Brighton Belle by Sara Sheridan Read Free Book Online Page B

natural causes was unheard
of – something that Delia had never witnessed, in fact, during the brutal course of her life. But this came close. Bastard. She wanted to spit on him now, punch him, tear out his
balding hair, but she held herself back. If they found marks on the body they would suspect foul play. Instead she let the emotions course through her. She imagined a blue balloon floating off over
the ocean outside the window.
    Two days before she died Delia’s mother had told her that however many bad people there were, she should never lose faith that there were good people, too. In the filth. In the middle of
the nightmare. When everyone around had lost hope.
    ‘The good people are everywhere,’ she promised in a whisper. ‘And you will find them, I promise. Just survive, my darling. Survive.’
    Neither her father nor her mother would ever have expected Delia to kill the Commandant but from the moment they died Delia knew that was what she would do. She had been ready to dedicate her
entire life to his murder. They called him the Candlemaker. Delia shuddered. Men like that should be hunted like animals and executed. Men like that didn’t deserve to live.
    ‘I did it, Mama,’ she whispered. ‘I did it and I am here.’

7
    Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.
    M irabelle Bevan had only just hung up her coat when the secretary from the office down the hall came through the door without knocking. She
was a plump black girl in a tight charcoal pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse gathered at the waist with a purple patent belt which matched her shoes. The girl was scarcely twenty but
nonetheless had an air of experience and efficiency that made her seem older. She had started work a couple of months before and Mirabelle had seen her on the stairs but they’d never spoken,
only smiled and nodded.
    ‘Is your name Mirabelle Bevan?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m Vesta Churchill. No relation.’ She grinned with good humour as she shook Mirabelle’s hand firmly. ‘This letter came for you so I took it in. Had to be signed
for, you see. Your boss gone AWOL?’
    Mirabelle nodded.
    ‘Mine, too,’ Vesta plonked herself unbidden on the wooden chair opposite Mirabelle’s desk and drew her manicured fingers through her hair. ‘He’s an all right
bloke,’ she confided good-naturedly. ‘Fond of a drop, but the job is so dull I don’t blame him. Now, debt recovery, Miss Mirabelle, I bet you got a lot of secrets in here!
I’ve been dying to drop by.’
    Mirabelle smiled. Vesta seemed simultaneously both nice and somehow appalling, but then the day had already been so odd.
    ‘It’s insurance down the hall, isn’t it?’ Mirabelle said.
    ‘Sure is. Car insurance. And I don’t even have a licence. It’s all engine sizes and tyre pressure – I can’t tell you the sheer boredom of it. Cars!’
    Mirabelle slit open the envelope and peeked at the letter. It was from Ralph Peters, the lawyer. It thanked her for the loan documentation, acknowledged receipt by return and said that Romana
Laszlo’s estate was expected to settle within a month. In his own hand as a postscript, Peters had added that he had checked with Romana’s sister, Lisabetta, and the name was Hungarian.
He did not comment on how the Dutch passport might have come into being.
    ‘Anything exciting?’ asked Vesta.
    Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Paperwork. Thanks for signing for it. Very kind of you. Where are my manners? Could I tempt you to a cup of tea?’
    Vesta’s expression assumed a serious air. ‘Got any biscuits?’
    ‘We have some cream crackers, I think.’
    The girl stared for a second, as if Mirabelle had suggested they have mud pies or grass sandwiches. Then she spoke. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go back to the office and get ours.
We’ve got a whole box of Cadbury’s.’ She darted out of the door without waiting for a response.
    Mirabelle put the