Beau Death

by Peter Lovesey

  “How long did she live like this?” Diamond asked.

  “Thirty or forty years according to the obituaries. If true, that ties in with her relationship with the Beau breaking up sometime between 1737 and 1747, when he was in his prime—socially speaking.”

  “What year was the court case he lost?”

  “1757. Do the maths. She was living in the tree by then.”

  “And remained there,” Paloma said, shaking her head in sympathy.

  “So we can’t blame the break-up on the litigation,” Estella said. “It was something else, a personal issue, I guess. We’ve all been there, haven’t we?”

  She fixed them in turn with eyes demanding agreement and Diamond made it appear that he, for one, had been there many times, wherever it was. No use being faint-hearted with this young woman.

  “For me as his latest biographer, it opened exciting new possibilities,” she added. “Have another of the calamares. They’re moreish, aren’t they?”

  “In that case was he alone at the end?” Diamond asked, trying not to sound as deflated as he felt. With Juliana ruled out, his best theory was kiboshed.

  Estella shook her head. “He couldn’t have coped. He’d lived to a great age, but he was a wreck by then, in a wheelchair, suffering from gout and leg ulcers. He had intermittent fits and he didn’t have a tooth in his head.”

  A scrap of consolation: the last part checked with the state of the Twerton skeleton.

  “Somebody must have acted as carer, then.”

  “Yes, he had a carer.” Her eyes slid upwards. “If you could call her that.”

  “A woman?”

  “Her name emerged in George Scott’s correspondence, which only came to light a few years ago in the British Library archive.”

  “Scott? You mentioned him earlier, the man who administered the estate?”

  “Yes. He had all kinds of problems dealing with the creditors and the most persistent and unpleasant was a Mrs. Hill. She really got up his nose.”

  “He said this?”

  “Not in those words. He said it more eloquently, but his anger comes through in letters to a doctor friend written in the year of the Beau’s death. This is so crucial to my book that I can quote the exact words Scott used: ‘She was of such a fierce disposition that poor Nash had no small degree of punishment in living with this termagant woman. Solomon could not describe a worse.’”

  “Solomon?”

  “King Solomon. He famously mediated in a quarrel between two women.”

  “He definitely says Mrs. Hill was living with Nash?”

  “For the last twenty years of his life.”

  “Wow.”

  “Exactly my reaction, except I said something stronger when I read the letter. I don’t know what the readers around me in the BL thought.”

  “So this Mrs. Hill gave George Scott a hard time? Why?”

  “She was in possession of a bond for £250 given to her by Nash.”

  “Big money.”

  “Mega big.”

  “A bond being security for a debt?”

  Estella nodded. “Nash had no business arranging a bond of that size. He colluded with her to obtain a court judgement for it.”

  “Who was pulling the strings here—Mrs. Hill?”

  “George Scott seemed to think so, and of course after Nash’s death the woman was fierce in her demands. He relates in another letter how he was having a conversation with the wife of Charles Young’s attorney when Mrs. Hill came in and created a scene. In his words, she ‘appeared in full character.’ He goes on to say, ‘From such a tongue may I ever be delivered. She used me very cruelly.’”

  Paloma said, “He sounds paranoid about this woman. What was she on about? She must have known there was no money left in the pot.”

  “She complained that Nash’s possessions had been ‘sold for nothing’ and should never have been auctioned.”

  “Hell-bent on getting her £250,” Diamond said. “Do you think she treated Nash the same way?”

  “Scott said so. It’s possible he was biased, but whatever she was like she’s gold dust for me. None of the early biographers knew she existed.”

  “Goldsmith must have known,” Paloma said.

  “Goldsmith was discreet. He says at one point he could fill a book with anecdotes of the Beau’s amours, but he doesn’t.”

  “These days he would,” Paloma said. “The first duty of a biographer is to dish the dirt.”

  “Cynical, Paloma,” Estella said with mock reproach.

  “Do you want examples?”

  “Spare us that. We heard you.”

  Diamond’s spirits had bounced back, his brain fizzing with new possibilities. “I want to know more about Mrs. Hill. What’s her first name?”

  “I’m still working on that,” Estella said. “She’s elusive. If I can trace the court documents, I’ll find it.”

  “Any idea where she lived after Nash died?”

  “Somewhere in Bath, I expect, at least while she felt her claim ought to be met.”

  “You don’t know much else? Was there a Mr. Hill?”

  “There must have been at one stage, but I can’t believe he was still around if she’d moved in with the Beau in the 1740s. Have I got you interested?”

  A pause, a glance between Diamond and Paloma and then he decided it was time to tell Estella about the skeleton.

  She caught her breath a couple of times while he was going over the brain-banging facts. She took a gulp of wine and then another. Paloma reached for the bottle and refilled the glass.

  When Diamond finished, Estella stared at him in awed silence.

  Paloma said, “Bombshell, isn’t it?”

  “Nuclear,” Estella said. “I’m going to have to rewrite my book.”

  Another pause to absorb the prospect.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I’m not ungrateful. It’s a scoop. If this really is the Beau, I don’t know what the academic world is going to make of it.”

  Stuff the academic world, Diamond thought.

  “Will it get into the media?” she asked.

  He vibrated his lips. “I don’t see how we can avoid it, much as I’d like to. They already plastered my picture over the front pages nose-to-nose with the skull, but they haven’t yet cottoned on to the fact that it could be Beau Nash. Someone is going to make the connection soon.”

  “I don’t bother with newspapers,” Estella said. “I’m mentally stuck in the eighteenth century. Missed that picture altogether. What’s the evidence for this being him? The hat, the wig and the absence of teeth?”

  “The clothes he’s wearing are right for 1761,” Paloma said. “They’ve deteriorated badly, as you’d expect.”

  “Can I see them? Did you take a picture?”

  “The police photographer did,” Diamond said. “He took plenty, but I don’t have them on my phone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Peter’s phone is used for phoning and nothing else,” Paloma said.

  “Could I get to see the clothes? Where are they now?”

  “In a lab with the bones,” Diamond said. “A forensic anthropologist is doing the autopsy.”

  “Right now, as we speak?”

  “In his own good time. He’s in no hurry.”

  “I’d love to get some pictures for the book.” Understandably she was already thinking ahead.

  “I expect it can be arranged after the inquest.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Can’t answer that. It’s up to the coroner. I’m not deliberately putting barriers in your way, Estella. You’ve been helpful to us and I’d like to return the compliment. It’s just that we have to go through the legal hoops.”

  “How could he possibly have ended up there?” she said, st
ill grappling with what she’d heard. “I’ll have to come up with a theory.”

  “You and me both,” Diamond said. “I thought of one just now when you were talking about the Papjoy woman. It almost made sense of her refusing to sleep in a bed all those years.” He outlined the substitution trick with the body to save Beau Nash from being buried as a pauper. “She hid the corpse in Twerton and couldn’t find a way to give him a decent burial, so she vowed to sleep on straw as long as he remained above ground. Plausible?”

  “Barely,” Paloma said.

  “Like a penance.”

  “I know what you mean, but it’s unlikely and anyway we know it didn’t happen. The woman who was there at the death was a different character altogether.”

  “The terrifying Mrs. Hill?”

  “You need a whole new theory for her.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  The main course was put in front of them. Suspicious of what he was about to eat, Diamond prised the Cuban sandwich open and discovered layers of ham and roast pork, mustard and pickles in a goo of cooked cheese that formed strings.

  “Wishing you’d ordered the blazing bird?” Paloma said.

  “This’ll see me right.” He reached for the jug, his thoughts cascading like the water filling his glass. “How about this for Mrs. Hill? We know the estate owed her money and she wasn’t likely to get any preference over all the other creditors. She decided on extreme measures.”

  Paloma was quick to see the point. “Holding the executors to ransom? She was in a position to do it, I’ll grant you.”

  “The body was lying in state in the house four days,” Diamond went on, liking this better than his Papjoy theory, “so she had time to plan. On the evening before the funeral she removed the corpse from where it had been on view and paid a carter to transport it to the secret address at Twerton. She told George Scott she wanted a written undertaking that the £250 bond would be honoured in full or the grand funeral wouldn’t take place. She was banking on him paying up to avoid a scandal. But he called her bluff and refused, figuring that she wouldn’t want to be exposed as the grasping woman she was. He arranged for the empty coffin to be filled with sand and driven in state to the Abbey.”

  “So poor Beau Nash was left to rot in the Twerton house?” Paloma said. “This is more believable.”

  “It would explain why Scott despised her so much,” Diamond said. “What do you think, Estella?”

  “I’m still coming to terms with the idea that he wasn’t buried,” she said. “I can’t tell you how shocked I am. Years of researching and writing a biography brings you close to your subject and you get emotionally attached to them—even someone as flawed as the Beau.”

  “He’ll be given a decent burial now,” Diamond said.

  “He would have hated being exposed by the media as some kind of relic. I know I must use the images and publish them, but it feels awfully like a betrayal.”

  “It’s your duty to tell it as it is,” Paloma said.

  “If it is,” Diamond said.

  5

  No one ever asked why he was called Tank. It wasn’t the name he was born with. And it wasn’t a joke name. You didn’t joke with Tank. But that wasn’t because he was built for battle and crushed everything in his path. Actually he was a small man. He didn’t get into fights at all. The only tank-like qualities he had were to do with his personality. People learned not to oppose him. You didn’t want him coming at you because you knew from one look at him that he had plenty of firepower, not often used, but always ready.

  He was the leader, no argument.

  He must have picked his name for himself. He picked names for everyone else in the squat and they learned to live with them. In most cases they were a good choice. Like Headmistress.

  In what she called her dullsville years, Headmistress had never felt comfortable with her given name. She hated all the informal versions of Margaret. In her schooldays she’d been called Marg, Maggie, Meg, Peg or Peggy, so it came as a relief when Tank decided on her first day in the Twerton squat that she was none of these.

  “Headmistress.”

  “D’you mean me?”

  “You can share with Joke and Cat.”

  Simple as that.

  He must have discovered she’d done some supply teaching, but it wasn’t mentioned. Later she learned that anyone joining the squat was vetted as seriously as if it was the secret service, so he must have found out. Her main concern at the time had been whether Joke and Cat were safe to share a room with. They were fine. Joke snored sometimes and Cat had a thing about fresh air and wanting the window open even on the coldest nights but if that was a hardship, bring it on. In her goosedown sleeping bag Headmistress was laughing.

  Altogether, nine people and a dog had shared the Twerton gaff while it was supposed to be empty and condemned. As Tank, the most experienced squatter, had wisely pointed out, demolition orders are never straightforward if landlords are involved. There is always scope for appeals. He’d done his homework as usual, studied the Housing Act, checked the ownership with the Land Registry, and found that more than one foreign owner had an interest in the same terraced block. Good for two years was Tank’s prediction and he’d been proved right.

  Unfortunately two years soon pass. The notice of demolition had been served and the squatters had hung on until the heavy machinery had rumbled up the street. Then they’d boxed up their belongings and got out. Five of them had heard of a squat in Frome and moved off there. The others pinned their hopes on Tank. He made no promises, but he disappeared for a couple of days. All he would say to the others was that he was making searches. It sounded like the jargon solicitors used to justify themselves when people were buying houses.

  Headmistress had a friend in Oldfield Park who took pity and allowed her to bed down in her flat for one night on the strict understanding that it couldn’t become a permanent arrangement. She tried to negotiate a second night, but the friend wasn’t happy that Headmistress had brought Tank’s dog with her. That night had to be spent squeezed in with Cat in the back of Joke’s van. Joke gallantly passed the night in the driver’s seat with the greyhound curled up beside him.

  Next morning Tank called the three of them for a meeting at the Temple of Minerva in the botanical gardens in Victoria Park. A good choice, because although the building was open on one side it had a roof and they managed to keep dry on a wet summer’s day. Evidently Tank had been sleeping on the wooden bench the last two nights.

  “Found a place,” he told them straight away.

  “In Bath?” Cat said.

  He nodded.

  “Big enough for all of us?” Headmistress asked.

  “No problem. You get your own room.”

  “Cool.”

  “Thing is, it’s non-residential.”

  Headmistress wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad.

  But Cat understood. “So we can’t be done in the criminal courts.”

  “What is it—the Pump Room?” Joke said. Just occasionally there was a clue as to how he came by his nickname.

  Tank didn’t laugh. “Building work has been going on there since January,” he said, “and they finish today. Total refit. Gas, electrics, running water, heating, all up and working. Toilets and a shower.”

  “A shower?” Cat said in a squeak. “Is this heaven, or what?”

  “The planning permission is for a centre for oriental medicine.”

  “Acupuncture and stuff?”

  “Much more than that. But what they aim to do in there doesn’t concern us because the place hasn’t been stocked yet. The owner lives in Beijing.”

  “One of those Chinese millionaires?” Headmistress said.

  “How did you find this pad?” Joke asked.

  “By asking around. Bought a few drinks for the foreman and came to an arrangement. Fi
ve hundred to borrow a key for twenty minutes.”

  “Five hundred just to borrow a key?” Cat said in horror. “Where are we getting that much from?”

  He didn’t tell her. He said, “In the twenty minutes I went down to the key shop and got them to make me a spare.”

  “Is it really worth that much?” Cat asked.

  “You’ll see tomorrow morning. We move in before dawn when all the neighbours are asleep. And the move has to be slick, slicker than rifle drill. Joke, you come ready with tools to change the lock on the front door, soon as we’re inside. Also a heavy-duty bolt.”

  “I’ve done this before.”

  “That’s why you got the job. Get to it straight away. I don’t want any of you lot roaming the house deciding which room to bag. We’ve all got responsibilities. Headmistress, you can write nicely, I hope. We need a notice this big we can pin on the door saying it’s a legal squat and we didn’t break nothing getting in. The wording is important. I’ll give it to you. Have the thing ready, enclosed in a rainproof see-through bag, right?”

  Headmistress nodded and Tank turned to Cat.

  “You want to use the shower, so you can earn the right. First thing, find the meters and write the reading down. The suppliers are EDF and British Gas. As soon as they open and start taking calls, contact them and set up new accounts. We pay for what we use like anyone else, including water and sewerage. Wessex Water have installed a water meter as well. Don’t forget them.”

  Cat, like the others, was impressed by the planning that had gone into this.

  “We’re going to be quick and quiet,” Tank said, “but let’s not kid ourselves. The neighbours will know something’s going on. When they come knocking, as they will, we don’t open the door.”

  “We know this,” Joke said. “We’re not daft. We talk through the letter box.”

  “Yeah, but be nice. No telling them to piss off.”

  “I thought it was non-residential,” Cat said.

  “Our place will be, but the rest isn’t. The people either side will have lived there for years. We’re part of a large terraced block and they’ll very likely panic a bit when they know squatters have moved in next door. Your job—my job, his and hers—is to calm them down. We won’t be playing loud music, lighting fires, dealing in scrap metal, doing drugs, throwing all-night raves, any of that shit. We’re homeless people through no fault of our own, just wanting a roof over our heads and a quiet life.”