British Bulldog (6 page)

Chapter 8

Courage and optimism can find expression in shopping
.

H
annington’s had not yet put the spring collections on display. Mirabelle and Vesta walked through the main hallway, which was awash with perfume, and up the grand staircase. With one eye on the lush entrance to the fur department, located through a gold brocade curtain festooned with tassels, Vesta led Mirabelle to Evening Wear. A sorry rail of sale dresses languished to one side and a sales assistant was on her knees unpacking a box of full-length ballgowns. The girl sprang to her feet.

‘Sorry, madam.’ The apology was addressed to Mirabelle.

‘No, please. Miss Churchill is only looking today,’ she said, tactfully redirecting the assistant’s attention. ‘Vesta, I think what you need is a cocktail dress, if you’re absolutely sure you won’t stretch to something bridal.’

‘Absolutely.’ Vesta grinned. ‘But not too racy.’

Mirabelle picked out a slash-necked red dress from the sale rack, but Vesta shook her head. Mirabelle was disappointed – the girl would suit the cut, but then all the colours in the winter collections would probably be too vivid for what she had in mind. Glancing round, Mirabelle could see it was going to be difficult. Vesta sank onto a gilded chair and perused the rails from a distance.

‘There was a nice green one the other day, but it’s gone,’ she said sadly.

‘We’re looking for a softer colour, a peach, perhaps?’
Mirabelle told the sales girl. ‘I wonder, might there be anything in the stock room? Do you know the green dress that Miss Churchill is asking about?’

The girl nodded. ‘Yes, madam. It was sold. All the sale stock is on display. We’re at a low ebb, but the spring collection will be on the rails in the next few weeks. This is the first of it.’ She motioned towards the box she had been unpacking, which contained two dresses in a fetching shade of cream. Mirabelle caught sight of the pastel chiffon scraps Vesta had brought with her and came to a decision.

‘I wonder, do you happen to have anything from last season? Autumn, or even summer? As I recall there was a rather nice lemon colour, and a purple. You can’t have sold everything. What happened to the rest?’

The assistant hesitated. She looked around, but there wasn’t a manager in sight.

‘If you could let us see anything you have, we’d be most grateful,’ Mirabelle went on.

‘I’m not supposed to …’ The girl spoke in a whisper. ‘Usually the gowns go to the warehouse out of town, but what with the snow …’

Mirabelle’s tone was persuasive. ‘The thing is, Miss Churchill is getting married. And she wants a colour.’

Vesta held up her hand to display Charlie’s three-stone engagement ring on her finger.

‘The bridal department is upstairs.’

‘Miss Churchill doesn’t like white. Her skin tone, you see.’

The girl lost some of her poise. ‘What is it you lot wear then?’

Vesta shrugged. ‘Usually we wear white. Just like
you
lot. It’s the
worst
colour – I don’t want to look like an idiot. Do you have anything? Anything at all?’

The assistant paused as she made the decision. ‘It’s full length,’ she said finally. ‘It’s not a cocktail dress.’

‘Go and fetch it,’ Mirabelle encouraged her. ‘Let’s take a look.’

The girl disappeared behind a red velvet curtain.

‘I might have to have something made.’ Vesta picked at the chiffon scraps with fluttering fingers as Mirabelle cast her eyes over a display of evening bags. ‘That’s what you’d do, isn’t it? Get something made?’

‘Not these days. I don’t suppose I’ll ever need a wedding dress. Off the rail somewhere like Hannington’s can be wonderful, not to mention far more convenient.’

The assistant returned with a dress cased in a thin cotton bag. She undid the buttons and let the skirt cascade to the floor. Vesta gasped. It was a darker purple than she’d thought of – not violet or mauve, more a deep pansy. There was something regal about it. The assistant hung the dress in a changing cubicle and held open the door.

‘It’s a Ceil Chapman,’ she said. ‘American.’

‘Charlie’s American. He’s from Delaware.’ Vesta smiled as she disappeared inside.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Mirabelle said warmly. ‘Thank you.’

The girl blushed. They waited. After the initial sound of rustling silk and shuffling feet there was a long silence. The assistant bit her lip. Mirabelle checked the time. After another minute Mirabelle stepped forward.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ she tapped gently on the dressing-room door.

Silence. She pushed it open. Inside, Vesta was reflected on all sides, with tears streaming down her face. The dress was a perfect fit, nipped in at the waist and demure around the shoulders. She looked as if the gown belonged to her already and she’d been going to wear it all along. Mirabelle smiled, and reached into her handbag for a handkerchief. Vesta took it.

‘It’s far too beautiful,’ she sobbed.

‘Now, now. Nothing is too beautiful for you, dear. It’s your wedding day.’

Vesta heaved an anguished sigh and turned to inspect the back of the dress in the mirror.

‘It’ll be far too expensive,’ she said. ‘It’s from the States.’

‘Well, it’s last season – I’m sure we can do something. Why don’t you let me buy it for you – as a wedding present?’

That set Vesta off again.

‘I love Charlie. That’s the thing,’ she gulped.

‘You’re supposed to enjoy this, you know. I don’t understand why you’ve been fighting it.’

‘I am enjoying it. Really I am. Do you mean it, Mirabelle? It would be the best present in England.’

Mirabelle laughed. ‘A teapot is more traditional, but I prefer this by quite some way. Now stop crying.’

Perhaps she’d have dissolved into tears if she’d ever had to buy a wedding dress. She’d have chosen cream. The wedding would have been at the register office, it being Jack’s second time around. She’d have picked something knee length with a feathered skull cap, but there was no question what Vesta would be wearing down whichever aisle she chose – the purple dress was perfect.

She turned to the assistant. ‘We’ll take it.’

The girl shifted. ‘It’s got no price,’ she said. ‘It was in the sale but the ticket’s fallen off.’

Without hesitation Mirabelle reached into the inside pocket of her handbag and withdrew three white five-pound notes.

‘That will cover it,’ she said. ‘How you account for it is your business.’

The assistant blushed. ‘My,’ she said. ‘Thank you, ma’am. Would you like to have it delivered?’

‘No.’ Vesta’s face appeared round the changing-room door. ‘I don’t want to leave it behind.’

Coming out of Hannington’s and strutting down the drizzly street, Vesta couldn’t stop smiling. A boy in a red knitted hat
wheeled a bicycle uphill and she moved the box to let him pass. As the bulky cardboard shifted she could swear she heard the dress crinkling amid reams of tissue paper.

‘I’ll need to hide it from Charlie, won’t I?’

‘You can leave it in the office,’ Mirabelle offered as they turned into Brills Lane.

The lighting was on the fritz again and the hallway was dull even compared to the natural light outside. The women took the stairs two by two and it wasn’t until they reached the top that they heard the telephone ringing. Mirabelle unlocked the door. Vesta rushed inside, flicked on the lights and stowed the Hannington’s box behind one of the filing cabinets while gracefully leaning over to pick up the receiver. Her voice sounded absolutely calm – not at all like a woman who had just bought a purple wedding gown and couldn’t bear to be parted from it.

‘McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery?’

‘Miss Bevan?’

The woman’s voice at the other end of the line was crisp and to the point. She sounded smartly dressed, Vesta realised, although on reflection she decided not to tell Mirabelle that. She would only be told off for having a vivid imagination. Mirabelle had removed her coat and switched on the fire. The bar began to glow. Vesta hardly missed a beat.

‘Please hold and I’ll transfer you. Whom shall I say is calling?’

‘Mrs Caroline Bradley.’

Wide-eyed, Vesta paused. She covered the mouthpiece. ‘It’s the widow,’ she mouthed, and held out the telephone.

‘What widow?’

‘Mrs Bradley,’ Vesta hissed.

Mirabelle smoothed a loose strand of hair behind her ear before taking the call. Her chest had constricted but she was determined not to let it show in her voice. She took a deep deliberate breath as she lifted the receiver to her ear.

‘Mirabelle Bevan,’ she said.

‘Miss Bevan, I’m calling because I received your letter.’

‘Yes, and I must apologise,’ Mirabelle cut in. It would be best to get that out of the way. ‘When I wrote to you I had no idea of your previous engagement to Flight Lieutenant Caine, Mrs Bradley. I discovered what had happened only after I had posted the letter. You must have had a horrible shock when you read it. I’m most dreadfully sorry.’

‘“Discovered” my previous engagement? What on earth do you mean? What kind of “horrible shock”? Miss Bevan, it sounds as if you have been investigating my private life like some kind of seedy snoop. There is nothing underhand here. I want to make it clear I have absolutely nothing to hide. None the less, I don’t appreciate your deciding to poke your nose into my business. I don’t appreciate it at all.’ The woman sounded furious.

‘Major Bradley asked me …’ Mirabelle began, but Mrs Bradley cut her off, clearly more intent on what she had to say than on Mirabelle’s response.

‘That is exactly what I want to talk to you about, Miss Bevan. Matthew was quite unsettled at the end, I’m sad to say. He wasn’t in his right mind. In the circumstances it seems best to discuss the matter in person. I would like to see you at four thirty this afternoon.’

‘Four thirty?’ Mirabelle was confused. ‘Where?’

‘I came down at once, don’t you see? This sort of thing can’t be allowed to fester. I’m staying with an old family friend in Hove. The house is called Moorcroft, at the end of Selborne Road. I won’t have it, you know. You can’t cast aspersions and rake people’s names through the mud in this derogatory fashion. There was absolutely nothing that wasn’t respectable about my engagement to Flight Lieutenant Caine. Lots of girls have more than one beau. My late husband must have been confused. I simply can’t imagine what he meant by all this.’

‘Look, I’ve decided not to accept the Major’s bequest in any case.’

Mrs Bradley didn’t appear to be listening. ‘Four thirty,’ she said decisively and hung up.

Mirabelle sank into the chair behind her desk with the telephone in her hand. She looked at the mouthpiece in dismay. This wasn’t what she had had in mind for the afternoon. Vesta pulled two ham rolls from her bag and set them on the table.

‘You’ll need lunch,’ she pointed out. ‘Mrs Bradley’s here, is she?’ Vesta retrieved the telephone from the older woman’s grasp and hung it up. ‘Why on earth do you think she came down?’

Mirabelle shrugged her shoulders. Surely a newly bereaved widow must have more on her plate than hightailing it to meet a woman her husband had asked to deal with a matter well over a decade old. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to go and see her, I suppose.’

Vesta picked up one of the rolls and handed it over. ‘Go on,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll make us a brew.’

Chapter 9

My past is everything I failed to be
.

S
elborne Road stretched south to north into the heart of Hove. Mirabelle knew the street. The houses just up from First Avenue had been built in Victorian times. Near the main road some of them had been converted into shops and flats, but as the road continued it quickly became residential and the villas were occupied by the same sector of the population they had been intended for decades before – Brighton’s well-to-do. Though the architecture wasn’t as swanky as some of the white stucco terraces that had been erected in the town’s Georgian heyday, the houses were popular as family homes.

The pavement led steeply uphill. The light was already fading, and it would be dark soon. When Mirabelle was halfway to the top, the lamps clicked on up the left side of the street, leaving the right-hand pavement in relative darkness. It was difficult to make out the name plaques on the houses. Mirabelle’s heart raced as she peered through the gloom, scanning the front doors for a sign saying
Moorcroft
. Towards the end of the road all the houses had names rather than numbers – a sign, she thought, of the residents’ aspirations.

Mirabelle crossed the tarmac several times, peering at the nameplates on either side. Three or four vehicles were parked in the street, obscuring some of the names. Eventually, dodging one way and another, she located the correct house. Moorcroft was well maintained. The gate didn’t squeak as Mirabelle pushed it open and looked up at the building. Inside,
the lights were on; smoke drifted from the chimney and disappeared instantly, subsumed by the clouds. Over the door the fanlight glowed gold. At least it looks warm, Mirabelle comforted herself as she approached. She was expecting to be berated and only hoped the visit needn’t last too long. To her left the tiny front garden was frozen, a few laurels and a brittle rosemary bush holding out against the chill. In the gloom she rang the bell without looking. Inside, nothing shifted for a moment and then a maid appeared.

‘Mrs Bradley is expecting me. I’m Miss Bevan.’

The girl stood back and Mirabelle slipped past, handing over her coat. Something is wrong, she thought. There’s something I haven’t noticed. Oblivious of Mirabelle’s unease, the maid laid her things on a chair and led the way upstairs. ‘The ladies are in the drawing room.’

Mirabelle followed, trying to ignore the niggling feeling that pulsed in her brain. Instead, she attempted to focus on her surroundings. The hallway was papered in peach with garlands of white and yellow flowers. Above an oak dresser a couple of well-executed landscapes hung on the wall. A pair of brass candlesticks stood on the table in case there was a power cut. The stairs were carpeted in green, held in place by polished brass rods. A hundred other houses on this road and those round it must look the same. There was nothing extraordinary about it. And yet her skin prickled.

Upstairs, the maid opened the door into the warmth of a comfortable room with a bay window. It was decorated in pale blue with an impressive number of colourful paintings on display, many of which were quite modern. The room was in sharp contrast to the more traditional hallway. Someone in the family must be a collector. A fire was roaring in the grate, and on a sofa in front of it, partly obscured by the inordinate number of cushions stacked along its perimeter, sat two women. One was dressed in a dark brown suit set off by a slim
red leather belt. She was smoking a cigarette in an amber holder and holding a cocktail glass in her other hand. She rose to her feet, and Mirabelle’s nagging unease resolved itself in a flash of horrified recognition. Her fingers began to tremble as Jack’s widow greeted her with a thin smile.

‘You must be Mirabelle Bevan.’

The women had never met, but Mirabelle had seen Mrs Duggan a few times over the years, though always in the distance. The woman’s tone was cool and superior. She was not in a rush. Her hair had been cut short, Mirabelle noted. It suited her, curling around her ears like an elfin cap. She seemed younger in widowhood – more vibrant. Would Jack have said she looked like a beautiful imp?

‘Yes.’ She nodded weakly. ‘Mirabelle Bevan. That’s me.’

‘Mary Duggan.’

Mirabelle took in the room in a whirl as it finally sank in that she was standing in Jack’s house. She had never been here – never even been close. She was not the kind of woman who stalked her lover, who hung around outside his family home, but she had known he lived in Selborne Road. He had even told her the number, but all the way along the pavement she had focused solely on the names, as if she was determined not to notice the only thing about Selborne Road that mattered. How had she not realised that this had been Jack’s home? Her mind flew back to the moments she had stood on the doorstep. There had been no number, she was sure of it, and no family nameplate – only the name of the house. But here it was – the place where Jack had died. His sudden heart attack struck out of the blue on the street outside the front door. With a stab, she realised that she’d walked past the spot without even noticing. He had set out that morning to visit her, as he did every day. But when he died no one came to tell her because no one knew she was there, waiting for him. Mirabelle tried to stay calm. I must get out of here quickly, she thought.

Her eyes were drawn to the mantelpiece, which housed an ormolu clock and a stack of formal invitation cards. It appeared Mrs Duggan was a sought after guest. There was a photograph of two girls – Jack’s daughters. Twins. In the picture they were outside, laughing. It was sunny. The image almost took Mirabelle’s breath away. One of the girls looked particularly like Jack – or a slim, younger version of him. Above the photograph, in pride of place, was an oil painting of an old man. Mirabelle wondered momentarily who he might be. He didn’t look like Jack at all – perhaps he came from Mrs Duggan’s side of the family. She felt giddy.

‘This is Caroline Bradley.’ Mrs Duggan indicated the other woman – a smartly coiffed blonde with hard eyes, wearing mourning dress.

Mirabelle struggled to control her emotions and realised that she felt sick. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Bradley,’ she managed. ‘I want to say, first of all, that I had no idea when I wrote to you that you had any personal connection to Flight Lieutenant Caine. And I also want to be quite clear that I made no arrangement with Major Bradley. I hardly knew him. I was shocked to hear that he had left this bequest in his will. I hadn’t expected it.’

Mrs Duggan stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘You worked for my late husband, didn’t you, Miss Bevan? When he was in London. Poor Jack.’

Mirabelle could only nod. Mrs Duggan sized her up.

‘Perhaps I ought to have been in touch with you before. I could have done with some secretarial assistance after Jack died. He left our affairs in a dreadful mess.’

Mirabelle bit her tongue. There was no point in keeping her own counsel all this time only to lose her temper now. She didn’t want to hurt Mrs Duggan, or, more important, her daughters. The girls were, after all, the reason Jack had waited before pursuing a divorce. He wanted them to have finished
their education, or at least be living away from home before he caused what would have been a family scandal. Nevertheless, the idea that he might have left his personal papers in some kind of mess was inconceivable. Jack was highly organised.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she got out. ‘I hope you found a way to sort things out.’

‘It was a grim business.’ Mrs Duggan waved a hand in the air as if flicking away a fly. ‘One finds out such a great deal once everything is over, as Mrs Bradley is discovering. She is disconcerted to say the least, aren’t you, Caroline? Might I offer you a drink, Miss Bevan? Please.’ She indicated a chair.

Mirabelle dropped into the cushions like a ball caught in a large leather glove. Out for six. Mrs Duggan turned to the drinks cabinet and began mixing a cocktail. There was a display of flowers on a side table – all out of season. Then Mirabelle realised they had been dried. The chrysanthemums and hydrangeas must be crisp. She met Caroline Bradley’s eye.

‘I don’t want to take up the Major’s bequest,’ she said. ‘I decided last night. This really has nothing to do with me. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.’

Caroline Bradley inclined her head. ‘Yes. Matthew was ill. He became unreasonable at the end. It does no good to go digging up the past. But I understand from your letter that you started to investigate, Miss Bevan. I’m curious. Did you turn up anything?’

The tiniest pause hung in the air, hovering in the space between the women – a strange unequal triangle. Then Mirabelle found she couldn’t help herself. ‘Nothing more than I told you … but, Mrs Bradley, do
you
have any idea what happened to Flight Lieutenant Caine? I must say, it does seem odd that he just disappeared.’

The widow’s eyes blazed. ‘Well, of course not,’ she snapped. ‘I was horrified when I realised what Matthew had done. No good can come of it. All this time I assumed Philip was dead. He must be dead. Everyone said so.’

‘Did they? I wondered, you see, if Mr Caine had a family. Siblings? Parents?’

‘No. Not really. They’re all long passed now. Even his brother died. He was RAF too, 52 Squadron. He was shot down in Burma and that was that.’

‘But Philip Caine flew in Europe?’

‘Yes. The 51st. That was their father’s squadron. In the Great War. The old man was obsessed by Zeppelins. Philip was a career flier – not like Pete, his brother. When the squadron was re-formed Phil jumped at the chance to fly with the 51st. He patrolled U-boats for a while. Then he was chosen for bombing raids – pilots with experience were in demand, you see. That’s when he was shot down.’

‘And his father is dead too? Both his parents?’

‘Oh, yes. Old Mr Caine died after the Great War. His mother died shortly after Philip didn’t come home. Missing in action. Losing two sons – it doesn’t bear thinking about. I suppose there might be some cousins. Miss Bevan, but you can’t go raking people’s reputations through the mud. I won’t have it.’

Mirabelle wondered momentarily to whose reputation Mrs Bradley was referring.

‘The Bradleys are old family friends,’ Mrs Duggan cut in. ‘I know my late husband would want Mrs Bradley’s wishes to be respected, Miss Bevan. Especially at this difficult time.’

She handed Mirabelle a glass. Mirabelle sipped slowly. The iced gin slipped satisfyingly over her lips. It was most refreshing. Had there been two Jack Duggans, she wondered? The man who lived here and drank gin cocktails in this comfortable upstairs drawing room and accompanied his wife to at least some of the events denoted by the stack of invitation cards on the mantel. The man whose social circle, unbeknownst to her, included the Bradleys. And her Jack – a man who was indomitable, clever and brave. A man who drank whisky and waltzed her round the bedroom in her silk negligee before laying her
gently on the mattress. A man who loved the airy high ceilings down at the front. Mrs Duggan did not look like a lady who waltzed – certainly not
en déshabillé
.

‘It must be difficult,’ Mirabelle said. ‘There really aren’t words. May I ask, how are your daughters, Mrs Duggan?’

‘Oh fine.’ Mrs Duggan waved a hand. ‘They have turned out to be
career
girls. Young women today enjoy that kind of thing. And of course one is so much more resilient when one is younger. Isla is working at
Vogue
. Lilian found a place at the British Museum. The children are all you have left.’ She directed the last comment to Caroline Bradley.

‘Did they go to college?’ Mirabelle asked. ‘I know Mr Duggan was very keen that they should have an education.’

‘Yes – they left home almost directly after he died. The graduation was last year. Caroline looked after them a good deal while they were at university, didn’t you, dear?’

Mrs Bradley finished her cocktail. ‘Durham,’ she said. ‘Fine Art. I’m always happy to keep an eye on a friend’s offspring. Weekends; the odd lunch. It was fun really. Perhaps when Jenny is old enough someone might return the favour. Though the poor thing is a bit of a dummy when it comes to school work. I can’t imagine she’ll go on.’

‘How old is your daughter?’ Mirabelle enquired politely.

Mrs Bradley deposited her empty glass on a side table. ‘Far too young to be worrying about higher education. She’s pony mad at present. I was the same at her age. It’ll be some time before I need to think of her leaving home. So, Miss Bevan, have we persuaded you?’

‘Persuaded me?’

‘To throw over this ridiculous quest of Matthew’s. Don’t you see? It won’t achieve anything. I think he was out of his mind at the end. And really, it’s too intrusive.’

‘Yes,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I understand.’

‘I can talk to Lovatt and see if we can get you a payment – a
sweetener, they call it, don’t they?’ Mrs Bradley offered. ‘But the terms of the bequest, I hope you can see now … it’s simply not on.’

‘That won’t be necessary. I just feel sorry that it’s been so distressing for you.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Mrs Bradley scrambled for her handbag. ‘But you must let me give you something for your trouble.’ She withdrew her chequebook and a fountain pen.

Mirabelle got to her feet. ‘Not at all. I won’t hear of it. Please. I have to go home and get changed for dinner,’ she lied. ‘We’re dining out and I don’t want to be late.’

The women nodded. ‘How nice to have someone waiting for you,’ Mrs Bradley said as she put away the chequebook and snapped shut her handbag.

Mirabelle did not contradict her. A sense of relief settled in the room. Jack’s widow refilled her glass and took a sip.

‘Don’t let us keep you.’ She reached for the bell. ‘Time is marching on. I’ll have Alison show you out.’