Authors: Sara Sheridan
London Calling (9 page)
Be careful going in search of adventure –
it’s ridiculously easy to find.
Breakfast in Duke’s Hotel was served in the Dining Room, which was reached by a series of passages that would have been impossible to navigate were it not for a succession of small signs on wooden stands. However, once you got there, Mirabelle thought, it was certainly worth the trip. You’d almost think rationing had been abandoned. Admittedly she felt slightly the worse for wear this morning on account of the whisky sours and Barney’s rough brandy. As a result she was one of the last of the patrons to take a table at half past nine. And, uncharacteristically for this time of the morning, Mirabelle was ravenous. Her late-night forays appeared to have done wonders for her appetite, if not her head.
Most of the guests were reading the
Telegraph
, although at one table she noticed a French paper propped up against the toast rack. At another table a young couple mooned at each other as they sipped the last of their tea. The window looked out over a small courtyard where wisps of smog swirled around two statues.
A waiter arrived to take her order. ‘Madam?’
‘Do you have sausages?’ she asked.
The waiter looked slightly surprised at the question. ‘Of course, Madam. Beef or pork?’
‘Pork, please, with mushrooms and toast.’
‘No eggs?’
Fresh eggs were a rationed treat. The taste of the powdered substitute the Ministry of Food inflicted on the British public made Mirabelle feel queasy. Vesta seemed to have mastered baking with them. In fact, she had made excellent pancakes a few times and, once, a kind of Madeira cake. However, in Mirabelle’s view powdered eggs certainly couldn’t be stomached alone, even if whisked with water or milk and scrambled.
‘Do you have real eggs?’ she checked. ‘Fresh ones?’
‘Of course, Madam. How many would you like?’
‘One, please. And a pot of tea.’
Before she checked the top stories of the day, Mirabelle stared in wonder at the generous pat of butter the waiter brought on a porcelain plate and the small bowl containing what looked like strawberry jam. She breathed in the sweet fragrance – yes, it was strawberry. No one was roughing it at Duke’s.
Well, I might as well enjoy it, she thought. This
is
a treat. As the waiter fetched her breakfast she scanned the
Telegraph
for any more information about Rose, but there was nothing. Perhaps another paper might be better – something more sensational. A downmarket rag more likely to pick up rumours or actively search for a story rather than simply printing police statements. To all intents and purposes Mirabelle was looking for gossip.
‘Excuse me,’ she asked a waiter, ‘do you have anything other than the
Telegraph
?’
‘The London
Times
?’ the man offered. ‘I can fetch it from the reading room, Madam.’
‘No, thanks, that’s not what I’m after. How about the
Express
? Or the
Daily Herald
? Both if possible. Oh, and the
Mirror
and the
Mail
if you have them.’
The waiter didn’t pause though his disapproval was clear.
‘I shall send out,’ he said coldly.
Ten minutes later, a selection of newspapers, warm from having been ironed, was delivered to her table. The breakfast was excellent, and as the Dining Room emptied of guests Mirabelle perused the news while finishing her toast and the last drops of tea. Sure enough, there was an article in the
Mirror
entitled
ROSE OF ENGLAND
. It detailed several arrests that had taken place over the last year in London’s jazz clubs and then culminated with the story of Rose going missing and Lindon being taken into custody. It did not mention that he had volunteered his witness statement, and referred to him as a ‘dark jazz fiend’. ‘When will this evil music stop?’ the
Mirror
asked, as if the syncopated rhythm of the music itself had been responsible for Rose’s disappearance. In another paper there was a photograph of Rose, this time in school uniform. She had studied at Cheltenham Ladies’ College and the school had refused to comment on the girl’s disappearance.
Mirabelle folded the papers and got up from the table. Today, she thought, she’d pop along to Belgravia. It was the best lead she had, though she would need to be a good deal more careful with her enquiries there. No one in Jermyn Street or Feldman’s had loved Rose or was related to her.
Mirabelle settled her bill and then set out briskly through the quiet streets. She stared at the upper floors of the buildings, many of which were familiar. Working for Jack had taken her into inner sanctum after inner sanctum, not least to 10 Downing Street on more than one occasion and the War Rooms – both of which were nearby.
It was strange that Rose had been with one of Paul Blyth’s daughters. Blyth, Mirabelle recalled, had two daughters, the younger of whom, Lavinia, must be more or less the same age as Rose. She knew Paul Blyth well – an authoritarian who ran his department with terrifying efficiency. He was infamous for his temper, which he scarcely controlled, and for his icy sarcasm. Mirabelle had once met a secretary who claimed that after three weeks in Commander Blyth’s office her hands were shaking so much she could no longer take shorthand. The man was a bully, albeit a highly competent one. He had stayed in office, despite his unpleasant manner, because he had the uncanny knack of picking up just the right information at just the right time. Someone had told her once that Blyth had an incredible sense of the Zeitgeist. The German word had stuck in her mind.
‘We don’t have quite the word for it in English, but you know what I mean. The man’s a marvel. Knows what people want and when they want it well before they do. That’s a skill in itself, isn’t it?’
She remembered the conversation clearly. Mirabelle wondered if Mr Blyth ran his household in the same style as his office, because in that context the idea of an eighteenyear-old girl being given permission to visit jazz clubs was highly unlikely. If Blyth’s personality was the same in peacetime as it had been during the war he’d be outraged at his daughter going against orders and, of course, with Rose’s disappearance and the police involved, now he’d know what they’d been up to.
As Mirabelle crossed the Mall several horse riders were returning from a canter in the park, and she caught a whiff of horsehide as they passed. Mirabelle picked up her pace and headed towards the white stucco streets ahead. To the left was Pimlico where the facades were much more down-at-heel and to the right the upmarket addresses of Belgravia. Mirabelle took a deep breath and turned towards Eaton Square, its dark trees skeletal against the pale buildings. She struggled to remember the number of Commander Blyth’s house and walked the full length of the street trying to recall its location. Upper Belgrave Street looked slightly shabby these days. Grubbier than she remembered, it was an array of pale grey and cream rather than the crisp white of its heyday.
The Blyth house was one of the buildings closer to Belgrave Square, she decided, and from memory an even number. Stopping on the corner she stared back down the road. Few lights were on, though from one house a maid emerged with a wicker shopping-basket over her arm.
Mirabelle took her chance. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, approaching the girl, ‘I’m looking for a family who lives on this street. The Blyths? I haven’t been here for years and I’ve forgotten the exact address. I wonder if you know which house they live in.’
The girl did not appear to find this request peculiar and pointed at number four. It didn’t stand out, apart from the front door, which was painted a very dark navy rather than the traditional black.
‘That one, Miss,’ she said. ‘But they ain’t there.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Weekend,’ the girl said as if Mirabelle was simple. ‘No one’s here over the weekend. Staff only. I’m sure none of the Blyths will be back till Sunday night at the earliest. None of our lot either. Everyone leaves, you see.’
Of course. This part of town emptied out on Friday to house parties in the Shires. It seemed like a hundred years since she had been part of that.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
The girl half-curtsied and scurried off in the direction of Knightsbridge.
Mirabelle surveyed the Blyths’ house. There was no point in being coy. The year before, she had broken into several premises but here there would be no need for that. Still, if she wanted to find out what was what there was nothing for it but to get stuck in. She walked confidently up to the front door and rang the bell. A butler answered. He was so elderly he looked as if he had been coated in white powder. Mirabelle wondered if he shouldn’t have retired.
‘Madam,’ he greeted her in an imposing voice.
‘I know Commander Blyth is away …’
The butler interrupted. ‘Mr Blyth, Madam. The Right Honourable Mr Blyth.’
‘Yes, of course. I knew him during the war, you see. The thing is, I’m most dreadfully worried about this business with Rose Bellamy Gore. I’d very much like to have a word with Mr Blyth’s daughter. Lavinia, isn’t it?’
‘Madam.’ The butler raised his hand only very slightly but its meaning was clear. Mirabelle stopped speaking immediately. ‘Miss Lavinia will not be coming back to town. She is very active in the hunt this season. If you would like to leave a card I shall give it to the master when he returns.’
‘When will he return?’ Mirabelle asked.
The butler froze, as if this question was deeply personal and asking it was an affront. ‘One cannot say precisely, Madam.’
Mirabelle thought for a moment. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll try again on Sunday evening if I’m still in town. I would very much like to speak to Miss Lavinia and to Commander, that is, Mr Blyth.’
The butler didn’t move. ‘If that will be all, Madam,’ he said.
‘Well, yes, I suppose it is.’
The door closed, and she moved back, hovering momentarily beside a white column before stepping back onto the pavement.
Lavinia Blyth. The name was bringing back a memory. Yes, she hadn’t realised before. There were two memories – both newspaper articles over the last year. Yes, she’s a clever girl – that’s good, she thought. Glancing back at the closed door she suddenly remembered why the name had stuck in her mind and her heart sank. This didn’t make sense. The butler must be mistaken.
‘No,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘that isn’t right at all.’
Difficulties show a person what they are.
With disturbing facts falling into place, Mirabelle had a new direction. It was obvious, really. It had been years since she’d gone to the club and whether they’d let her in or not she couldn’t be sure; however, if they did she’d certainly be able to put to rest her suspicions about Lavinia Blyth. The sun was bright as she passed the palace. A flock of pigeons flurried in her wake. Outside the underground station the early afternoon editions were hitting the news-stands. A boy was kneeling on the frozen pavement, clipping the string to get at the first copies, as a man in a cloth cap took down the morning headlines to be replaced.
‘
Evening Standard
!’ he shouted.
Mirabelle considered crossing the road to buy a copy but thought better of it. They had newspapers aplenty where she was going, and she had enough to think about already. It was, she decided, a measure of her recovery that she was prepared to go to the club at all. But the more she found out the more it seemed to her that several facts were amiss. She needed somewhere to sit down and think – ideally somewhere that might also provide information. If her memory served her correctly the Oxford and Cambridge Club would certainly have plenty of that. She picked up the pace once more as a stiff breeze whisked straight through her coat, and having cut through the park she rounded the corner into Pall Mall. It had been a while, and Mirabelle was almost surprised when she saw the old place. The exterior hadn’t changed although the building was a little closer to the park than she remembered. It was as if London had shifted. Perhaps, she mused, memory always worked that way. There was no brass plaque, of course. The club was nothing if not discreet – a bolthole for those in the know. She mounted the entrance steps straight into the hallway, where a steward stepped forward at the bottom of the stairs. He had a broad Northern Irish accent and was wearing formal clothes.
‘Good morning. I’m afraid I don’t have my pass. I was at St Hilda’s,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘I used to come here when I lived in London. My name is Mirabelle Bevan.’
The steward didn’t move. ‘No card, Miss Bevan?’
‘Sorry. I am a member though.’
‘I’ll have to get someone to look it up, Miss.’
‘Oh yes. In fact, I’d love to speak to someone who could look things up. I have an enquiry about another member. At least, I assume she’s a member.’