Free London Calling by Sara Sheridan Page A

Yes. That was a start. Poor Barney, Mirabelle mused, if he had any feathers they would be well and truly ruffled. She smiled as she imagined him as a huge fat bird, feathers on end. Who, if anyone, would he tell about her visit? Had he told them about her already? She checked her watch. It was well past midnight and the last train to Brighton was long departed. She was almost back at the park. There was nothing else for it. She’d have to stay in London overnight.

Chapter 8 
Be careful going in search of adventure –
it’s ridiculously easy to find.
    Breakfast in Duke’s Hotel was served in the Dining Room, which was reached by a series of passages that would have been impossible to navigate were it not for a succession of small signs on wooden stands. However, once you got there, Mirabelle thought, it was certainly worth the trip. You’d almost think rationing had been abandoned. Admittedly she felt slightly the worse for wear this morning on account of the whisky sours and Barney’s rough brandy. As a result she was one of the last of the patrons to take a table at half past nine. And, uncharacteristically for this time of the morning, Mirabelle was ravenous. Her late-night forays appeared to have done wonders for her appetite, if not her head.
    Most of the guests were reading the Telegraph , although at one table she noticed a French paper propped up against the toast rack. At another table a young couple mooned at each other as they sipped the last of their tea. The window looked out over a small courtyard where wisps of smog swirled around two statues.
    A waiter arrived to take her order. ‘Madam?’
    ‘Do you have sausages?’ she asked.
    The waiter looked slightly surprised at the question. ‘Of course, Madam. Beef or pork?’
    ‘Pork, please, with mushrooms and toast.’
    ‘No eggs?’
    Fresh eggs were a rationed treat. The taste of the powdered substitute the Ministry of Food inflicted on the British public made Mirabelle feel queasy. Vesta seemed to have mastered baking with them. In fact, she had made excellent pancakes a few times and, once, a kind of Madeira cake. However, in Mirabelle’s view powdered eggs certainly couldn’t be stomached alone, even if whisked with water or milk and scrambled.
    ‘Do you have real eggs?’ she checked. ‘Fresh ones?’
    ‘Of course, Madam. How many would you like?’
    ‘One, please. And a pot of tea.’
    Before she checked the top stories of the day, Mirabelle stared in wonder at the generous pat of butter the waiter brought on a porcelain plate and the small bowl containing what looked like strawberry jam. She breathed in the sweet fragrance – yes, it was strawberry. No one was roughing it at Duke’s.
    Well, I might as well enjoy it, she thought. This is a treat. As the waiter fetched her breakfast she scanned the Telegraph for any more information about Rose, but there was nothing. Perhaps another paper might be better – something more sensational. A downmarket rag more likely to pick up rumours or actively search for a story rather than simply printing police statements. To all intents and purposes Mirabelle was looking for gossip.
    ‘Excuse me,’ she asked a waiter, ‘do you have anything other than the Telegraph ?’
    ‘The London Times ?’ the man offered. ‘I can fetch it from the reading room, Madam.’
    ‘No, thanks, that’s not what I’m after. How about the Express ? Or the Daily Herald ? Both if possible. Oh, and the Mirror and the Mail if you have them.’
    The waiter didn’t pause though his disapproval was clear.
    ‘I shall send out,’ he said coldly.
    Ten minutes later, a selection of newspapers, warm from having been ironed, was delivered to her table. The breakfast was excellent, and as the Dining Room emptied of guests Mirabelle perused the news while finishing her toast and the last drops of tea. Sure enough, there was an article in the Mirror entitled ROSE OF ENGLAND . It detailed several arrests that had taken place over