London Calling by Sara Sheridan

Author:Sara Sheridan [Sheridan, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857905666
Publisher: Birlinn
Published: 2013-02-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

All you need is a tiny foothold and the rest will take care of itself.

Mirabelle hadn’t loitered in the White Hart. She’d paid for the food, headed back out into the cold and with a renewed sense of purpose set off towards Aldwych. She was too impatient to wait for the bus and the walk would give her time to consider what Charlotte had told her.

A guardsman wearing a bearskin, hands in his pockets, loomed out of the smog and paused to light a cigarette. Mirabelle wondered where he was going and if he should be smoking while he was in uniform.

Jack always said that surveillance required very open-minded concentration. ‘It takes a certain kind of person to gather intelligence – the kind of person who is never bored. It’s a different skill from taking action.’ Mirabelle felt as if action was now required but she was unsure what she ought to do. When it came down to it, she had formed no alternative theory to the official line that assumed Lindon Claremont’s guilt. But too many doubts and questions continued to niggle her – like an itch she couldn’t scratch.

As she turned into Pall Mall she sneezed. The winter weather in London was notorious, with half the city suffering from respiratory complaints from October to March. She scrambled in her handbag for a hankie just as she reached the grand entrance of the Oxford and Cambridge Club.

‘I was here yesterday,’ she identified herself to the steward inside, blowing her nose discreetly. ‘Miss Bevan, if you remember? I was hoping to see Deirdre Blyth today.’

‘I’m afraid Miss Blyth departed early this morning, Madam.’

‘Harry Bellamy Gore?’

‘He’s gone out, Madam.’

‘In that case, is Miles around?’

‘Certainly. I’ll find him for you, Madam.’

‘I’ll be in the Ladies’ Sitting Room.’

The room was empty but the clink of cutlery from a few solitary Sunday diners emanated from the Coffee Room as she slipped by the half-open door. Mirabelle warmed herself at the fire before taking a seat by the window where she could stare at the foggy street. It helped her to think and she needed to think quickly. Even though Miles was on his way, she wasn’t yet sure how best to tackle him. She reasoned that in all probability Harry’s man was accustomed to ushering females of several persuasions, jazz singers included, in and out of the club on his master’s behalf. Still, she’d need to think of something plausible to explain why she wanted to see the boy. She put a hand to her hair and checked her appearance in her compact. The tweed suit was holding up fine, though she looked a little tired. Perhaps she could get away with being an aunt again. She looked like one, she realised – a spinster aunt. Mirabelle straightened her jacket. Harry seemed rather removed from the events of Thursday night and she wondered if the police had questioned him sufficiently. She was still lost in thought when a sharp knock cut into her concentration and a bulky man dressed in overalls entered the room.

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