The lonely wear a mask
On Church Street Mirabelle stopped at the telephone box and called McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery. Vesta answered promptly and Mirabelle pressed the button to connect. It was hot inside the box – it smelled like the inside of a dusty oven.
‘Have you had a good day?’ Mirabelle enquired, cheerily, once the coin had dropped.
‘It must have been busy at the arcade over the weekend. The Simpsons turned up with a large payment, mostly in sixpences, and I’m just working through what Bill picked up on his rounds,’ Vesta reported. ‘We had two new clients. I think they might end up being large accounts.’
This wasn’t exactly what Mirabelle had hoped for when she asked the question. ‘Vesta, I wondered if you might do me a favour?’ she ventured.
Vesta’s silence was a sign of her dubiety. ‘What is it?’ she asked after a moment.
‘Research. That’s all.’ Mirabelle realised she felt guilty even asking. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Have you figured it out yet? The murder?’
‘No. But I did speak to a doctor and he said TB is not contagious at the convalescent stage so there’s no risk to you or to Noel, or, well, to any of us.’
‘Really?’ The relief sounded in Vesta’s voice. ‘Was he sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He asked me out for dinner.’
Vesta hooted. Suddenly it felt like a flashback to a year ago, when Vesta had liked to gossip and had pushed Mirabelle to take on divorce cases, though she had never succumbed. ‘Well, you’ve got all the fellows falling at your feet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘McGregor, of course. He’s got it bad. He was all over me this morning trying to find out if you’re seeing anybody without actually asking the question.’
Mirabelle dismissed this out of hand. ‘He just wanted to ask me about Father Grogan. He was pursuing his inquiries.’
‘Sure. Yes. That’s what he was after. Inquiries.’ Vesta hooted again. ‘Look Mirabelle, I think they have you down as a suspect.’
‘Oh, honestly, Vesta,’ Mirabelle waved off the suggestion. ‘McGregor is just being dramatic.’
‘I don’t know why you two don’t make it up. You were happy together,’ the girl said.
Mirabelle had never told Vesta about the blonde. Or about the murder McGregor had as good as sanctioned. Vesta had been pregnant at the time and it hadn’t seemed right to burden her.
‘I don’t think we can make up our differences, he and I,’ she said vaguely.
‘And now there’s a doctor on the cards.’ Mirabelle could tell Vesta’s eyes were gleaming. ‘A good-looking one, I hope.’
‘He is, actually. And far too young for me.’ Mirabelle blushed at her indiscretion.
‘He sounds just the tonic,’ Vesta said smoothly. ‘Well, what is it you need, Mirabelle?’
‘I wondered if you could find out how Indians feel about cats.’
Vesta waited. ‘Indians? Cats?’ she said. ‘Big cats? Like tigers?’
‘No. Domestic cats. I mean, are Indian people superstitious about them?’
‘I can try. I’ll ask around.’
Mirabelle waited. She was about to make some kind of arrangement for the next day when Vesta said the word she realised she had been waiting for.
‘Why?’
A smile spread across Mirabelle’s face. ‘So much has happened,’ she said. ‘The sister at the convalescent home went missing after she had an argument with Father Grogan. I think it must have been less than an hour before he died. And one of the nurses there seems distressed somehow – she keeps chasing off cats in the garden. And the father, it turns out, raised an enormous sum of money to fix the church roof and nobody knows who donated it.’ The words tumbled out.
In the background, Mirabelle could hear Vesta’s pencil tapping on her notepad.
‘How much money?’ the girl asked.
‘Five hundred pounds.’
She let out a low whistle. ‘Leave it with me. You need to be careful, Mirabelle. If you’re on the cards for a murder inquiry, it might not be wise to get involved like this – and with money at stake.’
‘Well, if you don’t want to help …’ Mirabelle let the words hang. It seemed to her that Vesta took rather too long to reply.
‘What’s your next line of inquiry?’ she said when she did.
Mirabelle felt a surge of relief but she’d need to be careful. Vesta had changed. She wouldn’t ask for any more help, she decided, as she checked the slim gold watch on her wrist. ‘I expect the children at the convalescent home have tea around five, don’t you?’
Down the telephone line, Mirabelle could tell that Vesta was also checking the time. She had her own home to go to. ‘Oh lord. I’d better get going. I mustn’t be late for Mrs Treadwell,’ the girl said hurriedly. ‘Bye.’
The telephone line clicked. Mirabelle pushed open the heavy door. It felt cool in the street by comparison. She thought wistfully about all the times she’d called Vesta and Vesta’s inquiries had as good as cracked the case. Not any longer.
Feeling heady, Mirabelle turned in the direction of Eaton Road. She noted the cream builder’s van was still in place, parked directly opposite the children’s home where it provided good cover. She settled in her usual position in front of the rose bush three doors down on the opposite side of the street and tried to look inconspicuous. It was quieter today. A woman returned home and ran up her garden path, further down, rushing to make dinner for her husband. At half past five the first man arrived back. He was wearing a bowler hat, despite the weather. Mirabelle wondered if he worked at the bank on North Street. She was sure she had seen him. Then she heard the muffled sound of the bell ringing inside the convalescent home. Half an hour for tea, she thought, forty minutes at the outside. Then, an hour to clear up and for bath time. The children would be in bed by seven o’clock. Lights out at eight. If the end of Sister Taylor’s shift had been nine o’clock, perhaps the nurses had a meeting at the end of the day. It may take a while.
In the end, though, it was just after seven when the door opened. The sun had set but the sky still held some light. There was a full moon and no cloud. Nurse Frida, Nurse Uma and Nurse Berenice trotted down the steps smartly and turned in the direction of the main road, falling into step together. Mirabelle loitered, following at a distance. She didn’t want to risk them noticing her. There was something comforting about the three women in their capes and caps, walking together – the camaraderie of it. They must have had a difficult day. As the group turned the corner, they broke into a run, and Mirabelle watched as a bus flew past the junction, heading in the direction of town. She began to run too, but by the time she got to the corner the women had disappeared and the back end of the bus was almost a block away. She caught a flash of cape and cap in the rear window as it moved and the exhaust pipe let out a long puff of smoke. Mirabelle leaned against a shop door and caught her breath. At least she knew the direction they lived in and that none of them lived close enough to walk home, like Sister Taylor could. And it seemed the sister had stayed late the evening before. They all had. Perhaps the argument had upset everyone.
Without thinking, Mirabelle pushed through the door of the pub on Church Street and ordered an orange juice at the bar. It had been a long, hot day and she was thirsty. The pink-cheeked landlord disappeared under the counter and the sound of bottles clanking ensued. He emerged triumphant, levered off the top and poured the juice into a short glass with a red rim, which clashed with the colour of the drink.
‘I don’t suppose you have any ice?’ she asked.
The man sighed. His eyes were rheumy. Heavy-footed, he plodded into the back and returned with two cubes between his thick fingers, which he plopped into the glass. Further along the bar, a man nursing a half-pint of stout grunted.
‘Hot day,’ Mirabelle explained with a smile. ‘Did you hear about the priest? Father Grogan?’
‘That’s a bad business,’ the bartender said. ‘The old fellow was poisoned, somebody told me.’
‘It was in his whisky.’
The bartender and the stout drinker both raised their eyes to the row of three bottles on the back shelf – gin, brandy and whisky. Mirabelle paddled her juice around the glass to cool it and took a sip. The door of the pub swung open and a beat bobby popped in his head.
‘You all right, Constable?’ the bartender checked.
‘I didn’t know you served ladies on their own, Jack,’ the bobby said, as if Mirabelle wasn’t there.
‘It’s discretionary,’ the bartender replied. ‘We was just saying about the father? A priest, I tell you! Poisoned in his whisky, this lady says.’
‘Now, now. Careless talk costs lives,’ the bobby said, as if it was still wartime.
‘Poisoned though,’ the bartender persisted.
He pulled a half of bitter and laid it on the bar. The policeman emptied the glass in one, smacked his lips and raised his hand in a parting gesture, leaving as quickly as he had arrived. The door swung closed behind him.
‘You got to keep on the right side of the law,’ the bartender said sagely as he disposed of the empty glass.
Mirabelle handed over a coin and waited for her change. The stout drinker stirred. ‘It’s a shame about the priest. I’m not a churchgoing man, but the country’s gone to pot if they’re killing holy men.’
It popped into Mirabelle’s mind that the country hadn’t gone to pot, exactly. She’d known it worse than this. But, on the other hand, lots of things had changed for her over the last year – that had become apparent. ‘Perhaps I’ll just have a Scotch,’ she said.
The barman poured a shot and put it on the bar. She handed over another coin.
‘You want ice again?’ He sounded weary.
Mirabelle shook her head. Ice ruined whisky. Besides, you didn’t drink it because you were thirsty. She added a splash of water from the jug and knocked back the glassful. ‘Thanks.’
Outside, Mirabelle paused to enjoy the breeze as she wandered towards the seafront. At the front, she stopped at Lali’s bench and sat, staring at the ocean. The sound of the surf breaking on the stones set a soothing rhythm. Out here at the beginning of the suburbs it served as a lullaby. Far off, further along the front, the lights of the pier twinkled across the black water. Brighton came alive at night. In town, the smell of frying fish would be hanging on the air. The pubs would be full at this time of the evening and the picture houses would have queues snaking along the pavements even on a Monday. Since she had fallen out with Superintendent McGregor, she hadn’t crossed the threshold of a single one of those establishments, sticking solidly to the few shops she frequented routinely. Life had become quiet.
She wondered what she and Christopher Williams might discuss over dinner. Perhaps he’d know something more about the case. Her mind wandered, lighting on the detritus of the day – all the unanswered questions. She wondered where Sister Taylor was. Was Robinson right and the woman had fled? Or had something else happened to her? Something they hadn’t accounted for. Worst of all, was the nurse dead, like Father Grogan? Mirabelle shuddered.
Out of the darkness, the figure of the beat bobby from the bar came into view, strolling along Kingsway. His white pith helmet seemed almost luminous in the light of the moon.
‘Miss Bevan,’ he tipped his hat.
‘Officer.’
Mirabelle laughed as the man disappeared into the darkness. Brighton was ludicrously small. You couldn’t go unnoticed. With this in mind she scrambled for her house key and stalked back to her flat. The vanilla slice still sat in its brown paper bag on the table. She fetched a plate, a pastry fork and another tumbler of whisky and savoured her dinner alone in the moonlight. Tomorrow she’d eat something proper – a steak perhaps. With the handsome doctor. Yes, she thought, that would be nice, as she sneaked barefoot across the thick carpet and fell into bed.