Brighton Belle Read Online Free Page B

man walked into the office without even knocking. He had an extraordinary look on his face,
as if he had seen an angel – a cross, Mirabelle thought, between wonder and disbelief. Debtors often arrived first thing in the morning. They were almost always dressed like this man –
in shabby demob suits – though his expression marked him out from the normally subdued clientele at McGuigan & McGuigan who invariably arrived with a shameful look on their faces,
apologising as they handed over their coins.
    ‘Come in, I’ll only be a minute.’
    Mirabelle motioned the man to a chair and slipped her note inside the file marked ROMANA LASZLO and then wrote on the buff cover DECEASED in
brackets.
    ‘Is that the foreign bird over at Dr Crichton’s then?’ the man asked jovially, peering at what she was doing from his chair.
    Mirabelle nodded. Somewhere, she thought, Jack is laughing at me. I can practically hear him.
    ‘I suppose all sorts need money now and then,’ he mused. ‘I delivered her coffin there this morning. Thought it was the same name. Well, I never. Weird lot, them foreigners.
Don’t want an undertaker, oh no. Just a coffin. Basic model. Didn’t even want me to lay her in it. Poor soul. Must be a foreign custom. Nice, really, to look after the body yourself, I
suppose. Keep it in the family, like. Used to be that way here though people don’t bother now.’
    Mirabelle sighed. There was nothing for it. The details were too intriguing.
    ‘And you are?’ she started.
    ‘Michael Smith. Come to make a payment.’
    Mirabelle reached for the ledger. ‘And you work at the undertakers?’ she enquired casually.
    ‘That’s right. Cobb’s of Patcham.’
    Mirabelle scanned through the entries – ten debts on each page. Michael Smith had been running this loan for eighteen months though it looked as if Big Ben normally made a call once a
month to get a little money. Most of the time the man barely covered the interest.
    ‘I’m paying the lot off today,’ he announced. ‘I want to clear it.’
    Mirabelle put her finger on the appropriate entry and read across. ‘Five pounds, two shillings and sixpence.’
    Mr Smith reached into his pocket. He proudly withdrew a large white five-pound note and laid it on the desk with a half-crown piece. Mirabelle indicated where he had to sign for completion.
    ‘Good tipper, that Dr Crichton,’ Smith said, his face showing clear delight at being out of the red. ‘Wanted to give me a gold coin and I said “Oh, sir, I can’t
take that.” Just laughed, he did, and gave me one of those.’ He nodded towards the paper money. “That’s for you,” he said. “Now hop it!” Well, I got out of
there quick, I don’t mind telling you, before he changed his mind.’
    It was an outrageous tip, probably worth more than the coffin.
    ‘Gosh, it is your lucky day,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Do you have Dr Crichton’s address, Mr Smith? I need it for this file.’
    ‘Course I do,’ Smith grinned, far too elated to question why. ‘22 Second Avenue. Easy to remember. Two, two, two, you see.’
    When the man left the office, Mirabelle sat back in her chair. There was clearly something going on. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear with a determined expression. Nothing as intriguing
as this had happened in almost two years – not since she left the ministry. It felt comforting in a way – familiar. The best ones started this way – hammering on the door,
refusing to be ignored. The devil was always in the detail. And here the detail was certainly devilish – a dead woman and her child, a case of, if not mistaken identity, then some kind of
mix-up at best and a very great deal of money.
    Mirabelle decided to take a trip along to Second Avenue and have a look for herself.

4
    Chickenfeed: information intended to attract and puzzle the recipient.
    M irabelle buttoned her coat and pinned her hat in place. Then she caught a bus. Second Avenue was only a few blocks from her