10

There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed.

When Mirabelle woke it was early. The events of the day before filtered into her mind bit by bit. Under the covers she hugged her knees to her chest. This Romana Laszlo business had opened her eyes to what she had been missing. She realised that she had been sleepwalking for a long time – it felt good to wake up again and she was, for the first time in several months, looking forward to going into the office. She wondered what Big Ben would make of the dead woman’s story and the intriguing mystery about her sister. She was sure he’d have an insight or two about Bert Jennings. Only one day till he’s back, she thought, as she got up and pulled open the thick curtains onto the sunrise. Perhaps today she’d solve it.

She washed and changed into a freshly laundered white shirt with a green tweed pencil skirt. Then she slipped on her high-heeled court shoes and combed her hair while applying some lipstick. Mirabelle checked her watch – it was barely seven o’clock. As the rays of orange faded out of the sky and a bright morning emerged, it was still too early to open the office. There were loose ends, of course – an array of intriguing possibilities.

Mirabelle slammed the front door with more vigour than she’d had, well, since Jack died. She walked to the main road and caught a bus. Brighton was busy. As the bus hurtled along the street on the way into town, she watched two shabbily dressed schoolgirls scrubbing the steps of the fine stucco terraces for a penny, left out beside the milk bottles. Brighton suddenly seemed full of interesting people. Perhaps, she thought, I could ask Ben to let me be a little more hands on. It might be nice to get out and about more.

At the pier Mirabelle got off. She walked past the newspaper stand. Then she stopped and walked back. The headline read body of foreign guest found at the grand. She bought a copy from the vendor and sat on a bench to read the story. There was no photograph but the description was enough – Señor Velazquez was an older Spanish gentleman. He had arrived to visit friends in Brighton the day before. The people around Lisabetta seemed to be dropping like flies – of natural causes, but still. Mirabelle wondered if the household would mourn this second death more than Romana’s. She considered for a moment and then stood up with a determined look. She wasn’t just going to leave it. There were far too many suspicious circumstances mounting up and with Ben away she had plenty of time on her hands. Decisively she walked back to the stop and took another bus from Old Steine up Preston Road as far as Patcham. She wondered if Cobb’s Funeral Directors started early, or worked late, deciding the odds were on there being more bodies to pick up in the mornings. Yesterday Michael Smith had made it to the office after his delivery at Second Avenue right across town and it was still before ten in the morning. Yes, she decided, the undertakers would be at work already.

In Patcham Mirabelle got off on the main road. The street was busy with workers at the window-blind factory heading to clock on for the day. There was a queue outside the bakery where a sign proclaimed ‘Best Pies in Patcham’ and a man passed her cramming a beano into his mouth, as if to illustrate the point. A quick enquiry at the newsagents on the corner sent her down a side street towards a wellkept old house, which bore a black sign with COBB’s FUNNERAL DIRECTORS CO-OP APPROVED written in gold script. There was a lane down the side, leading to a yard where, when Mirabelle strained, she could just see the rump of a black horse, its tail swishing from side to side. She bypassed the front door and strode down the muddy cobblestones. The horse was tethered to an iron loop worked into the wall and Mirabelle petted him. In the corner of the yard there were two shiny black hearses.

Mirabelle approached the back door, which lay ajar and peered in. The room was large. There were two tables for laying out the dead and a few empty coffins propped up against the wall. In the harrowing nightmares following Jack’s passing she had dreamed of his corpse over and over, begging for help, waving goodbye, or just lying unresponsive as she screamed. Now the backroom of Cobb’s Funeral Directors seemed too quiet. If she went in would she be faced with a waxen-faced Señor Velazquez laid out in his box? Or perhaps Romana Laszlo’s body was here – the welcome normality of which would be a relief, in a way, but still. With sweating palms she knocked on the door jamb and waited. There must be someone working here – a living soul somewhere among the coffins and bales of black satin. Where was Michael Smith?

‘Excuse me,’ she hazarded and cleared her throat. ‘Mr Smith? Anybody there?’

‘Put it on the side there, love,’ a cheery voice emanated from beneath the floor.

Mirabelle looked around nervously. ‘Excuse me,’ she repeated, pulling herself together.

‘Just leave it on the side,’ the voice boomed.

Mirabelle hesitated. She wanted to run. ‘I’m looking for Michael Smith,’ she said bravely to the disembodied voice as her hands trembled. ‘Is he here?’

There was an ominous stomping and then from a trap door at the back of the room a red face appeared through the floorboards. ‘Oh, apologies, Ma’am. I thought you were from the florist. With the wreaths.’

As he emerged into the room the man blinked, as if unaccustomed to the daylight. He was a Dickensian creature. At first glance he seemed to be dressed entirely in rough lengths of cloth. A cream burlap scarf was wound around his neck and his hands were swathed in purple home-knitted mittens. ‘I’m Cobb,’ he offered. ‘You’re looking for Michael, you say?’

‘Yes, please.’ Despite the man’s eccentric appearance, Mirabelle was relieved that he was, in fact, alive and hopefully able to help her. ‘And you are?’

‘Mirabelle Bevan. It is a private matter.’

The man considered this. He seemed dubious about the possibility of the likes of Michael Smith having private business with the smartly turned-out woman before him. ‘Well, he’s not here this morning. Michael went out on a call very early, I’m afraid. He won’t be back for at least a couple of hours. Can I help you?’

‘Mr Smith came to see me yesterday and we discussed a delivery he made for someone known to me. Romana Laszlo.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘And now, well, there is someone else. A body at the Grand Hotel. A gentleman, also known to me.’

‘Mr Velazquez.’

‘Indeed. I wondered if he had had the same kind of coffin as Romana? And I wondered if he was here.’

The man leaned against the table. He was used to strange questions. He dealt with upset people all the time. Clarity, he believed, was always the key. ‘The bereaved often find it difficult,’ he said with a sombre expression, ‘to accept the departure of their loved ones. To lose two people, Miss Bevan, is a difficult thing. I don’t wish to distress you, but Mr Velazquez’s body is in the hands of the police. He died away from his home and family. It’s what the police call an Indigent Death, though, of course, your friend was very far from indigent in the real sense. Once there’s been a post-mortem, we’ll prepare his body for burial.’

Ah, they’ve arranged it?’ Mirabelle did not correct the man’s assumption.

‘Yes. I would offer you the opportunity to augment the package, Miss Bevan, but his family and friends have been very generous. He has the best already.’

‘And Romana?’

‘That’s out of my hands. Standard casket only,’ he said, with disapproval in his voice.

‘Same casket as Señor Velazquez?’

The man shook his head sadly. ‘It’s too late, I’m afraid. The body is already at the Sacred Heart Church. We didn’t even lay her out, poor soul. It’s most unlike Dr Crichton.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It’s not like him, I said. Hove addresses. We often get Dr Crichton’s patients when they pass away and normally they take our more extravagant packages. Full service. It seems a shame for the poor lady.’

‘Mr Cobb,’ Mirabelle fished, ‘what I am wondering really is whether you saw either of the deceased? My ones? It’s such a worry not to have seen them, you see. Poor things.’

‘No, Miss, I haven’t. The doctor laid out Romana Laszlo himself – some families prefer that. We’ll have the Spanish gentleman here tomorrow sometime, though, if you’d like to come back.’

‘I see.’ Mirabelle turned to go. At least they weren’t keeping both bodies hidden from view. ‘And you have no idea why they bought such a poor coffin for Romana?’

‘No, no idea at all, I’m afraid.’

‘Thank you, Mr Cobb,’ Mirabelle turned. It was time to be getting back to the office. She could try to piece it together there. ‘I simply wanted to know. Good morning.’