29

The Black Swan

Eighteen months before, after Jack died, Mirabelle had wanted to die. She used to lie on the floor of the drawing room at night with all the lights out, unable to sleep, and will the building to fall in on her. She had been deliberately careless when she crossed the road, waiting for fate to take its chance, just wishing that she could blot out the whole world forever and hoping that somehow she’d just die and the pain would all be over.

Now she was faced with a dangerous criminal who had an old-style single-action revolver pointed directly at her, she felt strangely calm, and there was one thing of which she was certain: she wasn’t giving up and she no longer wanted to die. Every sense in her body was heightened – she could smell coffee on the old lady’s breath, feel the cold windowpane beside her as if it was radiating its chill, and hear the sound of the tracks in minute detail as the train headed west. She knew that Madame de Guise did not intend to shoot her – not immediately, anyway. The safety catch was still on. Mirabelle was familiar with the specification of this revolver and she knew there had been a lot of problems with it. The firing mechanism was delicate and, if it had been subjected to abuse over its lifetime, the spring inside could easily shift, making the weapon extremely unreliable. Though it took six bullets it was generally accepted that it was only safe to load five. One in the first chamber, then a space and four more. Mirabelle had read the firearm manual – she couldn’t remember when, but she knew about it, that was the main thing. The old lady was wearing thin kid gloves, which would make the whole thing more difficult. Not, Mirabelle knew, that the gun wouldn’t kill her, only that all this might buy her a fraction of a second or two if it came to the crunch.

After a moment’s silence, Mirabelle decided to speak. ‘Well, the ball’s in your court,’ she said quietly.

‘Who knows that you’re on this train?’

Mirabelle sat up straighter. ‘I left a message,’ she answered honestly. ‘I don’t know if they got it.’

‘You are police?’

Mirabelle shook her head.

‘Raise your veil.’

Mirabelle did so.

The woman looked perplexed. ‘Why are you following me?’

Mirabelle gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders before she spoke. ‘I was right, though, wasn’t I? I’ll bet you have a stash of gold coins in that luggage of yours that would put the Royal Mint to shame.’

‘Ah, you want money’ Madame de Guise seemed quite relieved. ‘But, of course, it is far easier just to kill you and fling you out of the train. I’m not sure you have thought this through, my dear.’

‘That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Money? That’s what I heard about you.’

Madame de Guise hesitated for a moment. She had no qualms about committing murder but she didn’t like to kill someone before she knew who they were or what they were up to.

‘It was you who broke into Crichton’s house last night?’ she hazarded. ‘It’s you that Lisabetta was scared of.’

Mirabelle’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not Lisabetta, then?’ she said, incredulous.

The old lady laughed. ‘I am fifty-eight years of age. Lisabetta was in her twenties. A beautiful girl and quite impressive in her own way. You can’t have met her if you are mistaking the two of us. It’s quite flattering for me, I think, this mistake of yours.’

Mirabelle’s thoughts tumbled. This old lady, she was a black swan, she thought in a rush. The human error. The thing that couldn’t be accounted for. Was this old woman the mastermind McGregor had suspected – the brains behind everything? She peered across the carriage, examining her closely.

‘Ah, you think it is a wig? Make-up? Like she used?’ The woman took off her hat with her free hand and pulled her grey hair out of the bun. She tugged on the strands hard. ‘See.’

‘Who are you then?’ Mirabelle asked.

Madame de Guise smiled. ‘I could ask you the same thing, I think. You first?’ She raised the gun.

‘I am Mirabelle Bevan.’

Madame de Guise frowned. ‘I don’t know that name.’

‘And you?’

‘Marguerite de Guise, for the time being at any rate. Now, I don’t know what to do with you, my dear, but I tend not to kill people until I have to. So, we’re going to take a journey together. Only a little journey. And then, in time, I will decide.’

‘You said “was”,’ Mirabelle pushed. ‘Lisabetta “was”.’

‘My English,’ the old lady dismissed the query.

‘Is Lisabetta dead? Did you kill her?’

‘What do you care? Be quiet. We will be there shortly.’

‘Where?’

Madame de Guise cocked the gun rather expertly and Mirabelle felt her whole body tighten with fear. Those revolvers had been known to go off unexpectedly if you didn’t know they shouldn’t be fully loaded. For a second she thought she might not be able to breathe but then, with a shallow rhythm, she found that she could take in at least a little air.

‘First stop, Portsmouth,’ the old lady said. ‘That is, if I don’t shoot you before we arrive out of sheer annoyance.’

Mirabelle decided she’d pushed it quite enough. She sat still and said nothing.