Beau Death

by Peter Lovesey

  All the key people in CID were usefully occupied, Halliwell told him. Leaman had informed everyone he was in charge of a third investigation. He was currently waiting for news from Dr. Waghorn about the bone dug up at Twerton. A team of crime scene examiners was already on site lifting more fragments. Five DCs were knocking on doors making yet more enquiries about the earlier tenants of the terrace. Ingeborg was with Hector, the mobile device examiner, checking the contents of Perry Morgan’s phone. Paul Gilbert was at the university going through enrolment records to see if Morgan had ever been a student there.

  “And how about you?” Diamond asked Halliwell.

  “Standing in for you, guv.”

  “Standing or sitting?”

  “Doing what you would normally do if you were here. Someone has to oversee it all. How did it go with the gallery owner?”

  Diamond updated him and then said, “I won’t be back tonight. It’s the Beau Nash bunfight and I need to get ready.”

  “Rather you than me.”

  He drove home and phoned Paloma. She had already offered to help him get into the costume before driving him to the house in the Circus where the meeting was to take place. She suggested he came about 5:30, which left time to freshen up.

  But not before he’d fed the cat. Raffles made sure of that with some heart-rending mewing. The years had taken their toll of some of the wily old tabby’s abilities, but he was more vocal than ever.

  Rarely had Diamond looked forward to a shower so much. Visiting Newburn had left him feeling dirty. There were no marks for the soap and water to remove. It was all in the mind, yet the act of cleansing felt as necessary as if he’d been back to the crime scene and jumped into one of Leaman’s trenches.

  He’d always found showering a sure way of relieving mental stress. He didn’t go to the extreme of the James Bond method, starting with warm water and turning it down to finish stone cold. The Peter Diamond shower was hot, strong, steady and unchanging, a perfect recipe for fresh thinking.

  He’d need to be sharp for his appearance at the Beau Nash Society.

  When Georgina had threatened to remove him from the case and bring in Charlie Crocker he’d been forced into some wild claims. He wasn’t anywhere near Mastermind level on Beau Nash. Even so, the prospect of an evening with all those keenos and academics had influenced his bedtime reading. Instead of the latest final sensational who-would-have-thought-it unmasking of Jack the Ripper, he’d been working through a small stack of books about the Beau and the extraordinary way one charismatic Welshman had taken over and made Bath his own. Admittedly the conquest was on a lower scale than many people believe. Most of the buildings that define the modern city were simply not there when Nash arrived in 1705. No Royal Crescent, no Queen Square, no Circus, no Theatre Royal, no Assembly Rooms. Even the Great Bath had not been excavated. To call it a one-horse town might not be fair to a cathedral city, but it was largely given over to slums. The transformation from small spa to one of the architectural glories of Europe took place in the years of Nash’s supremacy and after.

  While the jets of warm water were reviving him, Diamond mused on how Perry Morgan must have had some of the Nash attitude, the strength of personality that persuaded people of influence to allow a young man to stage major public events. Would a modern-day Nash have laid on the world fireworks competition and marched into the assistant chief constable’s office to demand adequate policing? Without a doubt. Such people weren’t put off by authority. Would some mean-minded person have shot him dead? Possibly, human nature being what it is. Remarkable enterprise can spawn remarkable jealousy.

  Better put Perry out of his mind for this evening, he decided. He finished showering, dried himself and changed. In ten minutes he was on his way to Lyncombe.

  Paloma had a pizza supper and salad ready when he arrived. “I know you’re not over-keen on salad,” she said, “but it balances the meal, I think. Shall I open a can of beer?”

  “I could break the abstinence of a lifetime and allow myself one,” he said.

  “I phoned Estella earlier. She’s going to be there tonight, so there’s at least one person you’ll have met.”

  “Did she say what happens at these meetings?”

  “The welcoming of strangers, of course.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Anyone who hasn’t been before gets put in a sedan chair and is carried into the presence of the president and made to recite Nash’s rules for the Pump Room. Nothing to worry about. He speaks them first and you repeat them.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that at all. “A sedan chair? Really?”

  She laughed. “No. I made it up to see the look on your face. It’s just a social get-together. Sometimes they have a speaker, Estella said, but there isn’t one tonight.”

  “Pity. That would have taken some of the heat off.”

  “And at some stage they discuss business.”

  “What kind of business? Seriously. I want to know.”

  “Like the arrangements for the annual ball, which dances they need to learn. Stuff like that. All quite harmless. Brace up, Peter. I shouldn’t have teased you.”

  “I need another beer.”

  “You don’t. You need to be on top of your game—and I’m serious about that.”

  He knew she was right. The evening was his opportunity to learn things vital to the case. Unless his theory was rubbish, he was going to meet people who had known the skeleton when it was a living, breathing individual.

  He’d cleared his plate and he couldn’t have told you whether the pizza had been a Margherita or a Four Seasons.

  “Let’s get you into the clothes,” Paloma said.

  He was glad he’d tried them on before. This time they didn’t feel quite so freakish. By the time he was in white stockings, breeches and floral waistcoat, it felt almost normal to put on the frock coat.

  “Fine,” Paloma said. “Just the shoes and the wig now.”

  “What time is it?” She’d persuaded him to remove his wristwatch.

  “Almost time to go.”

  22

  “You won’t forget to pick me up at the end of the evening?”

  “And leave you to walk home dressed as you are? It’s tempting, but I’m not completely heartless.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit here a moment until I see someone else go in.”

  “In case it turns out to be one gigantic hoax? Peter, it can’t be.”

  Paloma had slotted into a space in front of the north side of the Wood family’s masterpiece, the three-storey Romanesque creation known originally as the King’s Circus. The terraced building formed a circle broken only by the three roads that led into it. Romanesque? Imperial Rome had certainly been in John Wood the Elder’s mind when he wrote the proposal announcing that the space in the middle would be used for “the exhibition of sports.” Whether lions and Christians featured in his plan is less certain. He laid the foundation in 1754 and died the same year, after which his son, John Wood the Younger, oversaw the construction. Completion was 1767, so Beau Nash didn’t live to see it. But the cream of society moved in, among them the prime minister William Pitt the Elder, the Earl of Chatham, the artist Thomas Gainsborough and Lord Robert Clive.

  Diamond was still having doubts. “I keep asking myself how I was shoehorned into this crazy situation. The head of CID dressed like this—it’s a farce.”

  “You’re wrong,” Paloma said. “It does wonders for you. You look superb and everyone will respond.”

  “I know how my team would respond if they could see me.”

  “They’d respect you even more than they do already.”

  He went silent. He knew she was being positive. And how he needed the confidence she was trying to provide.

  “Who suggested you came here—Georgina, wasn’t it?”

  “Suggeste
d? She volunteered me. To be fair, she changed her mind later. She was thinking of sending someone else and that would have been pointless. I’ve got myself to blame for telling her so.”

  “That’s to your credit, then. You’re not a quitter. I think you’re about to make a major breakthrough.”

  “I wish.”

  “If you find out who the skeleton must have been, you won’t be complaining.”

  He nodded. Paloma’s support was rock solid.

  “And then you won’t be far from naming his killer.”

  “Says you.”

  Suddenly his confidence-provider sounded a different note. “It could be one of the members.”

  “The murder was twenty years ago.”

  “They could still be around, couldn’t they?”

  “They could, but . . .”

  “For God’s sake be careful, Peter. You may be dressed up, but it’s not a game. It’s dangerous.”

  A large white minivan entered from Gay Street, glided around the central garden with its huge plane trees and came to a stop outside the house leased by the society. Like every other, this residence was fronted with twin Doric columns topped with a frieze decorated with serpents, nautical devices and emblems of the arts and sciences.

  The van door slid aside and a woman in a huge hat looked out as if to make sure no one else was about. Self-conscious like me? Diamond speculated.

  Her driver got out. He was in a modern suit.

  Diamond recognised him. “That’s Spearman, Sir Edward Paris’s chauffeur. The woman must be Lady Paris.”

  “Watch this,” Paloma said.

  Lady Paris (if this was she) was having trouble getting through the door. She had to ease out by stages with the driver’s help. He bent low and spread his arms and she giggled. The skirt was the problem. It had some kind of springy under-support.

  “Is it a crinoline?” Diamond asked Paloma.

  “No, they came later. It’ll be a hoop dress, and difficult to manage. They were never made to travel in minivans.”

  Between them the lady and her chauffeur were coping, but dignity was difficult. The skirt swung up like a handbell when they finally pulled it free. Hoots of laughter. If this was indeed Lady Paris, she was no shrinking violet. At pavement level she spent some time rearranging the folds. Composed at last, she stepped up to the open door—fortunately as wide as any in Bath—and went inside.

  “Okay, it’s really happening. I believe you now.” Diamond opened the car door.

  “Walk tall, big man,” Paloma said, “but keep your head down.”

  “Difficult—at the same time.”

  He braced himself and marched in.

  His leather heels clattered on the stones of a black and white check stone floor that looked original. Loud voices were coming from ahead, so he moved on and found himself outside a room filled with chattering people in costume. One glimpse disposed of all doubts about the need for his wig, frock coat and breeches. Without the costume he would have been as out of place as a clown at a funeral.

  “Do squeeze in if you can,” someone said. She was in a hat shaped like a two-tier cakestand and he recognised her as the woman he’d just watched getting out of the minivan. Better start thinking of her as a lady if she was indeed Lady Paris. When she stepped back a little and pushed down on the hoops of her skirt to make room, he saw that the cakestand was topped with a round, stuffed fabric object made to look like a bun, with quite believable currants and flakes of sugar. A Bath bun, of course. These people didn’t take themselves as seriously as he’d assumed.

  “Thanks.” But he was only able to take one step. Tube trains in the rush hour had more standing room.

  She released the dress and the hidden hoop sprang up and lodged against his shins. “Don’t back off,” she said. “Touching is part of the fun.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You’re new to this, aren’t you? You must be Georgie’s top detective. I was instructed to look out for you. I’m Sally, the Beau’s ball and chain.”

  So this had to be Lady Paris. He managed a nod. “Peter Diamond.”

  “Gorgeous rug, Pete,” Sally said, evidently meaning his wig. She was about his own age and already making him feel as if he should lighten up. “One like that gives a guy style. You could pass for George Washington. I wish my other half was allowed to sport a white one, but Beau Nash wore this long black shoulder-length thing that makes him look like Fred Basset, the cartoon dog. Don’t laugh when you meet him. He’ll bark if you do. He may bite.”

  Diamond felt sudden pressure on the backs of his knees. Someone else in a hoop dress was trying to enter the room.

  Sally grabbed his arm and pulled him close. “It gets like this, I’m afraid. Every time anyone else comes into the room we all get more intimate, but you can relax. I defy anyone to go the whole way dressed like this.”

  Going the whole way hadn’t crossed Diamond’s mind. Right now he was trapped by whalebone digging into his lower limbs from front and back and it was uncomfortable. He edged sideways.

  “Have I shocked you?” Sally said.

  “No, ma’am. I’m trying for a better position.”

  A peal of laughter came from her. “If Ed hears that, it’s pistols at dawn. You haven’t met the old tosser, have you? I can’t introduce you because he’s way over the other side of the room.”

  “Actually I was told there are some senior members I ought to meet.”

  “You don’t want to bother with them,” she said. “Geriatrics. A man in his prime like you should be chatting up the girls.”

  A man in his prime? He enjoyed that, but he still had a job to do. “Seriously, that’s why your husband invited me.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, ducky. I was there. It’s about the skeleton, isn’t it? You think it could have been one of our members.”

  “That’s only a theory,” Diamond said. “It was wearing the clothes. And a long black wig. What happens when a new president takes over? Is the same costume handed on?”

  “I’ve never heard that it is,” Sally said. “No, that’s ridiculous. Presidents come in all shapes and sizes. Orville Duff, the one Ed took over from, was a stick insect. Ed would never have got into his clothes.”

  “So they provide their own?”

  “I suppose if the incoming Beau is short of a few pennies, he might enquire what happened to the last one’s outfit, but that certainly didn’t apply in Ed’s case. Anyway, Orville died in office and you don’t want to wear a dead man’s clothes, do you?”

  “Was he wearing them at the time?”

  “That’s not what I meant. And he didn’t end up in a loft in Twerton.”

  “But the skeleton was dressed in a genuine eighteenth-century outfit.”

  “Really? Ed’s was made in a sweatshop in Indonesia, far as I know.”

  “What about his wig?”

  “Polyester. Take a look when you meet him.” She shook with amusement. “It’s far too shiny.”

  “So the wig doesn’t get handed on either?”

  “If I had my way it would get handed on to Oxfam. Yours is something else. Is it powdered?”

  “It may be. Paloma—she’s a friend—got it for me. She’s quite an expert. Ouch.” He felt more pressure on the backs of his calves. Someone else was trying to get into the room. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Estella. She winked and smiled.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Diamond said. “Good to see you again.”

  “There you are,” Sally said. “All the ladies want a piece of you, but I have you trapped.”

  He turned his head again. Estella was already talking to someone else. It was amusing listening to Sally, but he couldn’t see any prospect of meeting the veterans he’d come to see. How did anyone get about in private houses in the eighteenth cen
tury when the women wore these vast skirts? The only movement possible was from fans being used by ladies. The air had become far too stuffy.

  Like a mind reader, Sally answered his question. “This is the anteroom. We all transfer into the main reception room in a moment and then we can breathe again.”

  Already some movement at the other end was relieving the pressure. Soon he’d be able to look about and see if he recognised anyone.

  “What happens in there?” he asked Sally.

  “The meeting, hopefully short, and a chance to get a drink. You’re not driving, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Neither are we. Our chauffeur spends a boring evening waiting for us.”

  Some of the people behind them were now moving. Sally nudged him. “Come on. Use your elbows.”

  The main reception room had undergone some modern alterations, two fair-sized rooms opened up to become one, but whoever did the job had finished it in eighteenth-century style—a fine plastered ceiling and ormolu wall fittings with real lighted candles. The pictures were mostly copies, he guessed, several of people he recognised from the books he’d studied: Frederick, Prince of Wales, Princess Augusta, the Duchess of Marlborough, the Countess of Huntingdon, Ralph Allen, John Wood and of course Juliana Papjoy. The Beau himself wasn’t on the wall. He was by the fireplace on a plinth in marble, a copy of the statue in the Pump Room.

  “Grab a glass before the meeting starts,” Sally told Diamond.

  Footmen in blue and gold livery were circulating with trays of what looked like champagne, so he took her advice, moved about with glass in hand and got his first proper look at the membership. Difficult to recognise people in wigs and bonnets, but he spotted an ex-mayor, two headmasters, his own bank manager and two of the clergy from the Abbey.