“I know that. All I’m saying is, it isn’t easy. It’s as hard for him to cope with as staying at home would be on you. You have to recognise that, in your discussions with Jamie.”
“There won’t be any discussions,” said Annabel. “I told you, I’ve given the ring back.”
“I know. But he might come round, might think about it more carefully. Shake off some of the brainwashing.”
She shook her head. “He won’t. He’s totally stubborn.”
“Well, we’ll see. Come on,” she said, “you look terribly tired. Go on up to bed, and I’ll bring you some tea. How would that be? And if Tilly comes in, I’ll tell her you’re asleep. You don’t want to have to tell her about it as well, do you?”
“No,” said Annabel. “No, I suppose not. But I’ll have to, won’t I? And an awful lot of other people. Oh dear.”
She started to cry again; Elizabeth cuddled her for a while, and then sent her up to bed and went into the kitchen to make the tea. She felt very sorry and sad for Annabel, but also rather relieved. Not that she had broken off the engagement but that she needn’t worry about her daughter so much. Annabel knew exactly what she was doing; she could take care of herself. Whatever happened.
Two days before the inquest, Robert Jeffries at the coroner’s office telephoned Elizabeth. He said he hoped she was well, and not feeling too anxious about it all; and he asked her if she had any questions.
“No, not really, except what time should we be there?”
“We begin at nine thirty. So anything between nine and nine fifteen, I would suggest. You’ll have your children with you, I believe?”
“Yes, all three of them.”
“We don’t have wonderful facilities, but I can take you to one of the waiting rooms, and if you come early enough, I can show you the court, where you’ll be sitting and so on, before everyone arrives. It helps if it’s familiar. Er…I have to warn you that there may be some press here.”
“Press! Do they have to be, can’t you stop them?”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Beaumont. Inquests are open courts, and the press can attend if they wish. Likewise members of the public. The thing is, in this case, your husband was well known and his death was reported in the papers. As was his funeral, of course. The article, the famous one that young man wrote, featured him quite largely as well, so—yes, I’m afraid they may well be there, the press. I’m so sorry. Now we have a very nice coroner, a Dr. Holden. Very kind and calm, and very good at keeping things moving.”
“Moving?”
“Yes. People can get bogged down in detail, you see. Dr. Holden won’t allow that. You’ll like him. Now there’s one other thing. You’ll give evidence first, which I imagine you’ll prefer. Get it over.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “Er—what sort of things will he ask me?”
“Oh, he’ll want you to confirm that you identified your husband. All you’ll have to say is yes. That’s a formality, of course, but it’s legally necessary. We have your statement already, so a lot of what he asks you will refer to that, how you thought your husband was, his mental state, whether he had any medical problems, whether he’d said anything to you that indicated he might be considering taking his own life.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Mr. Jeffries. Thank you so much. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
“Indeed. Just ring the doorbell when you get there if it’s closed, and I’ll let you in.”
How was she going to get through this: how?
Debbie was dreading the inquest. It wasn’t the inquest itself, of course, although that wasn’t going to be the best fun; it was the thought that Joel might be there. He’d been pretty involved with Simon over the article, which had been published, after all, only a couple of days before he’d died. She would be sitting in the same room as he was, contained by the same walls, breathing the same air…How was she going to bear it?
It had worked, Flora’s plan. She had told Debbie to be very straightforward about it, just say that she was very sorry, but she really couldn’t go up to Scotland for another term.
“Of course he’ll be furious, but he’ll get over it. And if he’s very bad, then I’ll talk to him. OK?”
“Thank you, Flora. Thank you very much.”
He had been very bad, most unusually shouting at her, rather than moving into icy rage: What would he say to Morag, how could he do the job for another term on his own, what about the various schools the children were supposed to have left, and the house, supposing they sold the house? And how did he know she wouldn’t do this next term, and the next and the next?
“You don’t know,” she said calmly, “except that I give you my word I won’t. You’ll have to trust me on it, Richard, I can’t do more.”
She said the schools wouldn’t be a problem: she’d already rung them, to check, and they’d all said they’d be happy to keep the children for another term, that although they’d filled Alex’s place, it was such a tiny class—only fifteen—they could easily accommodate him. Ironically, the state school was more awkward. But in the end they said yes too.
Anna was over the moon at hearing that Debbie could stay for another three months at Know How; she hadn’t managed to replace her, nor had she properly worked out which of the accounts Debbie could do from Scotland. Which just left Morag—who had been very upset, Richard said, but marvellous just the same, and understanding too. He imparted this information over supper, having had a long conversation with her; Debbie and Flora, who had come home that day, became helplessly overwhelmed with giggles.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Richard said rather stiffly, and Flora said through streaming eyes, “Richard, you are obsessed with that woman. If you could only hear yourself. Do give us, particularly poor Debbie, a break. I’m sure Morag is magnificent in every way, but she does make us ordinary mortals feel terribly inferior.” She winked at Debbie as she said this; she exploded afresh and then said, “I’m sorry, Richard, but it’s true, we feel we simply can’t compete with Morag.”
And then Debbie realised that she hadn’t thought of Joel for at least ten minutes, and that laughing like that with Flora had been quite wonderfully enjoyable. Enjoyable! When she had never thought to enjoy anything again. Another little thing to tick off. She was surviving. She would survive. But not if she had to see Joel.
Annabel had heard nothing from Jamie; she had been right about him, then. Pigheaded, arrogant—a true Cartwright. She was well shot of him. She didn’t even feel that bad. Except first thing in the morning. And last thing at night. And pretty often in between as well. She had more or less stopped crying. Well, she was doing it slightly less often. She’d get over it; she knew she would. She’d be fine. She’d be successful. Not a corporate wife. And when she was the first woman to own a chain of hairdressing salons, she’d be able to write to him and tell him. And it would be totally, totally worth it.
The day before the inquest, several people phoned Elizabeth to check she was all right, and to wish her well. David Green, of course, who was coming up and staying with them. Catherine, sweet Catherine, and equally sweet Lucinda, who said she was desperately nervous and sure she was going to get everything wrong.
“Lucinda,” said Elizabeth, laughing in spite of herself, “there’s nothing to get wrong. You’ve just got to answer their questions.”
“Yes, I know. And I never can. I’ve told people I don’t know where Cadogan Square is when I’m standing in it, by my own front door. But I’ll do my best. Lots of love, Elizabeth. See you tomorrow.”
Flora phoned, said she must try not to worry. “It’ll soon be over now. We had to have one for William, you know.”
“Why?”
“Well, he died within twenty-four hours of admission to hospital. It was dreadful, of course, but it lacked reality in a strange way. They’re much less formal than a normal court, less frightening.”
“Flora, I’m so sorry. What a ghastly thing.”
“Oh, not really. One survives what one has
to, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so. Now—how are you going to get up here?”
“Oh, my friend Colin is driving me. He’s got a very sleek Jaguar, very low to the ground, I can get in and out of it perfectly easily.”
“I’d have liked you to stay,” said Elizabeth, “but we’re living in a shoe box.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t be absurd. Colin has booked us into the Savoy. We’ll be fine.”
Separate rooms, I hope, thought Elizabeth; and yearned as she so often did, to be able to share this delicious thought with Simon.
And Joel Strickland phoned her.
“Elizabeth, hello. I just wanted to call and say I will be there tomorrow. And that I hope you’re not feeling too bad.”
“That’s kind. Well, I’m dreading it, of course.”
“Of course. But these things are much less forbidding than you might think. I’ve been to dozens of them in my capacity of tabloid reporter. I mean, clearly it won’t be easy for you, but there’s something about coroners; they’re so calm and make things seem so normal. I think it might not be quite as bad as you’re expecting.”
“Yes, someone else said much the same thing,” said Elizabeth doubtfully. “Flora Fielding—I think you met her.”
“Yes, I did,” he said, and there was an odd silence. “And her daughter-in-law. I believe she’s going to be there.”
“Yes, she is.”
Another silence, then: “And is your lovely daughter going to be there?”
“All the children are.”
“That’s brave of them,” he said, “but then I suppose they would be. They’ve got brave genes. Please give Annabel my love.”
He was a charmer, she thought: charming and thoughtful. She did hope he had a nice wife or girlfriend.
The 2:30 p.m. British Airways flight from Barbados was an hour late getting in; it was after five when Felicity Parker Jones got away from the airport, and it took an hour and a half for her taxi to navigate the rush-hour traffic around Gatwick and to reach her house near West Dean in Sussex. By which time all the local shops were shut.
Felicity was starving; she made it a rule never to eat on planes, but the fish pie in her freezer was not an attractive colour and her housekeeper had most inconsiderately been taken to hospital with suspected appendicitis. Felicity decided to go to the Sailing Club to eat and sat down in the bar for a pre-supper gin and tonic.
“Good trip?” someone asked.
“Super. Wonderful sailing. Bought myself a new baby, actually. Forty-footer. Very pleased with her. God, it’s a beautiful place. Now, is David Green about? I really want to ask him something.”
“No, he’s gone up to London,” said Brian Thomas, the club secretary, “with Andy Peasmarsh. They’re giving evidence at this inquest tomorrow.”
“What inquest?” said Felicity.
“Simon Beaumont’s. You did know he died, didn’t you—drowned—dreadful tragedy?”
“Yes, of course. I was quite upset, I have to say. But why on earth are they having an inquest?”
“Well, it could be suicide, apparently. His financial situation and so on. Nobody can say for sure, of course.”
Felicity sat staring at him for a moment or two, and then she stood up; she looked rather pale beneath her tan.
“I can say for sure,” she said, “at least I think I can. I must try and get hold of David Green. It’s really rather important.”
Chapter 62
JANUARY 1991
Debbie woke very early: feeling violently sick. This was going to be tough. Very tough. But Flora would be there. She would manage. Somehow. She hoped.
Hating herself, she took a lot of trouble over her appearance. She told herself it was because it was an important occasion and she would be the centre of the court’s attention, albeit briefly. And then she remembered Joel telling her, when they had discussed the inquest, that people often came to such events looking extraordinarily different. “The last one I went to,” he’d said, “there was a lady about Flora’s age, all done up in furs and diamonds, and a funny old chap who was a plumber wearing his overalls.” Just the same she washed her hair, put on a new shirt from Gap under her black suit, and spent more time than she would have normally done on her makeup.
“You look nice, Mummy,” said Emma. “Going out to lunch?”
“No. I’m going to that thing called a court—remember I told you? I’ve got to give evidence.”
“Gosh,” said Alex, “like Rumpole, you mean?”
“A bit like that,” said Debbie. “Now eat your breakfast. Jenny’s going to collect you all from school, as I may be late.”
“I’ve got used to you not being late,” said Rachel, giving her a hug. “It’s much nicer.”
Another little thing. They were becoming more frequent. She was going to need them all today.
Flora had been up for two hours before joining Colin for breakfast. She had to do her physiotherapy exercises, take her painkillers, wash herself—how she longed for a bath—and then dress. It all took forever. She sank exhausted onto the dressing-table stool to do her hair, wondering if she actually had the strength. And then told herself not to be ridiculous. As if she had anything to complain about: compared with poor Elizabeth and her children—and just possibly Debbie. She was aware that Joel Strickland might be there; and she was fearful for Debbie’s fragile recovery. Odd how she had taken Debbie’s part entirely in this; she supposed because she had been through it herself and understood it in its entirety, from temptation to conclusion. She would be all right; they would all be all right. Especially if Richard made a bit of an effort. She had had one conversation with him, and intended to have more. She loved him dearly, but he wasn’t always very sensitive. Just like his father.
She twisted her hair into its high knot and swung herself on her crutch out into the corridor.
Elizabeth also woke up early. She lay quietly, in the rather small bed, thinking of the last time she had seen Simon, in a rather larger bed, and how he had told her he loved her, and how happy she had been all the following day. For the last time in her life, as far as she could see.
“Oh Simon,” she said aloud, “why did you have to do it to us? Why, why, why couldn’t you stay and let us help you?”
She felt a stab of the old anger and was pleased: that was the way to get through today, she thought, being angry with him. If a verdict of suicide or an open verdict was brought in she would never forgive him: never.
They arrived at the court just after nine, the four of them in a car that Peter Hargreaves, ever thoughtful, had provided: Annabel quiet and quite calm, Tilly visibly trembling, Toby determinedly stiff-upper-lipped.
It was a lovely day; Elizabeth wondered if it helped, and decided it didn’t. Dark storm clouds would be more appropriate. The building was brick with a large wooden door, probably Edwardian, Elizabeth thought—why was she noticing such things?—in a wide, tree-lined street just behind the Brompton Road. A small crowd was already waiting outside.
She rang the brass bell as instructed by Mr. Jeffries. He appeared immediately, smiled his wonderfully calm, reassuring smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Beaumont. And what a good one it is. Now you must be…”
“Annabel,” said Annabel, “and this is my brother, Toby, and my sister, Tilly.”
“Welcome, all of you. Now, why don’t you have a look at the courtroom, while there’s nobody here.” He led them along a corridor which opened into a large square hall: and through a door, which he opened with a flourish.
“Come in,” he said.
“Goodness,” said Annabel. “It’s rather—rather nice.” Somehow they hadn’t expected this: a light, high-ceilinged room with rows of seats, rather pew-like; a large Edwardian fireplace; tall, vaulted windows; and very nice brass wall lights. Set higher than the rest of the room was the coroner’s bench.
“Now this is where the family—where you—will sit,” said Mr. Jeffries, indicating the front two rows. “And here th
e press, and that is the witness box, over there. Everyone else just settles themselves down. Friends probably behind you, officials of various kinds, doctors and so on, over there. There’s plenty of room, as you can see. Now, do you have any questions?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Elizabeth, “except—do you have a loo?” She had already been three times since breakfast. How did babies play quite such havoc with the bladder?
They drank coffee in the waiting room and heard the noise level rising as more people arrived. Elizabeth could hear Flora’s clipped, rather musical tones, Lucinda’s absurdly Sloane Ranger vowels (and Blue’s rather different, equally strong ones), Martin Dudley’s boom, and then Debbie Fielding’s less-posh voice, very subdued.
And then they were ushered in by Mr. Jeffries, and the courtroom was suddenly full of familiar faces, people Elizabeth knew; it was rather like a wedding, she thought, and felt absurdly that she should rush round greeting people, or even that she should say a quick prayer for the right verdict…
They sat in the family pew, the girls on either side of her, Tilly still shaking, hanging on to Elizabeth’s hand as if it was a lifeline, Annabel staring calmly in front of her, Toby glaring at his feet.
And then, “Rise, please,” Mr. Jeffries said, and the coroner, Dr. Holden, came in from the side, mounted the steps to the bench, nodded briefly to them, and they all sat down again.
It had begun.
Dr. Holden had an extraordinarily nice voice, that was the first thing Elizabeth noticed; educated, well modulated, and very clear without being in the least loud. It was going to help, that voice. He had fair, gently greying hair, and was wearing an extremely well-cut grey pinstriped suit. He could have been one of their neighbours in the Boltons. He smiled very briefly in her direction and then said, “We are considering today the death of a man by drowning. If we may start, Mr. Jeffries?”
Mr. Jeffries walked over to the witness box and took the oath. Somehow, in the pleasing half informality of the court, she hadn’t expected that, hadn’t expected all the stuff about Almighty God and the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but…
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