British Bulldog by Sara Sheridan Read Free Book Online Page B

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 lookedup 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