?’ she said. ‘Who told you?’
Bill shrugged. ‘My missus and I weren’t blessed, of course. But a fella picks things up. Will you be all right? Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. I’ll be fine.’ Vesta resigned herself to the fact that she hadn’t kept any kind of secret. ‘Turns out the stairs are easy.’
Bill smiled. He drew a sheaf of papers from his inside pocket and laid them on his desk. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, as he found the paper bag she’d left earlier.
‘Oh, rock buns,’ the girl replied distractedly. ‘I thought you’d like to take them home.’
‘Very nice.’
He put the buns in his pocket and called Panther to heel. Vesta stood up, trying out her improved situation. She felt tired now the pain was diminishing.
‘You sure you’ll be all right?’ Bill checked.
‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘It won’t take long for a cab to get here. I’ll call one now.’
As the door closed, Vesta waited to make sure he had gone. Then she picked up the telephone and called the police station.
‘I’d like to speak to Superintendent McGregor,’ she said. ‘My name is Vesta Lewis.’
The WPC tried the line. ‘No reply,’ she said, ‘but I can take a message.’
It always struck Vesta that over the telephone she was treated differently. People couldn’t see the colour of her skin and it showed in the tone of their voice. ‘It’s an emergency,’ she insisted.
‘Well,’ the WPC replied, ‘I can put out a call, if you like. But you’ll have to hold. It may take a while. It’s the end of the day.’
Vesta reached out to plug in the kettle. A solitary rock bun remained on her desk. ‘I’ll wait,’ she said.
The phone clicked intermittently for a long time. Now and then, she could hear the movement of a busy office – a murmur of voices and the clatter of a typewriter. She made a cup of tea and sipped it. After a good three or four minutes, there was a loud click and a man’s voice came on the line – an English accent.
‘Hello. Detective Inspector Robinson speaking.’
‘Good evening, Detective, I’m looking for Superintendent McGregor,’ Vesta announced.
Robinson sounded short already. ‘McGregor’s out,’ he snapped. ‘Who’s calling?’
Vesta hadn’t anticipated this. In her mind, if Mirabelle needed help, McGregor would simply be there. ‘My name is Vesta Lewis,’ she said. ‘I work with Mirabelle Bevan.’
The sound of a long, low sigh emanated from the earpiece.
‘It’s an emergency,’ Vesta insisted. ‘Mirabelle is in trouble. There’s an illegal gambling operation and someone involved in it killed Helen Quinn.’
‘Helen Quinn?’ Robinson’s tone was flat.
‘Yes. And another fellow too. It’s a private house called Hastings Hall.’
‘Two murders?’ Robinson’s tone became ribald. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Lewis. Did you say there had been another murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you witnessed this?’
‘Not me. Mirabelle. If I could speak to Superintendent McGregor . . .’ Vesta persisted.
‘The super had to nip out. He won’t be back today. Funeral, see.’
‘Oh I am sorry.’ Vesta’s manners clicked in. ‘The thing is, Inspector, Mirabelle is still there. At the scene. At Hastings Hall. And it’s dangerous. She needs help.’
‘Miss Bevan needs help?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, leave it with me, Mrs Lewis. I’ll send down the cavalry. Hastings Hall, you say.’
Vesta, full now of painkillers and tea, didn’t detect the irony in Robinson’s voice. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Would you?’
‘Of course.’
Robinson rolled his eyes as he hung up. ‘I don’t know how McGregor puts up with it,’ he remarked to a junior officer. ‘Hysterical, bloody women.’