Beau Death

by Peter Lovesey

  She would be devastated.

  “I’m afraid there’s a problem.”

  She started to laugh, but the amusement soon went out of it. Her eyes narrowed and her fingertips drummed the edge of the table. “Tell me.”

  “We believe the skeleton can’t be Richard Nash after all.” Without interruption he explained about the autopsy and the Y-fronts and the bone that had fluoresced blue. Deciding it was more merciful to release the full force of this bombshell as one impact, he added Leaman’s discovery in the London Intelligencer that Beau Nash had been buried in the Abbey.

  Her first reaction was denial. “It can’t be true. Can’t be. We all know what newspapers are like.”

  “It’s in several. Even if they all got it wrong, the Y-fronts and the forensic tests tell us the Twerton victim is someone modern.”

  The traffic noise provided its own grating soundtrack whilst Estella struggled to come to terms with the loss of the sensational story that would have transformed her book and her career. Finally she said in a voice devoid of vitality, “I feel such a fool.”

  Anything he said would sound like empty words.

  “I should have checked for myself,” she added. “So much is online now that it’s a blessing and a curse. No disrespect, but when some policeman finds out more than someone like me who has invested years of study, it’s humiliating.”

  “My team catch me out on a regular basis.”

  “I’ve been doing my research chronologically, leaving the death until last. I’m still plodding through primary sources about his earlier life.”

  “You would have got to the funeral eventually.”

  “Yes, and the discovery would have been even more heartbreaking. I can’t in all honesty say I feel grateful for this, but I should be.”

  “It staggered me, too.”

  “You still don’t know who the skeleton is?”

  “From a police point of view it’s vital that we find out. The autopsy suggested he died from a stabbing.”

  “In the Beau Nash clothes?”

  “They were bloodstained.”

  “How ghastly.”

  He took her concern for the victim as encouragement to move on to the real reason for contacting her. “So we’re trying to find an explanation for the clothes, working through several lines of inquiry.”

  She didn’t seem to have listened.

  He tried a more direct approach. “I’m told the Beau Nash Society dress up in period costume and you’re a member.”

  “A very junior member,” she said from a million miles away.

  “Do you mind talking about it?”

  “I made my promises sometime last year.”

  “Promises?”

  “First you attend as a novice to see if you like it and if the members approve of you. If all goes well, you’re invited to an initiation ceremony when you promise to abide by the rules.”

  “Like a nun taking her vows?”

  “No,” she said with a click of her tongue. She was getting her confidence back with this change of topic. “Not a bit like that. There’s nothing quasi-religious about the society. We have a mutual interest in the Beau, that’s all. He drew up a list of rules for the proper conduct of people using the Assembly Rooms, and the society did the same. Simple as that.”

  “Dressing up for meetings and suchlike?”

  “That’s in the rules, yes.”

  “But you don’t dance and gamble like the Beau?”

  “Sometimes at the annual ball we do. Mostly we invite speakers to address us on aspects of eighteenth-century life in Bath and Tunbridge Wells, where the Beau was MC. And we do all we can to safeguard his reputation.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Is that at risk?”

  She raised a faint smile. “Between ourselves, it wasn’t all that good in his lifetime. We stand firm against anyone who takes liberties. His name is a brand in Bath. There used to be a Beau Nash cinema in Westgate Street and a Beau Nash pub at the top of Milsom Street. They both have new identities now.”

  “Did your society have something to do with that?”

  “They like to think they did. The Beau would have hated his name being used to sell things.”

  “Difficult to control.”

  “Of course.”

  “In the eighties there was a Beau Nash nightclub behind the Abbey in Kingston Parade.” He realised as he spoke that she wasn’t even born in the eighties. “Long before I arrived here. But I was treated once to a Beau Nash brunch in the Pump Room.”

  “In the Pump Room?”

  “He wouldn’t have known what a brunch is.”

  “How ridiculous. Are you kidding?”

  “No. It struck me as funny at the time.”

  “I think you’ll find it’s no longer advertised,” she said. “Those Pump Room people should be ashamed of themselves. Anyway, the Pump Room didn’t exist in his day.”

  “The Beau Nash bedroom in the Royal Crescent Hotel?”

  “The society knows about that. I don’t think anyone is so misguided as to believe he ever slept there. Like the Pump Room, the Royal Crescent wasn’t built until after his death.”

  “A bedroom isn’t so stupid-sounding as a brunch. Would he have objected? I thought he was in his element in bedrooms.”

  She didn’t comment.

  “Is that your main activity?” Immediately he turned the colour of a ripe Worcester apple. “Stop. I’d better rephrase that. Is that the society’s main object, suppressing the use of his name?”

  “Not at all. It’s not even in the rules. Simply something we keep an eye on.”

  “Your members must have some clout.”

  “Some of them do. It’s regarded as an honour to be invited to join.”

  “Councillors, local gentry, peers of the realm?”

  “All of those.”

  “How many altogether?”

  “I’m not sure. They aren’t all active.”

  “This is what interests me. One of them may be not active. Inactive, in fact.”

  “The skeleton?” she said, eyes enormous. “One of our members?”

  “I have to ask.”

  “You’re seriously suggesting the skeleton could have been one of us?”

  “It’s a man in a frock coat and breeches with a Beau Nash hat and wig. We have to explore every possibility. Do the men all dress like that for the meetings?”

  Estella shook her head. “The president. Only the president wears the white tricorne and black wig. We call him the Beau. It’s like a badge of office.”

  “Passed down from one president to the next?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that. I’ve never asked. The rest of us all supply our own costumes, so I would imagine they do the same.”

  “Must be expensive.”

  “It is. I had to get a gown made specially. Fortunately my parents helped out with the cost. Some of the ladies wear something different each time. I can’t possibly keep up with that, so I change the accessories—the hat and wig and necklaces. It’s a challenge. As the only black woman I stand out.”

  “Do the men change their costumes?”

  “Those who can afford to.”

  “How long has the society been in existence?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I’m one of the newest members.”

  “Who’s the current president?”

  “Sir Edward Paris, who built half of modern Bath as far as I can make out.”

  “I met him only this week.” Tempted to add “pompous ass,” Diamond chose for once to be tactful.

  “Funnily enough,” Estella said, “he looks rather like the real Beau when he was about the same age.”

  “Is that a factor in choosing the president?”

  “No. He can be anyone approved by
the members.”

  “Anyone who owns half of Bath?”

  “I guess that helps.”

  “How is he chosen? By election?”

  “I’m not sure. Ed was already in office when I joined.”

  He noted the “Ed” and was pleased he’d been discreet. “It’s a bit sexist, isn’t it, just having men for president? Aren’t the lady members eligible?”

  She smiled. “I don’t think the society is ready for a cross-dressing Beau. But let’s give them credit. They’re not racists. They welcomed me to their ranks.”

  “I’m sure you know more about the real Beau than the rest of them put together.”

  “I thought I did. I’m so glad I didn’t speak to anyone about this nonsense.” She finished her coffee. “I’d better get back.”

  “I’m truly sorry for the disappointment,” he said.

  “I needed to know. If the skeleton had gone into the book, illustrations and all, that would have screwed up my reputation as a scholar. And I have learned something every other biographer has missed—the reports of his burial inside the Abbey. No one has nailed that before.”

  For some minutes after Estella had left, Diamond remained at the table reflecting on what he’d heard. Then the call signal on his mobile jerked him back to the here and now.

  He fumbled with the thing and almost dropped it. “Yes?”

  “Am I speaking to Mr. Diamond of the Bath police?”

  “You are.”

  “Janice Bale.”

  He was usually good with voices and hopeless with names. He couldn’t place this lady.

  “Marks in Time.”

  He still didn’t get it, but he said, “Right,” in the expectation that she would fill him in and she did.

  “The Marks and Spencer company archive at Leeds. Your undergarment.”

  “The Y-fronts? Do you have a date for me?”

  “We studied all the pictures you sent and we can confirm that this particular design in pure white cotton with the elasticised leg opening has been widely retailed for a very long time, since at least 1952.”

  “As early as that?”

  “It was always popular. However, the selvedge is more modern, no earlier than 1970.”

  “That helps.”

  “And the St. Michael label in that particular design wasn’t introduced until 1989.”

  “Excellent. Was this line of pants replaced at some point?”

  “No, but the label changed in 1995.”

  “Brilliant. We’re looking at a six-year interval, then.”

  “You are and you aren’t. That’s when they were on sale. This particular variety was hard-wearing and would survive many washes. Our product research tells us that some gentlemen keep the same underwear until the elastic goes and they’re forced to buy more.”

  “Deplorable,” he said, trying not to think about his own.

  “Our briefs are bought in sets of three usually.”

  “I know.”

  “So the same pair won’t be worn daily. You can multiply the average life of one garment by three. Or by six if he bought two sets. If it doesn’t get washed every day a garment has a longer life, obviously.”

  “I’m with you.”

  “And the method of washing and drying makes a difference. Tumble dryers have improved, but the earlier machines could overheat and damage the fabric. I don’t suppose you know if your man dried his on a washing line?”

  “I don’t know who my man is, let alone how he did his laundry.”

  “The label says he wore the large size, if that’s any help.”

  Diamond wore XL, which he’d always considered normal. “It’s not large really, is it? What are we talking about here—36 to 39 inches?”

  “Not necessarily. Our block sizes have got tweaked over the years to fit the average physique. The tendency is for waist sizes to increase. In 1989, large could have been more like a 35 to 38.”

  “Not large in the sense of a sumo wrestler, then? Getting back to that timespan when they were on sale in your branches . . .”

  “1989 to 1995.”

  “You were saying that should be elastic, also?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “I’m talking about the timespan, ma’am. The average life of a pair of pants. You were saying it needs to be stretched.”

  “For the reasons I mentioned, yes. I suggest you spread the six-year interval to at least fifteen.”

  12

  “This will impress you,” John Leaman said when Diamond returned to the police office.

  “Try me.”

  “The Twerton squatters. The last people to live in the terrace, right?”

  “Go on.”

  “I had a call from the owner of the nearest corner shop and he told me one came in today and said they’d gone upmarket. They’re currently in the best squat ever, in the Royal Crescent.”

  “Never.”

  “It’s true. Some Chinese millionaire bought a house last year as an investment and had the interior upgraded and redecorated with a view to making it a centre for oriental medicine. On the day after the decorators moved out last week, the Twerton mob arrived in a van with their sleeping bags. Nobody knows how many. They’ve been moving more stuff in ever since and all the neighbours are going spare.”

  “How did they get in?”

  “Nothing forced. It seems they had a key or knew the combination. Probably paid a wedge to the decorators.”

  “They won’t be easy to shift. Were we officially informed?”

  “Uniform were told at once by the people next door, but you know how it is.”

  “Nobody wants a repeat of Stokes Croft.”

  In 2011, Avon and Somerset police had attempted to evict squatters from a shop undergoing refurbishment in the Stokes Croft district of Bristol and the protest soon became a riot lasting most of the night and involving three hundred protestors. Several officers and members of the public were injured and the police were criticised for being too heavy-handed.

  “So it’s softly softly, is it?”

  “It’s a case of ‘police aware.’”

  “Aware, but staying away.”

  “Rightly so,” Leaman said. “The 2012 act doesn’t apply because the planned use of the house is non-residential. It becomes a civil matter. The owner will need a court order.”

  “Are you sure these squatters are the Twerton people?” Diamond asked.

  “Positive. It’s no secret.”

  “The guy the shopkeeper spoke to—do we know his name?”

  “He’s known as Tank.”

  “We must talk to him. He’ll be suspicious of our motives, but by the sound of it he’s proud of what they’ve done. We’ll let him know we’re not plotting to evict him.”

  “Won’t wash, guv. In their eyes we’re all fuzz.”

  Diamond nodded. “Or worse. You’re right, John.”

  “And I can’t see uniform agreeing to us making contact.”

  “They don’t have to know.”

  Leaman could still be shocked by his boss.

  “Which house is it?” Diamond asked.

  He’d already decided to drive up to the Royal Crescent and see for himself. The chance of making contact with the people who had actually lived in the Twerton property was too good to pass up.

  Whichever way he approached the Grade I listed building in its elevated, open position, the grandeur of the concept never failed to move him. In the afternoon sunshine against a cloudless sky the sweep of the palatial terrace—actually more of a half-ellipse than a true crescent—stood for all that was best about the city he seldom praised but secretly loved.

  He’d asked Ingeborg to come with him.

  They stopped the car outside number one and walked the cobbled road to check
the occupied house. The frontage behind the railings was less than twenty feet, so they could get close to the doors and windows without appearing too obvious. But there was no need for subterfuge because in front of the occupied house a notice in large, bold lettering was displayed on a board screwed to a post anchored in a planter:

  We the present occupiers hereby assert our rights under Section 6 of the Criminal Law Act, 1977 and will prosecute anyone who threatens violence for the purpose of gaining entry to this house. There is someone in occupation at all times who opposes unauthorised entry.

  We caused no damage and did not break anything when first entering and we have video evidence to support this. We will continue to respect the property until such time as the owner serves us with a legal notice to quit in the form of a written statement authorised by the county court or the High Court.

  “They’re not new to this,” Ingeborg said.

  “And they’re not inarticulate,” Diamond said. “Let’s see if we can speak to anyone.”

  He rang the bell.

  A dog barked from somewhere inside.

  After a few seconds there was a squeak from the flap on the letterbox and it was pushed open a fraction. A woman’s voice said, “Yes?”

  “Just enquiring if Tank is at home,” Diamond said, bending low.

  “What do you want with Tank?”

  “Tell him it could be payday.”

  “Does he know you, then?”

  “He wouldn’t remember us. My name is Peter and Ingeborg is with me. Can we come in?”

  “You’re joking. First rule of the house. Residents only. Are you media people?”

  “Don’t insult me. Would Tank care to come out to collect his handout, then? We’re not trying to con our way inside.”

  “How come you know him?”

  “He was in Twerton. Look I’d love to talk about old times, but not bent double and through a letterbox. My back is starting to ache. Tell him we’ll meet him for a bite to eat.” He turned and asked Ingeborg, “Somewhere nearby?”

  She was quick with a suggestion. “The Green Bird.”

  He knew exactly where she meant. “The Green Bird, round the corner in Margaret’s Buildings.” To make the invitation more persuasive he added, “Famous for its food. Join us, if you like. What’s your name?”