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Brighton and get away with it, pick the time of the masons’ weekly meeting. There’s hardly a policeman on duty for miles. You can get away with murder easy.’
    Mirabelle found herself wondering if Detective Superintendent McGregor was a member of the lodge. During the war there had been plenty of freemasons in the service. What Bill said rang true. There had been times when she’d worried the War office was undermanned because so many men had shipped up to Holborn for lodge meetings. It was perfectly respectable. The King had been a member, after all. Still, Jack hadn’t joined. He’d been asked but he wasn’t the kind of man to join a club of any sort – he barely crossed the doorstep of the Athenaeum though his family had organised his membership. Jack always made his own way.
    ‘Freemasonry? Hobnobbing in aprons,’ he’d said dismissively. ‘It’s only mutual self-interest, Belle, and the only things I’m interested in are you and me. Oh, and winning the war, of course.’
    Still, there was no denying that plenty of brave men hadtaken up the invitation and not all of them had prospered as a result. There was something touching, Mirabelle always thought, when she attended the wartime funeral of a mason and his loyal brothers crowded the service.
    ‘Do you know where the lodge is in Brighton?’ she asked.
    Bill nodded. ‘Queen’s Road.’
    ‘Strange. I’ve never noticed it.’ She got up to fetch her coat.
    ‘They don’t let in women,’ Bill objected. ‘You don’t want to go getting involved, Miss Bevan.’
    Vesta’s eyes flicked from Bill to Mirabelle and without hesitation the girl sprang to her feet. There was no question where her best prospects lay for a more interesting Tuesday. Abandoning the day’s administrative tasks, she pulled on her bright red coat and reached for her hat, her hand hovering over the office umbrella before she decided the weather was set enough to leave it behind.
    ‘Come on!’ she said in reply to the flash of Mirabelle’s eyes.
    ‘I’m not going to the lodge,’ said Mirabelle. ‘I thought I’d call in to Bartholomew Square to see Superintendent McGregor.’
    ‘And then have a look at the lodge?’ Vesta called her bluff.
    Mirabelle conceded with the tiniest slump of her shoulders.
    ‘Well, then,’ Vesta smiled, ‘I’ll wait while you speak to Lover Boy.’
    Mirabelle’s cheeks flared. ‘Lover Boy? Really, Vesta!’
    ‘Oh, Mirabelle, the lady doth protest too much, methinks.’
    In reply Mirabelle flicked her eyes to inspect Vesta’s bare fourth finger.
    ‘I like living in sin. Turns out I’m the type.’ The girl frowned as she pushed her boss out of the office.
    As they emerged into the sunshine on East Street, Mirabelle put on her dark glasses. Crates of fresh cod had just been delivered to the fish and chip shop and crushed ice dripped downthe sides of the stack, pooling on the paving stones. A warm breeze fetched up the street off the open water.
    ‘You think there’s a case here, don’t you?’ Vesta ventured.
    Mirabelle nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure of it.’
    ‘And you want to get involved?’
    Mirabelle didn’t respond. Sometimes Vesta wondered how Mirabelle’s mind worked. Potential cases presented themselves on a weekly basis at McGuigan & McGuigan – and plenty of them might have proved profitable – but Mirabelle wouldn’t touch a single one. She had a horror of divorce settlements and family intrigues. Yet something like this – something grisly and dangerous – and she homed in like a missile. Vesta admired her boss’s sense of justice but at the same time it mystified her. As they turned left towards the police station Superintendent McGregor was just leaving. His tall frame ducked into a car at the entrance. Mirabelle waved and he raised his arm as he clambered inside with his hat pulled low over his eyes. She reached out, motioning him to wait, but the Superintendent didn’t notice, the door thudded shut and the car drove