Free Brighton Belle by Sara Sheridan Page A

bit rattled and planning to go straight home. We had a close call there.’
    ‘Right.’
    The phone clicked and Mirabelle hung up, heartened that she had at least managed a little disinformation. Then she continued in the direction of Chelsea.
    It was warm for April. King’s Road was bustling with residents returning at the end of their working day. There was the smell of cooking and an air of domesticity with more than one man
carrying flowers and a bottle of wine.
    Mirabelle told herself she just had to persevere, and her first problem would be finding that damn nightclub.
    ‘Excuse me,’ Mirabelle asked a man in a suit carrying a bunch of yellow roses, ‘do you know where the Kitten is?’
    ‘Sorry no,’ he said emphatically.
    After asking half a dozen gentlemen, Mirabelle began to wonder how the place survived until at last the aghast expression on one man’s face as he denied all knowledge of the club told its
own story.
    Where angels fear to tread, she thought as she hailed a cab.
    ‘The Kitten? Not worth the fare,’ the driver told her. ‘It’s only a block away. But you’re early.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not even dark yet. I’m
not sure a lady like you ought to be going to a place like that, Miss, if you don’t mind me saying.’
    ‘I have to drop off a letter,’ Mirabelle reassured him. ‘A solicitor’s letter.’
    ‘Well, he said doubtfully, ‘you can see the turn-off from here.’
    The lane was downmarket. Despite pretty flowerboxes and well-maintained cobblestones in front of the converted mews houses, it was clear that the dead end contained at least one little casino
and two bars as well as the club – none of them currently open for business. The neon signs were switched off – and looked, Mirabelle thought, like strange skeletal winter trees. The
Kitten was at the end on the righthand side. Mirabelle quickly ascertained that the door was locked. She rang the bell. No answer. She rapped on the door for good measure. Nothing.
    Finally, she picked her way around the side of the building past the bins beside the back door. There was no bell so, once more, she tried knocking. Still no reply. Then with a shrug she made
the decision and crossed the line. Carefully, still wearing heels, she climbed on top of the bins to reach a small window halfway up the wall. Then, with the faintest glimmer of a smile, she
withdrew the flick-knife she had found in the bedside table at the flat and following Bert Jennings’ example slid the blade along and manipulated it to release the catch. The window opened
immediately.
    ‘Not that much of an idiot,’ she whispered to Jack, and then slipped carefully through the opening.
    It was a dressing room. Dancers’ costumes hung on a steel rail and feathered headpieces were stacked on two faceless dummies, eerie in the half-light. On the back of the door a riding whip
and a feather boa hung on a hook. The place felt grubby, as if it had never been cleaned. Spots of stray make-up dotted the dressing table, which was covered with a light dusting of talc. The
contents of an ashtray spilled over onto the floor. Mirabelle looked back at the open window a moment before she decided to continue. Then she tried the door, which opened onto a passageway to one
side. It was ship-shape out there. There were three locked storerooms, two with iron bars instead of doors. A quick glance confirmed they were full of bottles and kegs. Mirabelle turned in the
other direction. She needed to find the office. She might be able to trace Lisabetta and Romana if there was a list of members or guests – even an address book and an accounts log would be
wonderful. She pushed a black door and entered the main room of the club. It was cleaner in there though it reeked of stale smoke. The chairs were piled on the tabletops and the floor gleamed
– one of many shiny surfaces that glinted in the blackness as the light entered in her wake. The only non-reflective form she could make