London Calling (15 page)

‘How did he hang himself ? Do you know?’

‘Madam, I’m not at liberty to give you details. It’ll all be open at the inquest and you can raise any concerns there. They deal with these cases promptly.’

‘Please, Constable Adler. I’m racked with guilt. Lindon is a close acquaintance of a friend of mine. He came to me for help and advice, and I handed him over to his death. I feel as if it’s my fault. I’ve hardly slept since. I keep thinking about it. If I knew what had happened, it would make it far easier. Please.’

Adler sighed again. It was all due to come out in the inquest, anyway. ‘He tore the blanket. He was in one of the cells here. He rigged up something with the bars on the window. I’m not sure that it’s appropriate, really …’

‘Did you see his body?’

‘What does that have to do with it? Listen, Madam, I’m sorry, but the Metropolitan Police doesn’t …’

‘Had you charged him at the time of his death, Constable Adler?’

‘No.’ Adler was searching Mirabelle’s face, trying to figure her out.

Mirabelle pulled a hankie from her clutch bag. The boy had responded well to her comment about feeling responsible for Lindon’s death. Playing on her femininity and making him feel uncomfortable might be highly effective. ‘I just can’t imagine why he did it,’ she sniffed.

Adler fiddled with his tie. ‘Guilt?’ he suggested. ‘I’d say it was guilt.’

‘Perhaps. However, I’m fairly sure that Lindon Claremont wasn’t guilty.’ Mirabelle blew her nose delicately.

‘Why?’ Adler sounded genuinely interested.

‘Because I don’t think he left Mac’s with Rose on Thursday night, Constable.’

‘We have witnesses to that effect, Madam. That’s a matter of police record.’

‘Did you find out where they went?’

‘The investigation is still ongoing.’

‘So you haven’t located the girl?’

‘We’re still looking,’ he said in an exasperated tone.

‘If I were Chief Inspector Green, I’d be wondering why Lindon kept the cigarette case. I mean, honestly, what kind of a fool would keep something like that if he’d committed a violent crime? It links him straight to it.’

‘People do, Madam, with all due respect. I admit it’s not thinking straight but people do.’

‘Lindon told me he was warned. He was at Mac’s and the doorman told him the police were after him. Might that have happened?’

‘Word can get around London at night pretty quickly. But he wasn’t there. He didn’t go back after he assaulted Miss Bellamy Gore.’

‘How do you know he assaulted her?’

The boy bit his lip. He knew he shouldn’t be answering these questions but he was finding it hard to control the situation and eject this smart and upset lady from his office. Still, the question cut to the chase. Just as he looked as if he was about to jump to his feet and insist she leave, Mirabelle realised she’d gone too far. She changed tack.

‘I just wonder what made Lavinia Blyth concerned when Rose left the club, that’s all. Rose was a confident young woman. She had, I’m sure, an air about her – she knew what she was doing. I don’t understand it. And Lavinia didn’t leave. She didn’t follow her friend. She didn’t go home. She went back into the club to dance. Doesn’t that seem strange to you if she was so concerned about Rose? What made her report it, do you think?’

‘Well it’s not usual behaviour, is it? A society girl like that leaving with, well, he was a Negro musician, Madam. Miss Bellamy Gore was in danger. She was very young. Lavinia Blyth might have saved her friend’s life.’

‘Constable Adler, I do hope you’re not suggesting that a black musician is more inclined towards criminal behaviour than a white musician. Some of us fought to defend our country against such beliefs.’

Adler looked sheepish. ‘No. Of course not, Madam.’ Mirabelle pressed home. ‘Besides, Rose’s body has not been found. We cannot assume she is dead.’

The boy shifted in his chair. ‘We found part of her dress,’ he said to justify himself and then he put up his hand to try to prevent the inevitable questions. The gesture was futile.

‘Where?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Ma’am. But we have evidence. The dress was torn. A debutante with a torn dress returns home if she’s alive. Miss Bellamy Gore didn’t go home.’

‘Are you certain the material you found was from her dress?’

Momentarily Adler looked like a pleased little schoolboy – he had the answer to that question. ‘Her maid identified it. It’s an unusual fabric. All evidence points to the fact that Miss Bellamy Gore got into a cab with Lindon Claremont. They headed north-east. Her dress was ripped. About an hour later he caught an early train to Brighton in possession of her cigarette case. He spun you a line, Madam. I’m sorry. Look, you shouldn’t feel bad. You brought him in. You did the right thing. You might well have saved another young girl. Another victim. If he’d got away who knows what he’d have done next.’

Mirabelle sighed. ‘St Pancras? Finsbury?’ she guessed. Adler stood up. ‘What?’

‘Well, if they headed north-east from Windmill Street, did you find the material from Rose’s dress somewhere near Russell Square? Or, goodness me, were they heading for the open air? There aren’t many big parks on that side of town. Let me see, did they go to Coram’s Fields? Did you find the material there?’

Adler flinched. ‘Madam, this is an ongoing investigation. I’ve said quite enough as it is.’

Mirabelle remained seated. To keep the boy’s attention she fiddled with the cuff of her gloves. ‘All right. I’ll go. Poor Lindon,’ she said, rising slowly. ‘I’m not convinced he has been given the benefit of the doubt, you know. Did you speak to him at all? I mean he seemed such a pleasant kid. He loved his music. He didn’t appear to me to be violent in the slightest.’

Adler moved to the door. ‘You can’t tell by people’s appearance,’ he said. ‘Most people, of course, probably are what they seem. But some people are like wolves in sheep’s clothing. Those are the ones we end up dealing with.’

Adler escorted her firmly into the hallway, a hand planted in the small of her back. The floor of the corridor had been buffed to a high shine and Mirabelle’s heels clicked as they walked past the public information notices and procedural reminders tacked to the walls. She wanted to get every last drop of information she could here. Adler now thought he was getting rid of her. Perhaps he’d drop his guard.

‘It seems strange to me that he killed himself. Out of character,’ she mused.

Adler slowed slightly. ‘I don’t think he planned it. I took him back to his cell on Friday, and he asked me if I thought he’d be out by Sunday. He had a booking to play somewhere in the afternoon. Some pub on Drury Lane.’

‘Did you reply to his question?’

‘I said it didn’t look likely he’d be getting out. Well, it didn’t look likely, did it?’

Mirabelle paused before the final set of swing doors. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her gloved hand on the brass door handle. ‘Oh, there’s just one more thing. That scrap of material. What colour was it?’

‘What do you want to know that for, Madam?’

‘Oh, idle curiosity.’

Adler pushed the door open for her. He sighed. ‘Yellow. Pale yellow with silver thread through it,’ he said. ‘She was wearing a full-length dress. It must’ve been ripped as far as the knee.’

‘It was Coram’s Fields, wasn’t it? Where you found the material? Poor Rose.’

Adler hesitated and then nodded.

‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

Mirabelle breezed through the lobby. She nodded smartly at the desk sergeant and headed for the exit.

Adler, as if coming suddenly to his senses, ran across to hold the door open. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

Mirabelle smiled. She wondered if the boy had learned anything during their exchange. If he wanted to develop any kind of police career he’d need to up his game. ‘I didn’t give it,’ she said with a smile and pushed her way into the smog by the river.

Chapter 14 

Home is birthplace ratified by memory.

Most of the houses in the area where Vesta was born were rented from the local council; the rest were owned by a few landlords with large portfolios and little inclination to effect repairs. Nothing much had changed in this part of town for a hundred years, apart from the sites cleared by the bombing. Rebuilding had started, but it was haphazard, and although one or two modern blocks of flats had been erected, the majority of the houses were soot-smudged Victorian brick two-up-two-downs with chipped doors and peeling window frames. Here in the East End the poorest families eked out a squalid existence, jammed up against each other; many of them crowded into tiny bedsits with no electricity.

Lines of residential streets clustered around the docks away from the water. The shoreline was reserved for small factories, dockyards and bonded warehouses. It felt heavy here and the lack of green space always depressed Vesta; it especially dispirited her that rather than being cultivated with vegetables or Sowers the bombsites had descended into sludgy makeshift playgrounds for the local kids. Vesta couldn’t remember finding the place so grey and drab when she was growing up here. Now, her return was muted by the feeling that life in the East End was drained of colour – with its grey houses, muddy gap sites and the shit-brown river that ran through it all.

Yet, the same could not be said for the people. The rows of local shops teemed with life, and like all areas where people lived and worked together, everyone seemed to know each other. Children of all ages played on the pavements; at this time of year they were wearing home knitted sweaters in vibrant colours. A little girl with an orange cardigan reminded Vesta of a bright flower in the mud. Women did their shopping on the street where they lived. The menfolk worked in one capacity or another for a handful of employers. Or else they ran local businesses – small shops that provided foodstuffs and other necessities. The local pubs were the hub of the community as much as the churches. Messages could be left and parcels picked up in either place.

As the castellated outline of Bermondsey Library came into view Vesta automatically thought,
Eight minutes to go.
Her mother always said that when you passed Bermondsey Library that was the time to make sure your coat was done up and to take a deep breath in. Bermondsey housed Biscuit City – the Peek Frean’s factory – and for miles the air smelled of baking butter biscuits. Sure enough, Vesta checked her coat, breathed in deeply and eight minutes later she got off the tram. The smog was so thick she could make out the chime of the bell on the corner-shop door more clearly than she could make out the shop itself. The smell of freshly baked rolls wafted towards her, and a paperboy with a large bag slung over his shoulder trudged along the pavement weighed down by his deliveries. It was still early. If she hurried she would catch her mother before she left for church.

Vesta knew her way without having to see the street signs. Normally, she dreaded going home. Her family loved her and the Churchills were close, but sometimes they could be smothering. Much to her parents’ consternation, Vesta’s older brother had returned to the West Indies. At least he wasn’t gawped at in the street, he’d said. And it took a week before news of what he’d been up to could reach his mother and a week more before she could voice her objections. Vesta liked London but there had come a point where she couldn’t stay at home. The preferred option for most girls was to get married, of course. Vesta told herself she’d probably do that sometime but she wasn’t quite ready and, besides, she had Olympic typing speeds. They had joked during the London Games that if only there was a typing event, Vesta would get the gold.

The lights in the front room were off but the pane over the Churchills’ front door glowed like a beacon. There was no need to knock. Like most houses round here, the large tarnished key sitting in the inside lock was rarely used.

‘It’s me!’ she called.

‘Lord Almighty, Vesta!’ came the cry from the kitchen and all fourteen stones of Mrs Churchill bustled down the hallway. She wrapped her arms tightly around her daughter.

Vesta couldn’t help but burst into tears. Her mother’s soft skin smelled of soap and coconut oil, and her arms were strong. The yellow floral housecoat was comforting in its familiarity.

Vesta sobbed, unable to restrain herself. ‘It’s Lindon, Mama. He’s dead.’

‘We know, we know. Daddy went to the phone box last night. He tried to ring you, child. Mrs Claremont gonna be glad to see you today! You did right to come home.’

Behind the two women crowded the stocky figure of Mr Churchill and Vesta’s younger brother, Edmund, who was eating a thin slice of toast ladled with dripping of his mother’s making.

‘My little swan,’ Mrs Churchill said fondly, stroking Vesta’s hair. ‘Such terrible news to bring you back.’

The family moved into the kitchen. The house was shabby yet warm and cosy, and to Vesta it would always feel like home. The hallway was painted buttery cream with pictures of tropical Sowers on the walls. A threadbare velvet chair with a huge cushion sat at the bottom of the stairs. Today, unusually, the hallway didn’t smell of cooking. Everyone had been out, Vesta realised. Last night they would have gone to the Claremonts’. Vesta dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief before dropping onto one of the chairs. Mr Churchill removed a boiling kettle from the stove and laid it to one side for his wife, and then sat down in front of the fire, his white shirt so stiff with starch it looked as if it was holding him in place.