“Ah yes. I see we have a statement from Miss Broadhurst, of Evans Dixon Campbell. Perhaps we should hear from her next. Anyway, was this evidence forthcoming?”
“No, it wasn’t. I felt my Members’ Agent at Lloyd’s might be able to provide some information that would be helpful. But he couldn’t.”
“I see. And Mr. Beaumont had set great store on this information, had he?”
“He was very hopeful about it, yes.”
“So would you say he was very disappointed?”
“Well yes. Yes, I would.”
“How did you and he meet, Mrs. Fielding?”
“At a Lloyd’s meeting. Or to be precise, a meeting of Members of our main syndicate at Lloyd’s. We became friends; I was able to look after one of his daughters’ horses at my house in Wales.”
“He must have been very grateful.”
“He was indeed.”
“So you were a victim of Lloyd’s? And—forgive me—have you come out of it unscathed?”
“No, not really. My house has been saved by a legal loophole. But at that point, I did think I would lose it. Mr. Beaumont was very upset about that also.”
“Why particularly?”
“Well, because of his daughter’s horse, which was being stabled by me. I clearly couldn’t keep him in a flat in Swansea.”
“Indeed not.” Dr. Holden twinkled at her, and then said more soberly, “So more unhappiness, more worry for Mr. Beaumont.”
“Well yes, but I’m sure he would have worked something out. He was a very, very resourceful person.”
“I’m sure. Let me just ask you again, when you parted on that afternoon, was he visibly upset?”
“Well, he was,” said Flora, “but as I told you, he was still in positive mood.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fielding. You may sit down.”
She’d failed him. She felt terrible; she’d made a complete hash of it, barging in like that, speaking before she should have done, bossing everyone about as usual, even the coroner. And damaging Simon’s cause. She felt suddenly near to tears and nudged Colin to give her a handkerchief. He looked at her alarmed as she wiped her eyes; such weakness was very unusual.
Fiona Broadhurst took the stand. She looked very self-assured, very cool. “Do you frequently go to lunch at the Caprice with clients, Miss Broadhurst?” Dr. Holden smiled at her, an almost conspiratorial smile.
He likes her, Elizabeth realised, likes what she represents, literally law and order.
“No, not very often. But Mr. Beaumont was very generous—”
“Despite being virtually penniless?”
“I don’t think being penniless changes a personality,” said Fiona coolly.
“It seems not. Go on.”
“He wanted to tell me something important, he said.”
“And what did he want to tell you?”
“That he had what he hoped was some evidence—tape-recorded evidence. I had to tell him it wouldn’t satisfy a court, as the person talking didn’t know he was being recorded, although a judge might consider the contents as background evidence.”
“Indeed,” said Dr. Holden. “Quite correct.”
Fiona gave him a very cold look.
“And how did Mr. Beaumont take this news?”
“He was very upset. His confidence had obviously taken a beating.”
God, thought Elizabeth, this isn’t helping—we don’t want to hear this.
“We’ve heard a lot about this confidence of Mr. Beaumont’s. You are the first person to imply today that it might have been shattered.”
She was silent.
“So then what happened?”
“He said he still wanted to go ahead with the lawsuit.”
“And was he disappointed about your reaction to his news?”
“I would say so, yes.”
“I see. And did you discuss it any further after that?”
“No, we didn’t. He said he would tell the others involved himself. And then we talked of other matters.”
“Legal matters?”
“No. More general ones.”
“And there were no other conversations in the restaurant that day? No one came up to the table?”
“Well…I went to take a phone call, outside in the street. And as I came back, I saw him talking to someone.”
“Just exchanging a greeting?”
“No. They were—she was…”
“She? This was a lady?”
“Yes, it was.”
“A young lady?”
“I would say she was in her late thirties, early forties. She gave him a card, and then she went back to her table and they didn’t meet again.”
Elizabeth felt herself tauten: the old familiar fear surfacing.
“He didn’t tell you who she was?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Miss Broadhurst.”
He turned his brief, charming smile on the court. “So here is a man with good reason to be depressed, a man who logic tells us should be depressed, and yet who, by all accounts, was not depressed at all. Very admirable. He was obviously a very strong character indeed. I think we should take a break now, stretch our legs. I would also like to hear evidence from the journalist, Mr. Strickland. Has he arrived yet? I know he was going to be late.”
How could they say his name like that, Debbie wondered, give this desperately crucial information about him while sounding perfectly normal? How could she still be sitting here calmly, looking up at the bench, when she wanted to jump up and down and scream?
“I’m told he’s on his way now, Dr. Holden. Hopefully within the next half hour…”
Definitely hopefully, thought Debbie, almost his last words to me, the last time we were together. They shouldn’t be using those words here, they belong to us.
“He was out of London last night, working in Liverpool, and the train was very badly delayed.”
“How very unusual,” said Dr. Holden with a smile. “Thank you. Well then, let us reconvene in fifteen minutes exactly.”
Mr. Jeffries said, “All rise,” and Dr. Holden stepped down from the bench and disappeared, and life briefly became itself again.
Toby was very angry. “He’s just setting out to trip everyone up, make them say Dad was depressed when he wasn’t.”
“I know,” said Elizabeth wearily. Who was that woman who gave Simon her card? On the last afternoon of his life. How dare he? How dare she, indeed…
Debbie left the courtroom, went to one of the officials. “I’ve given my evidence,” she said. “Is it all right if I go now?”
“I should think so. I’ll go and ask Mr. Jeffries.”
Be quick, Mr. Jeffries, please be quick. I have to get away from here before…before…
“Yes, that’s fine. Is there a number where we can get you if we really need you? Very unlikely, but…you’re not leaving London, are you?”
“No, I’m not, and I have a mobile phone. The number’s here, look, on my card.”
“Right, well, I’ll give that to them but I don’t suppose we’ll need it. Thank you for coming, my dear.”
She started to run down the corridor; she’d have to say goodbye to Flora later, phone Elizabeth, hear the verdict, but she had to get away now, at once, quickly, before…
She shot out of the door into the brilliant sunshine; slightly dazzled by it, she saw a taxi had pulled up across the street. No, no, please no—yes, yes, please yes.
He stood there, ten yards away from her, perhaps less, stock-still, just looking at her. And she stood, stock-still also, frozen in time and fear and longing, looking at him.
Who she loved more than anything in the world—except, except—who she had wept over, longed for, dreamed of literally, night after night, remembered him loving her with such force it shook her physically at times, wanted it still so, so much. There, standing there, real, hers for the asking. And she stepped off the kerb and started to walk across the road towards him as if compelled by something ou
tside herself, and he did the same, their eyes fixed on each other, held absolutely, her own filled with tears.
And she might even then have gone, forgotten all her brave good resolutions, gone with him, into happiness; but the cab hooted and the cabbie shouted, “Another fiver mate, please,” and he turned briefly to look at him, and as he did so her strength, her own will came back to her, and she ran, ran faster in her high heels than she would have thought possible, gasping, fighting for breath, away from him, away from all of it, terrified that he would follow her, speak to her, touch her, longing for him to follow her, speak to her, touch her.
Only he didn’t; and after five minutes she felt safe, and walked on very fast for what seemed a long time and then found she was in a McDonald’s—and sank down on a chair and sat staring, staring out of the door, still afraid he would come in; and then she started to cry, quite gently, when she realised he wouldn’t.
Chapter 63
JANUARY 1991
Joel had given his evidence: Elizabeth felt close to despair. It had been yet another story of disappointment; of Simon’s excitement, of his conviction that Joel had delivered him the smoking gun: only to be told by Fiona Broadhurst that it was of little use.
Joel looked very shaken as he walked into the court. Obviously the trauma of being late, of the delayed train, had taken its toll. As he sat down again, he very briefly buried his face in his hands. And then sat back, smiled at her and at Annabel, but rather wearily, and fixed his eyes very firmly on the witness box.
The next witness was David Green; and his session in the box took a long time. Every detail from when Simon arrived at the Sailing Club “later than he said he would—about half past ten or even eleven” to when he had untied David’s boat around an hour later, saying he would be back in five or six hours.
“And how was he?” Dr. Holden asked. “How was his state of mind?”
“Extremely cheerful. Almost excited, I’d say.”
“Really?”
“Yes, indeed. He insisted on ordering a bottle of champagne which he shared with me before he went off.”
“He didn’t tell you why he was excited?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Would you say he was in any way overexcited?”
Elizabeth felt Toby stiffen, put her hand over his and pressed it gently.
“No,” David Green said. “He was just as he always was when he was feeling particularly cheerful.”
“And he was sailing your boat, Mr. Green? You’d lent it to him?”
“That is correct.”
“Are you in the habit of lending your boat to people?”
“From time to time, yes. Especially to Simon. He had been very upset when the Lizzie had to go, naturally, and I said if he was ever desperate for a sail, he could take mine.”
“And did he say where he was going?”
“He said he had wondered briefly about going over to France, and staying the night there if necessary, at a small hotel in Saint-Vaast, a few miles south of Cherbourg, that we often use, but that as he had a lot to do, he’d almost certainly be back by evening.”
“And when he left, the weather was good?”
“Yes, it was. Fine, with a lovely breeze. The last thing he said to me was”—he paused, blew his nose—“‘This is going to be a perfect sail. One for the archives.’ That was an expression he often used.”
A pause; then Dr. Holden said, “And what of the weather forecast?”
“There were warnings of fairly stiff breezes mid-Channel. Nothing to worry about, just enough to make things a bit more exciting.”
“I see. So then he went straight off?”
“More or less. I walked him over to Princess Charming on her mooring. He had his life jacket with him, actually put it on while I told him a couple of things about the boat.”
“What things did you want to tell Mr. Beaumont about your yacht?”
“Oh, that I’d had a new radio fitted—ship-to-shore variety, that is—showed him how it worked. Basically it was a modern version of the one I’d had before.”
“He wouldn’t have a problem with it?”
“Good Lord no. And I said there were some beers stashed away in the locker. Oh, and he asked me if there were any paracetamol in the locker, that he had a bit of a headache. I told him he shouldn’t drink champagne at breakfast time, and he said it was a good idea to drink champagne any time. And then—well, then he said—he said goodbye.”
“What were his exact words, Mr. Green?”
“He said, ‘Cheerio, David, and thanks again. Wish me luck.’”
“Why do you think he wanted you to wish him luck?”
“I have no idea.”
“Was that something he often said?”
“When we were racing, yes. Not normally, no.”
“So why do you think he said it?”
“I think he was just excited, looking forward to the day, dying to get out there…” His voice trailed away.
“Right. And when did you first suspect something was wrong?”
“Well, I was vaguely uneasy when he didn’t come back at sundown. And there had been reports of a really nasty squall in the Channel.”
“But you weren’t worried about him, even then?”
“Not at first, no. I thought he’d probably decided to stay the night in France after all.”
“Did you try to make contact with the boat?”
“I did, yes. As the evening went on, I radioed constantly, but there was no reply. And if he had docked in France, he wouldn’t have heard it anyway. So I was a little worried, but not seriously. Simon was a superb sailor. There were very few situations he couldn’t have dealt with. But of course one never knows how bad these squalls are going to get. And a Seal isn’t a very big boat really. The Lizzie, that is to say Simon’s boat, was a Contessa, quite a bit bigger, and he was used to sailing her, so he could have found himself in more trouble than he might have expected.”
“Yes, I see. And then, when did you get the first report that your boat had been found?”
“Not until the following morning. It was drifting, south of Calais; the mast was slightly damaged, but otherwise it was completely unharmed.”
“And did you think, immediately, that Mr. Beaumont must have had an accident?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I did. So I called the emergency services and…”
Dr. Holden called another break after that: an hour for lunch.
Elizabeth and her children were brought sandwiches, and more coffee, while everyone else went off to find food. Except Joel Strickland; he stayed, sitting quietly, in the other, larger waiting room. Annabel saw him when she went in search of more coffee.
“Hi, Joel, nice to see you. You OK?”
“Oh—yes. Yes, thanks.” He appeared to be only half with her, his mind elsewhere. After a moment or two he smiled at her and said with an obvious effort, “Is your mum all right?”
“I think so. She’s holding herself together with safety pins. She’ll be better when it’s over. Obviously we’re all praying for a misadventure verdict. It will help her so much. But not sure we’ll get it. Somehow the evidence that it might be…well, not misadventure, is stacking up. Which will be very hard for her. For all of us, really.”
“Of course.” He sighed heavily, forced a smile at her. “Well, we must all just hope. He’s a good bloke, Holden. Very thorough. Well, nice to see you, Annabel.”
As if it was nice to see anyone at the moment. Even stunningly beautiful girls like Annabel. He wanted to be with a girl who wasn’t really beautiful at all, who was a bit too skinny, and had a smile that could light up England, when it came, which it didn’t unless she really meant it…
Flora appeared in the doorway. “Hello, Joel. So glad you got here. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Yes. Thanks. I’m off to New York in a couple of weeks. To run the News office there.”
“Oh, how marvellous. What fun. So good for one, a complete cha
nge of scene. It gives such a boost.”
“Well, hope so.”
“You missed Debbie,” she said. “She had to rush away.”
“Debbie?” he said.
“Debbie, yes, Joel. She’s been a bit…low recently. But I think she’s beginning to feel a little better now. She’s been very brave,” she added. “I’ve been so proud of her. And so sorry for her too.”
“Er—yes.”
She smiled at him suddenly, a very sweet smile, reached out and patted his hand. “Goodbye, Joel. Take care of yourself. Enjoy New York. You will, I promise you. Even if you don’t think it now.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Fielding.”
“Flora, please. Well, I’d better get back. My escort will think I’ve done a runner. Let’s hope for a good verdict. A correct one, that is.”
“Yes, indeed. And—thank you.”
What had she been on about, he wondered, watching her hobble off on her crutches. Was she trying to tell him she knew? That she understood? Surely not. But it was possible. She was an amazingly nice woman. He’d always tried to persuade Debbie of that. And then because even thinking of Debbie that much was excruciatingly painful, he went out of the building and walked very fast down the street. He found a pub, downed half a pint of Michelob—would he ever be able to hear that word again without wanting to start blubbering—and then went back to the court.
“Now Mr. Phillips. You’re from the Royal Yachting Association and, as I understand it, something of an expert on life jackets. Mr. Beaumont’s was not inflated when he was found. Does this mean that his jacket failed him? That it was faulty?”
“No, certainly not. It was a nonautomatic type. That means, you have to pull a cord to inflate it. A lot of people don’t trust them: but then an equal number don’t like the automatic sort.”
“Why would that be?”
“Well, they have a habit of overinflating if they get wet, in heavy weather for instance, and once inflated they become very cumbersome.”
“But safer?”
“If you go overboard, yes, providing they work. As I said, you can’t always rely on them.”
“Have you examined the life jacket Mr. Beaumont was wearing?”
An Absolute Scandal Page 63
