Brighton Belle (27 page)

‘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.

30

The British Secret Service is an Order doing its work with passion.

M
adame de Guise and Mirabelle left the train at Portsmouth with Madame’s luggage in tow. Mirabelle tried to make eyes at the porter
despite Madame’s gun being only a few inches from her side, stashed in her pocket. The man only looked embarrassed when she raised her eyebrows suggestively and he refused to look at her
again all the way to the taxi.

On the back seat Mirabelle could feel the revolver jabbing into her side through both Madame’s coat and her own. The old lady gave the driver instructions to go to the dock and Mirabelle
felt once more as if her heart was about to stop. There was clearly a boat at Madame’s disposal and Mirabelle knew well that there was no easier way to get rid of a body than to heave it over
the side of a seagoing vessel. She was in the process of accepting that she was probably going to die but still she frantically kept her eyes open for a sign, a whiff of McGregor. There was none.
Her heart sank and she felt tears welling in her eyes.

‘Come now, dear’ Madame said and passed her a handkerchief, for show.

‘Jack,’ she whispered under her breath.

‘Who is Jack?’ Madame snapped, still trying to find the reason behind this elegant woman following her.

‘He’s my ...’ Mirabelle faltered. ‘Jack died. It seems a long time ago ...’

Madame’s eyes softened for the first time. ‘Ah, my husband also is dead. Karl was not always the best husband but he was mine ...’

A sudden realisation hit Mirabelle. ‘You’re Mrs Velazquez,’ she gasped. ‘Aren’t you? You’re the Candlemaker’s wife.’

And they say that he died in a hotel room – a problem of the heart!’ Mrs Velazquez sneered. She was angry but she kept her voice low so the driver couldn’t hear what she was
saying. She appeared to be confiding in Mirabelle, rather than simply letting off steam. ‘Honestly! That man had the strongest heart his doctor had ever seen. His father and his grandfather
lived until they were ninety. As if I’d swallow that stupid girl’s ridiculous story. And then the hanky-panky with our money. That little gypsy tramp thought that she could play around
with my family and our future because without him we were defenceless. Not true. She was a bad choice, of course, but bad choices can always be ... reconsidered. Poor Karl, he was always stupid
about women. It takes a woman, sometimes, doesn’t it? To sort things out.’

‘They said you weren’t coming for the funeral.’

‘I did not come for the funeral, Miss Bevan. I came to kill her and to get my money,’ Mrs Velazquez hissed. ‘They think an old woman has no resources. No inventiveness. No
direction.’

A minute or two later the taxi pulled up on a cobbled dock. The driver got out and unloaded the bags as a young man came down the gangplank of a small yacht moored close to the entrance. He had
a questioning look but he did not say anything, only picked up two of the bags and took them aboard.

Mirabelle looked around helplessly. There weren’t any people around. It was a bad day for sailing. The weather would be enough to put off any amateurs and the mooring was full of the
pleasure boats of hobbyists – small yachts, catamarans and speedboats that were tied up and out of action. This side of the dock was not used by real fishermen or the Navy – those who
sailed in almost any weather.

Mrs Velazquez paid the driver graciously, smiling all the while, and gave him a generous tip. Mirabelle took a deep breath and with her heart in her mouth decided to take this chance while the
old lady was preoccupied. She took two breaths, as deep as she could, and she bolted – setting off down the mooring at a pace. Her high-heeled shoes on the cobblestones were treacherous but
she knew if she got onto the boat she was as good as dead. This way Mrs Velazquez would be unwilling to shoot her till the taxi was out of sight. There weren’t any other choices.

The old lady let out a furious screech as the taxi hurtled away. But she didn’t fire the gun. Instead she set off after Mirabelle, with the disadvantage of age but the clear advantage of
more appropriate footwear. Mirabelle kicked off her heels. The cobblestones were slippery and cold but she could run in her stocking soles. She made it another hundred yards before she was tackled
and brought to the ground by the young man from the boat who had overtaken both the women with ease when he had seen what was going on.

‘Jawohl!
’ the old lady said delightedly.
‘Sehr gut!’

‘You people!’ Mirabelle struggled to get to her feet. ‘You people! Your husband did unspeakable things and all you can think about is money. All you can think about is getting
away. Don’t you have any shame?’

The man hit her hard on the jaw. It stung. But he loosened his grip momentarily, a stupid grin on his face and his eyes alight. Mirabelle grabbed the chance to wriggle free and launch herself at
Mrs Velazquez, and before the old lady could fumble the gun into firing position, Mirabelle had twisted her arm behind her back and removed the weapon.

‘These revolvers are unpredictable, you know,’ she said. ‘They can go off quite unexpectedly. So you better be careful,’ she put the gun to the old lady’s head,
‘because I’ve taken off the safety catch.’

The man looked terrified. He motioned with both his hands to stay calm.

‘Yes,’ said Mirabelle, ‘that’s very good.’

She was surprised at herself – holding a loaded gun to an elderly lady’s head. It had been a most peculiar week.

‘Did you kill Lisabetta? Have you done it?’ she asked the woman.

‘Yes,’ the old lady muttered, ‘of course, I did. She cheated us. These girls – they never did anything – never went through what we did. Vermin! They think they are
smart. They think they can do anything. Well, for a woman who’s seen what I’ve seen,
poof!
It’s like they are made from paper – no substance. She killed my husband
and cheated him just like that. She thought she was indestructible but she had no real discipline. I hunted her down and I killed her. You think that Karl was the only one who had the talent to
kill people? I worked a long time for our country. I executed enemies of the Reich many many times. One more little gypsy bitch? It was nothing. And she thought I was going to stay in the
background and just say thank you, thank you so much for giving me back the tiny part of my own money she said she could get out? She thought because I am a woman and I am old I would just lie down
and whimper. How would you like it if she did that to you?’

Mirabelle looked around. The dockside was deserted.

‘I will give you a hundred sovereigns,’ Mrs Velazquez offered. ‘I have them there, in her bag. They are yours. We just want to go home, my son and I.’

The son’s eyes burned with resentment but he held off.

‘I don’t want your filthy money. This whole thing is a bloodbath. I can’t stand it. I’m not like you. We’re going to the police,’ Mirabelle said. ‘You
and I are going to move very slowly. Tell him. Tell him that if he does anything out of turn I’ll shoot you and, goddamn it, I’ll shoot him as well!’

The old lady spat something in German at her son.

‘Right. This way.’

Mirabelle guessed the harbourmaster’s office must be on the other side of the dock. She loosened her grip on Mrs Velazquez and pushed her gently in the right direction but as she did the
boy took his chance and bolted. He sped off down the dock towards the boat. Mirabelle ran in hot pursuit as the old lady shouted encouragement at her son,
‘Schnell! Mach
schnell!
’

And then, without even thinking, in a single smooth movement as if she’d been trained all her life to do it, Mirabelle aimed the revolver. Mrs Velazquez was shouting at him to get away. To
leave her behind and just get home. And then there was a crack from the gun, the man’s body arched instantly and he toppled over the side into the murky water of the dock.

Mrs Velazquez screamed. Mirabelle turned and aimed again, this time for the old lady. ‘I swear,’ she said, ‘it’s you next if you so much as move without my say-so!’
Then she walked back slowly to see if the man had surfaced, keeping her distance from the old lady and trying to control her fury.

‘Mein Sohn!’
the old woman’s voice broke.

He was gone. Mirabelle’s heart was pounding. ‘He’s dead,’ she said, shocking herself with her own resolve, ‘and you’ll be dead, too, if you don’t turn
around. Now, walk over there. We need to find the harbourmaster.’

They were just about to move when a car careered off the main road and, with screeching wheels, turned into the quay. Mirabelle squinted to see who was in the driving seat as the vehicle skidded
to a halt beside her. She almost burst into tears as Vesta tumbled out of the passenger seat. ‘Oh, thank God!’ Vesta barked. ‘We found you! Is that Lisabetta you have there?
That’s a great disguise.’

‘Not quite. And where the hell is McGregor?’

‘McGregor?’ Vesta asked. ‘How would I know? The desk sergeant rang and gave me your message. Well, I knew something was up. I mean, what would you want to go to Portsmouth for?
This is Mr Stewart – I knew he was getting delivery of his Ford this morning and, well, he’s been such a sport. So we followed you. They remembered you at the train station, of course
– called you an “elegant lady” as a matter of fact.’

Mr Stewart, a burly man in his forties, emerged from the driver’s side of the vehicle.

‘Are you ex-forces?’ Mirabelle had never felt so grateful in her life.

‘Air Corps. Want me to take that gun?’

Mirabelle felt a sudden wave of nausea overcome her. ‘Yes, please. And we need some police officers. I really don’t feel well.’

‘You don’t eat enough,’ Vesta lectured. ‘I bet you ain’t eaten anything at all today.’

‘Oh, Vesta, stop fussing!’ Mirabelle heard herself say. She felt woozy. ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting the revolver into Mr Stewart’s hands. ‘Watch Mrs
Velazquez.’

And the next thing she knew everything went black and she passed out on the cobbles.

When Mirabelle woke up, the boy’s sodden body was laid out on the quayside and the police had arrived. The old lady was crying. Inconsolable, her hands were cuffed and soggy make-up was
dripping off her chin. As she passed, she threw Mirabelle a look of sheer hatred. Mirabelle could hardly blame her.

‘Well done, Miss Bevan,’ a man in uniform said as he passed her a cup of tea, ‘that was a pretty plucky show.’

But Mirabelle felt like crying. She wasn’t proud of what had happened – she’d never wanted to kill anyone but there simply hadn’t been a choice.

‘I’m sorry’ she said to Mrs Velazquez , ‘but he was trying to get away.’

The woman looked away, eyes burning.

Mirabelle turned back to the policeman. ‘There’s a body somewhere – she killed a woman in Brighton this morning sometime. Brighton police are looking for the woman but they
don’t know she’s dead, if you see what I mean. Her name is Lisabetta.’

‘We’ll look into it, Miss Bevan.’

‘Come on, Mirabelle.’ Vesta took her arm. ‘We better get you home. The officers here can finish everything. Those foreign cops – the ICPC fellows – are coming over.
Remember?’

Mirabelle raised her head. ‘Right. That’s good. It’s just such a mess. It’s a horrible mess. Thanks for coming to get me, Vesta.’ It felt good to have someone to
lean on.

‘Sure thing.’ Vesta smiled proudly, looking more mature than usual. ‘It was my responsibility and I couldn’t shirk that now, could I?’

31

Widow: the word consumes itself.

T
he trees outside the morgue were in blossom and fallen petals clumped together over the ground around the entrance, held together with mud
and drizzle. Dressed in black, Mirabelle looked composed. She took a deep breath as the sergeant opened the door for her to go in. It smelled, unsurprisingly, of antiseptic. The sergeant signed the
paperwork and motioned her through.

On a trolley, under a bare lightbulb, Lisabetta looked tiny – like a broken china doll. Her glassy eyes were bloodshot. Her carefully painted fingernails were broken where she had tried to
fight off the Candlemaker’s wife. She seemed older, somehow, now she was still.

‘Yes, it’s her.’

‘And you’ve no idea of a last name?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No one does. Where did you find her?’

‘Station Hotel,’ the sergeant said. ‘In her room.’

‘How did she die?’

He lifted the sheet to expose a gunshot wound to Lisabetta’s chest. ‘Pathologist reckons the shot took her by surprise. She was fighting someone off but she didn’t know there
was a gun. She was booked in as a Mrs Lawson.’

‘Oh,’ Mirabelle said faintly. ‘Do Not Disturb.’

‘And the old lady confessed the crime to you?’

‘Yes, she did. Hasn’t she said so?’

The sergeant shook his head. ‘Hasn’t said a word. She’s a tough old bird.’

‘That’s the competition for you,’ Mirabelle said, and she smiled. If Jack was anywhere, he’d be with her now. And he always called them the competition. The Jerries.

‘Come on,’ the sergeant motioned her away. ‘The Super said to drop you over at the Sacred Heart.’

McGregor stood in the rain over the grave. The team had erected a tent before they started digging and Father Grogan had blessed them. Now they had almost excavated the whole thing, a shade off
six feet down. It wouldn’t be much longer. Mirabelle stood to one side, dabbing her tears with a handkerchief. As the spade hit the coffin lid she flinched visibly and McGregor went to her
side. Her skin looked very pale but he couldn’t be sure if it was the effect of wearing such a dark colour or if she had blanched. In a way, he thought, whatever it was, the colour suited
her. It highlighted the warm hazel tone of her eyes.

Are you going to be all right, Miss Bevan?’ he whispered.

Mirabelle nodded silently. It was best not to faint, of course, though with the visit to the morgue and now this, it was turning out to be a challenging day. She took a few deep breaths. She had
wanted to be here – had insisted, in fact – and she mustn’t make a fuss.