British Bulldog (4 page)

‘I say, who on earth are you?’

Mirabelle started but managed a smile as she turned round. The chap in the doorway wore a grey RAF officer’s uniform. He was a solid-looking fellow, greying at the temples. His ruddy complexion betrayed him as either an outdoor enthusiast or a toper. Mirabelle held out her hand.

‘Mirabelle Bevan. How do you do?’

‘How do you do?’ he replied.

Neither of them answered the other’s entirely rhetorical question and it was Mirabelle who continued the conversation.

‘I’m looking for someone. Well, two someones if I’m honest. A Royal Engineer, Major Matthew Bradley and another officer, Philip Caine.’

The man squinted. He removed his hat and gloves and laid them on a side table. He was not as old as he seemed, she realised. Some people simply had a lack of humour that aged the face and this chap was probably ten years younger than the fifty he looked. He turned towards Mirabelle, clearly sizing her up in exactly the same way.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘Caine has been dead for years. He never came back.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Yes, of course I did. Everyone knew Caine. He was a pilot. A very fine one. Not a wing commander or anything, only a flight lieutenant, but he could fly all right. He got shot down in ’42, poor fellow. Look, who on earth are you?’ The man glanced over his shoulder into the hallway as if he hoped help might arrive and he would not have to deal with this unexpected and irksome woman on club property.

‘You’re quite right,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘I shouldn’t be here. The thing is, I was contacted by the solicitor of Major Matthew Bradley, whom I met briefly during the war. Bradley died last weekend. It turns out his last request was that I should look into what happened to Flight Lieutenant Caine. They were friends – escape partners from the same Stalag. They got out
together and Caine somehow got lost on the way home. Since I’ve been asked to track him down, I thought this would be a good place to start. Did you know Major Bradley too? He was quite famous, I think.’

The officer appeared to be deep in thought. ‘No, I don’t believe I know anyone of that name,’ he said at last.

‘Bulldog Bradley?’

‘Oh, yes!
Bulldog
Bradley. Though I only know him by reputation. Royal Engineer, wasn’t he? It seems a long time ago now. I didn’t know he’d got out with Caine. Poor Philip. He was a great flier. Never made it home though.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

The officer stared blankly. ‘Of course I’m sure. What kind of a fool do you take me for?’

‘I’m sorry. Please, go on. Tell me, what was he like?’

‘Caine? Tall fellow. Thoughtful. The bugger spoke German – excuse my language.’

Mirabelle waved off the apology. German was a valuable escape skill. Between Bradley’s practical expertise and undoubted bravery and Caine’s linguistic ability the pair must have stood a good chance from the start.

‘That’s interesting. Where did he learn, do you know?’

‘I think there was some Hun family connection. That applied to several of the chaps, of course. The blighter had some French too, I recall. I don’t know if that was anything to do with his people.’

‘So did Caine have a family?’

‘A wife, you mean?’

Mirabelle nodded. The officer sat down in a comfortable leather chair by the dying fire. He clasped his hands and considered the question for what felt like a long time.

‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Though he was engaged, as I remember. They’d known each other as children. I don’t think they were cut from quite the same cloth. But once he’d got some
flying hours behind him … well, the wings, you see, were damned attractive during wartime. Heroes and so forth. Caine was due to get married that summer. Rush job. But it was like that during the war. If you wanted something you had to seize the day. He never made it to the altar, of course. He must have been shot down the week he was meant to tie the knot, or very close to it. The girl had a title, I remember. Her people were from somewhere up north. She was a rider – a country type and quite a firebrand, as I recall. Made a terrible fuss when poor Caine went down … Now, give me a moment … it was Lady Caroline something or other …’

Mirabelle’s heart sank. ‘Lady Caroline Bland?’

‘Yes. Blow me. Yes, that’s it!’

Mirabelle’s mind swam. She glanced at the copy of
Who’s Who
on the shelf. Lady Caroline Bland was the woman who had married Bradley. This new information meant that she had quite possibly just posted the least discreet letter she had ever written. What on earth would poor Mrs Bradley think? There she was, grieving for a husband who all these years had been wondering what had happened to her erstwhile fiancé. Worse, Bradley clearly felt so guilty about whatever had happened that he effectively employed a complete stranger – Mirabelle – to look for the friend he’d somehow lost on his way home. He’d cut out his wife entirely.

‘Well, at least that explains why Bradley didn’t look for Caine while he was alive,’ she thought out loud.

The officer, pleased with himself, crossed the room and released a decanter of brandy from a locked tantalus. He poured himself a drink.

‘One can never get any service round here. No chance of any ice. Might I fetch you something?’ he offered.

Mirabelle checked her watch. She doubted there was anything more to be gained at the club. ‘No, thank you. I’d best be going.’

As she buttoned her coat, it occurred to her that Vesta would be delighted by the afternoon’s revelations. Writing to Mrs Bradley was probably the only thing Mirabelle had done since she met the girl that might constitute a decent piece of gossip. As she glided through the deserted hallway, leaving the RAF officer to drink alone in the club’s drawing room, Mirabelle wondered if there was any chance that the postman might let her fish the letter out of the box and start again. Then she realised with a twist of shame that it must have been picked up by now – there was always a lunchtime run. A sheet of halfhearted drizzle showered Pall Mall as Mirabelle stepped onto the pavement. Across the road the tramp loitered. Mirabelle felt her skin prickle as she turned towards Piccadilly.

Chapter 5

I want to be with those who know secret things
.

T
he man had no spycraft. It was easy to tell she was being followed. Mirabelle picked up her pace but he didn’t fall behind. Her heels clattered on the icy paving stones and she almost slipped as she turned the corner, righting herself by catching hold of the railings. Further ahead there was a policeman dawdling up St James’s Street but she was reluctant to ask for help, instead overtaking him briskly and glancing behind as she did so. Why wouldn’t the fellow just clear off?

In a state of mild confusion, Mirabelle found herself on Piccadilly turning sharply left and up the stairs into the Ritz hotel. It was an excellent place to think, if rather grand, and at least the tramp wouldn’t be able to follow her. Stepping inside was immediately comforting. The Ritz was unsullied by memories of anyone but Jack – unlike the Savoy, where the year before last she had had lunch with Superintendent Alan McGregor at the end of the Claremont case. It had been pleasant enough, although the vast dining room had been subdued by news of the King’s death, which had been announced earlier that day. Still, Mirabelle had been unable to dismiss the feeling that she was being disloyal to Jack’s memory by coming there with somebody else. The Ritz was convenient and Jack had believed in hiding in plain sight. With Superintendent McGregor such niceties were not a consideration. There had been no intimate conversation, nothing like that. But still, it had felt wrong.

Today as she strode into the bar at the Ritz it felt like London as it used to be. The velvet seats were carefully placed to allow each table the maximum privacy – the hallmark of a good English hotel, somewhere you’d be left alone. This afternoon there were only two tables in use – both occupied by well-dressed gentlemen drinking by themselves and reading the
Daily Telegraph
. The bar had the air of a shrine – somewhere she could step, even if only fleetingly, into a time when London was at its best and she was in love. She mustn’t bring anyone else here, she decided.

‘Madam?’ The waiter approached.

The whiff of Brylcreem acted like smelling salts. Mirabelle ordered a glass of champagne and settled into a chair in the corner, drawing the pale walls around her like a cloak. She strained to see out of the window but the tramp wasn’t in her line of sight. With luck he’d go now. More important, she told herself, was the fact she’d written that dreadful letter. Her stomach churned with embarrassment at Mrs Bradley’s anticipated discomfort. When the champagne arrived with a small plate of crackers, Mirabelle picked at them distractedly. Any hope that Bradley’s widow might furnish a lead to help her find Flight Lieutenant Caine was over. It was unlikely the woman would even reply. I certainly wouldn’t, she thought.

Trying to put aside her horror at what she’d done, Mirabelle focused. After all, that’s what Jack would have said. Keep your eye on the ball. She drew her attention back to the matter in hand. What might this new information mean? Bradley was a British hero but so, it turned out, was Caine. Pilots had been revered for their courage: many men were brave (and women too), but not everyone risked their lives in quite such a demonstrable fashion. Now, it appeared she had two heroes on her hands, one of whom stole the other’s fiancée while his friend was detained behind enemy lines. Perhaps this shed some light on the major’s blank eyes at the nightclub all those years ago,
though it painted him terribly black. The chilled champagne twisted as it went down and Mirabelle repositioned herself in her seat.

What on earth had Bradley been thinking stealing his friend’s girl? Had he simply fallen in love with someone forbidden? That was what had happened to her, after all. Jack hadn’t loved his wife for years when Mirabelle had taken him on – not that she had had much of a choice. There was no doubt they had been meant for each other. It had felt absolutely right from the beginning. Had it been the same for Bulldog Bradley and Lady Caroline Bland? She considered this as she finished her drink rather too quickly and once more checked out of the window. A cab pulled up at the hotel’s front door and she caught a swish of the porter’s uniform as he rushed forward with a black umbrella. The tramp was still nowhere to be seen. This investigation felt difficult, like driving in fog. She imagined rolling out the story easily, like unfurling a long carpet, and tried to think where it might lead. Then, leaving money on the table, she stalked into the cold to try to find out.

The post-champagne glow helped distract her from the chill. The man, it seemed, had gone. The crowd thickened near Piccadilly Circus. Flocks of umbrellas concealed pedestrians from each other. At the junction Mirabelle ducked out of the rain and took the stairs down to the Tube. With such a lot to mull over, she hadn’t decided which option she would pursue next and as a result she hovered uncertainly at the subterranean crossroads, where the tiled corridors were smeared with grubby melt. One branch led to the eastbound platform, the other to the west.

Then ahead, approaching from a set of stairs, the tramp rounded the corner and stopped, staring. Mirabelle felt suddenly furious. She hadn’t fought the war to be afraid of some useless old man. Those days were over.

‘Why are you following me?’ she demanded. ‘What do you want?’

The fellow was sheepish. He held out his palm. ‘I need money, lady. I ain’t eaten in two days.’

‘But you’ve followed me all the way from Sloane Square.’

‘You looked kind. Men don’t give a fellow much, but a kind-looking lady …’

‘You can’t go about intimidating women,’ Mirabelle snapped in temper.

The man shrugged. ‘I just need help,’ he said.

Mirabelle turned on her heel. This wasn’t her responsibility. How dare he frighten her like that? Reaching into her pocket she fingered the scrap of paper bearing the address of the Red Cross archive, deciding she’d head for Kensington. The tramp leaned against the tiling as if he’d been punched and Mirabelle wondered why she had been so afraid of him. The war was over. It had been over for almost a decade. Why couldn’t she let it go? The barrier loomed ahead but she didn’t buy a ticket. Guilt twisted in her gut. She withdrew a shilling from her purse and turned back.

‘If you want money, just ask. Don’t go scaring women by following them about,’ she said, and thrust the coin into the man’s grubby hand.

He murmured a thank you but Mirabelle hardly heard it. She didn’t want to think about the detritus of the war any more. She didn’t want to feel guilty, and most of all she didn’t want to harbour fearful suspicions about harmless old men.

The roar of the train approaching the platform was familiar. Mirabelle stepped aboard, took a seat, and tried to focus on the puzzle Bulldog Bradley had dropped into her lap as the carriage creaked and rocked its way under London.

If Philip Caine knew he’d lost the woman he loved, might he have given up trying to get home, she wondered? What was there for him to come back to? Heartbreak did strange things to people. She thought about the summer of 1942 – El Alamein and Stalingrad. The Battle for the Atlantic all but won and the
hopelessness of Operation Jubilee – the thousands of Allied troops who died or were taken prisoner in Dieppe. Jack had been restless. And yet, probably knowing very little of the news, Bulldog Bradley and Philip Caine had slipped out of their Stalag and made their way into French territory from where, it seemed, only one of them made it home. She tried to place the day she’d seen Bradley that night in the club – was it August or September? It was impossible to remember. The summer merged into a confusing jumble of air raid shelters and picnics in the park, long hours in the office and kissing Jack in a store cupboard. Recently she had found it difficult to distinguish between one phase of their relationship and another. It seemed as if she’d always known him. Mirabelle sighed. This wasn’t helping.

Quarter of an hour later, emerging onto Kensington High Street, she noticed two chauffeurs in uniform smoking and chatting over the bonnet of a Bentley R type. The flower stall at the bottom of Church Street lit the dreary afternoon with a splash of holly. The side streets were unexpectedly steep, and turning the corner she checked the number on her scrap of paper against the figures mounted on the doorways. Here, at least, she hoped she’d find some answers.

The British Red Cross archive was housed in two buildings – numbers 20 and 22. Mirabelle picked her way up the hill past small front gardens with tiled pathways and painted wooden gates. Several of the flowerbeds had been planted with vegetables. She had almost made it to the top when a car emerged unexpectedly from the mews behind, splashed through a puddle and sent a freezing sloop of water over her feet. Mirabelle wished she’d worn her boots and cursed under her breath. Then, steeling herself, she opened the garden gate and knocked on the door. There was no reply, so she knocked again and rattled the letterbox. When that produced no response, she tried the handle.

Inside, the building seemed deserted. It had an air of disorganisation and decay that was becoming familiar. Piles of loose-leafed files teetered on what looked like tea trolleys placed about the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs three filing cabinets had been pushed awkwardly against the banister. Opposite them a spindle-legged table seemed too delicate to bear the weight of several padlocked tin document cases.

‘Hello,’ Mirabelle called, pushing open the door of the front room, where the disarray continued to such an extent that it took a moment to ascertain that there was nobody inside. She picked up a file and was horrified by a photograph of two stick-thin children, looking up ravenously from a meal of what appeared to be thin porridge. Behind it, two death certificates informed her that one had been called Girda and the other Max, although neither had a surname or, apparently, any knowledge of where they had originally come from. They died in November 1945 at the estimated ages of seven and eight years. They were so small they looked younger, except in the eyes. These children spoke German and Polish, someone had scribbled on the back of the picture – a clue in case anyone came looking and the photograph was not enough. It seemed so scant. Did all these files contain such terrible stories? There was hardly any space to move between the stacks, but could any amount of paperwork be adequate to encompass these tragedies?

Mirabelle returned to the hallway and tried another room, which was in a similar state of disorganisation, but on her third attempt she finally found someone. At the back of the building, in a small room that was in a slightly better state than the others, an old woman wearing a smart navy suit was poking about in a filing cabinet A crumpled handkerchief protruded from the old girl’s sleeve and Mirabelle spotted a stain on her lapel that was only partly masked by an amethyst brooch. She was humming as she opened a box of papers, and as she looked
up there was a waft of lavender scent that Mirabelle guessed was comprised mainly of medical components.

‘Hello.’ She peered myopically at Mirabelle. ‘Goodness, I expected someone far younger! What on earth were they thinking?’

Mirabelle laughed. The atmosphere had felt so heavy with history that the old lady’s attitude came as a relief.

‘Come in, come in.’ The woman’s accent was northern and she spoke too loudly, which suggested that she was slightly deaf. That was why she hadn’t answered the door, Mirabelle thought: she hadn’t heard it. ‘I’ll be glad of the help however old you are,’ she continued cheerily. ‘It’s just you, is it?’ She checked the hallway without pausing to let Mirabelle answer. ‘Really, we’ll need a team of six. I haven’t taken on a job this large since I was stationed in Gibraltar.’

‘Gibraltar?’ Mirabelle raised her voice. ‘That sounds like an adventure.’

‘I’m Matron Gard.’ The woman held out her hand.

‘Mirabelle Bevan.’ Mirabelle shook it.

‘Well, it’s high time they sent somebody,’ the old lady said, guiding Mirabelle firmly back into the shabby hall and shepherding her into a tiny kitchen located under the stairs. ‘Look at you, large as life and I’m sure you’re cold too. It’s freezing out there. Tea? Well, speak up. Do you take milk? There’s some here somewhere.’

‘The thing is, I was hoping to use the archive,’ Mirabelle said as she took off her gloves. ‘I’m looking for a missing person.’

The matron efficiently lobbed some tea into the pot and added a slug of hot water.

‘Oh,’ she said, sounding dejected. ‘My dear, have I made the kind of error that only an old beast can? Do you mean you’re not one of the girls they’re sending to help? And I was so hopeful.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘I knew you didn’t look the type.’ Matron Gard sighed.
‘Look at your nails. In general, girls who work with this kind of material aren’t going to attract a fellow’s attention, and that’s the truth.’

Mirabelle withdrew her manicured hands from sight. ‘Is the archive always so …’ She wasn’t quite sure how to frame the sentence.

‘You mean is it usually in such a mess? Oh, yes. I’m afraid it’s in the most dreadful state. It outgrew the last place, you see. And then we found these houses at short notice. The records had to be moved in a hurry and you can see the result. There’s a saving grace, though only one, I’m afraid – they’re organised geographically. That’s how they delivered them. As to the rest,’ the old lady cast her eyes upwards and Mirabelle momentarily wondered if she was referring to what lay upstairs, ‘it’s in God’s hands. His and the secretarial team’s, when they finally turn up. I expected them yesterday. I’m afraid we’re really not ready for readers, my dear.’

Matron Gard added a small splash of milk and handed Mirabelle a cup of tea that let off an inordinate amount of steam. ‘There’s no sugar,’ she said.

Mirabelle sipped. Her fingertips were so cold that touching the surface of the cup was painful, and she moved the tea from one hand to the other. Britain ran on tea, they said. At least that hadn’t changed.

‘Thank you. I was hoping the archive might help solve a mystery. It was the last request of a dying man, Major Matthew Bradley.’

Matron’s nose crinkled as if she scented something important. ‘Bulldog Bradley, is it?’