Brighton Belle (10 page)

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.’

11

Fate was dealing from the bottom of the pack.

I
t was nine fifteen by the time Mirabelle made it back into town. She unlocked the door and leafed through the mail. With Big Ben sick there
was a dearth of payments coming through. It would be a quiet day but there might be more details about Señor Velazquez in the early edition of the
Argus.
Vesta, she noticed, had left
her mark – a greasy stain in the shape of a slice of cake on the blotting paper covering the desktop. Still, the geranium was in pride of place, back on the desk and looking distinctly
perkier, the soil now moist and the leaves wiped down and glossy. A note was propped up by the sink:
I have news,
it read.

Mirabelle set off down the hall towards Halley Insurance. She was, she realised, looking forward to seeing Vesta. It was remarkable. Mirabelle hadn’t looked forward to seeing anyone for
quite some time. She knocked on the door and peered into the office. Vesta had clearly been expecting her. She was perched beside the fireplace with a long brass fork in her hand.

‘Toast?’ she asked as Mirabelle came inside. ‘No butter. I got cinnamon or jam, or both.’

‘A cup of tea will be fine,’ Mirabelle assured her.

Vesta looked shocked, as if Mirabelle had declined elevation to the peerage. Mirabelle was clearly lonely, and in Vesta’s opinion she’d never bag a fellow looking like a half-starved
foal, no matter how captivating her long legs and huge hazel eyes. ‘You sure you don’t want something to eat?’ she asked quizzically.

‘Absolutely.’

The girl sighed loudly and propped the toasting fork against the wooden mantelpiece. ‘Well,’ she said, rallying, ‘I can’t wait to hear all your news. And I have to tell
you what I found! You’ll die!’

Mirabelle smiled as it became apparent that Vesta could wait long enough to exchange her news to fuss over the kettle, fill a teapot, open a box of biscuits and light a cigarette with a slim
gold lighter.

‘How did you get on?’ She pushed the biscuit box across the desktop and inhaled deeply as she finally settled down.

Mirabelle sank into a chair. ‘Well, it’s a mystery, all right.’

Vesta leaned forward. ‘Do tell,’ she breathed.

Mirabelle sighed. It was nice to have someone to share things with. She lifted the teacup to her lips and sipped. ‘Firstly I think when Romana left London she knew she wasn’t coming
back. Her sister is vile. Completely unaffected by the death – absolutely stone cold. I don’t mean to shock you but she runs a prostitution ring up in London and God knows what else.
Wealthy clients. That kind of thing.’ Vesta looked not the least bit taken aback by this information so Mirabelle continued. ‘And the doctor she was staying with is involved. I
don’t know why. Drugs? Abortions? I have no idea. Except that there’s an astonishing amount of money floating around – he tips five-pound notes. And now there’s another
body. A client. And he tips generously, too. These people have money to spare and plenty of it.’

Vesta took a draw on her cigarette. ‘Another body? That’s two in two days. Shit. That’s a lot of dead bodies all at once.’

‘He died yesterday. At the Grand Hotel. The papers say it was natural causes. I’m interested because they picked a cheap coffin for her and an expensive one for him – despite
all the money. I can’t work that out. I mean, if your sister and her child died ... well, it seems very odd. Perhaps they hated her. Also, so far no one has seen the girl’s body. Not
even the undertaker.’

Vesta considered this. ‘Oh, I’d say she’s dead all right. I did a little digging myself yesterday.’

‘Vesta! You were supposed to stay in the office!’

‘Oh, I stayed! I was here until after six! When I read that file I got to thinking about the life policy. I know a girl at the Prudential. She used to work at this agent who wrote cover
for us on upmarket cars – Bentleys and Rolls-Royces. Anyway, she moved. She works in life insurance now. I wanted to ask her about how that would work – you know, the policy your client
had. She checked for me. The Prudential are the biggest underwriters in the country. Turns out, they issued the policy on Romana. Not just Romana, but her sister, Lisabetta, too – they both
took out cover and named each other as the beneficiary. The policy is just over a year old – so this is before Romana got pregnant. Before she moved to the country even. So why did she name
her sister and not her husband? There could be reasons, of course, but how many wives would do that? Anyway, then the Pru charged an excess because Romana was abroad, and abroad is more risky so
covering her life was more expensive than covering Lisabetta’s. Romana objected – said she was definitely moving to London, but the husband was Russian and the British wouldn’t
let him in. Six months later and, bingo, she gets back to the Prudential. Would they forgo the excess now, please, because she’s pregnant, the husband’s dead and she’s moving to
London after all.’

Vesta sighed. ‘You know I have a lot of experience with people filling in forms. Everyone thinks they’re unique, but, really, anything that doesn’t fit in the form, that
isn’t standard, well, my experience is it’s either a lie or a problem. When I heard that little story there were too many questions and it was all too damn convenient. Romana Laszlo,
lied, I reckon. Through her teeth. And that husband of hers is another dead body, now I come to think of it. I’m surprised the Prudential haven’t sent an investigator. Probably the only
thing stopping them is that Lisabetta has a policy, too. Let’s say they killed her – for the money. And that old guy in the hotel – they killed him as well – either for more
money or because he knew something – too much. Is that crazy?’

Mirabelle considered the information. The girl hadn’t done a bad job. ‘It’s about money, then,’ she mused.

‘I think, you know, I could do with something savoury,’ Vesta paused to stub out her cigarette. She rummaged in the desk drawer beside her and drew out a Cadbury’s tin with the
legend
MILK CHOCOLATE FANCIE
s on the top. Inside there was a square of Cheddar cheese wrapped in a slip of greaseproof paper and some biscuits in a bag from
Sainsbury’s on St James Street. Rationing didn’t seem to impinge at all upon Vesta’s diet.