‘That’s the fellow from upstairs, miss. You sure you don’t know his name?’
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone up there. How awful.’
Mirabelle’s rescuer turned away as the men flocked round the engine to help jet a stream of water across the Lawns. He fell in as they moved into position to douse the flames. To the side, the other medic stood back from the man’s body. He shook his head. Mirabelle squinted to make out the corpse on the stretcher in the amber streetlight. His head was turned towards her. The eyes were glazed and she could just make out a shadow – a wide red welt around his neck. To one side the medic retrieved a piece of rope.
‘The police will want that, I expect,’ he said.
‘Did he hang himself?’ Mirabelle asked, as she tried to sit up further.
‘Now, now, miss,’ the man fussed. ‘There’s no point in getting worked up.’
He nodded at his friend to lay a sheet over the body. Mirabelle paused. It was odd but she could swear she had seen the man somewhere. Her bare feet were getting cold now and she tucked them under the thick fabric, drawing the blanket around her. Then she gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ the medic continued. ‘There’s nothing anyone could’ve done.’
‘But I didn’t even know he was there.’
‘People these days don’t always know their neighbours, miss. It’s not like before the war.’
‘Please,’ she insisted. ‘Let me see him again.’
The medic hesitated, then nodded at the other man who removed the sheet from the dead man’s face. Then it came to her. It was the racing driver – the young man with the strong jaw. With the mother.
‘I do know him,’ she said. ‘Well, I’ve seen him. He’s a driver. Beaumont? Is that the name?’
‘Blow me, she’s right. It’s Dougie Beaumont,’ the medic said. ‘That’s a tragedy.’
‘Why would he kill himself?’ Mirabelle kept her eyes steady on the welt round Dougie Beaumont’s neck. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Now, now, miss. No point in getting exercised. You’ve identified the poor fellow. That’s a help.’
Two black Marias pulled up behind the fire engine and three uniformed policemen emerged to control the crowd that was forming along the pavement. Then Superintendent McGregor appeared beside Mirabelle. He crouched down and took her hand. She felt curiously detached from what was going on but she was glad to see a familiar face.
‘Are you all right? I came as soon as I heard. Can I take you to hospital?’ McGregor’s concern was evident.
The medic smiled indulgently. ‘She’s fine, sir. Though we’ll keep an eye on her for another few minutes. You were lucky, miss.’
‘The fire was upstairs, Alan,’ Mirabelle found herself explaining with some urgency, ‘and the poor man is dead. It’s Dougie Beaumont – do you remember? He won the first race when we went to Goodwood at Easter? It looks like he hanged himself.’
‘You leave that to me.’ McGregor squeezed her fingers gently and cast a glance over his shoulder at the dead man. ‘The boys will take care of it. Right now, you’ve had a shock and it seems you’re out of digs. Why don’t you come and stay at my place till we get all this sorted out?’
Chapter 2
There is nothing permanent except change
When Mirabelle woke it took a good ten seconds before she remembered where she was and what had happened. The autumn sunshine blazed around the edges of the patterned curtains and she realised it must be later than she usually rose. Somewhere in the distance she could hear church bells. Turning, she noticed a clock beside the bed. The hands stood just after ten o’clock. She coughed as she sat up too suddenly, prevented from jumping out of bed to get dressed by a sudden heaviness in her chest. As the feeling subsided there was a knock at the door and she pulled up the covers, protectively.
‘Yes?’
The door swung open to reveal a woman in her sixties carrying a steaming cup of tea. She was wearing a floral housecoat over a plain grey dress and her pale hair was pinned in such a complicated construction of folds and curls that Mirabelle found herself transfixed by the detail of it.
‘Good morning.’ She laid the steaming cup on the bedside table. ‘Mr McGregor said you’d probably like a cuppa about this time.’ The woman crossed to the window in a trail of violet scent and tobacco, and opened the curtains, revealing the interior of the room. This illuminated what had only been murky detail in the half-light – faded wallpaper with sprigs of daisies at regular intervals and a chair with a thick, white antimacassar. Mirabelle’s eyes fell on the sign taped beside the light switch: INSTRUCTIONS TO GUESTS. She tried to remember but the night before was hazy – everything after the fire seemed impossible to piece together. She had tried to talk to McGregor about the dead man but he had refused and instead he had helped her into bed. She couldn’t recall much else. The arrangements seemed entirely inappropriate now and she felt herself blush.
Downstairs a shrill bell sounded and the older women turned. ‘I wonder who that could be?’ she said. ‘On a Sunday.’
Mirabelle regarded the cup of tea. There was no doubt this was a guest house. There was a sink in one corner of the room with a scrap of a towel laid beside it. Looking down, she realised she was wearing the nightgown in which she’d been rescued. The edge of her sleeve was ingrained with grit and the lace collar was slightly torn. She lay back on the pillow unable to summon the will to get up, the thought slowly dawning that even if she did so, she had nothing to get dressed in. Not a toothbrush, or anything to wear.
As if reading her thoughts, the woman returned with a Hannington’s bag. ‘Mr McGregor must have knocked them up. He thinks of everything, doesn’t he?’ she said, laying it down. ‘Would you like me to help you dress, miss? I was a lady’s maid before. That’s many years ago now.’
Mirabelle shook her head.
‘Where has McGregor gone?’
‘He went into the station, miss. He left you this.’ She drew a folded paper from her pocket. Mirabelle fumbled the note open. Dear Mirabelle. I hope you are feeling better. Brownlee will look after you, it said. I will try to pick up fresh clothes and have them sent over. In the meantime, I have arranged for Vesta to be informed. She is coming to help. I suggest, if you’re up to it, that you go to the office. She will need to use the telephone. She seemed most keen to make the necessary arrangements. Alan.
‘The superintendent said he was bringing me home,’ Mirabelle said. It was the most she could get out, given the jumble of information that was knocking around her head. The idea of ‘arrangements’ was beyond her.
‘Yes, miss. This is Mr McGregor’s home.’ The woman pulled a navy woollen dress out of the bag, then a packet of stockings and a box which contained a pair of rather sensible shoes. She laid these items on the chair beside the window. ‘He’s lived here for a while.’
Mirabelle lay back against the pillows. It had been months since she started seeing McGregor on a romantic basis. Or was it more than a year? They shared dinner and a walk now and then. Drinks out and a trip up to London. A day trip or two. They had gone to see the terracottas at the British Museum and afterwards they had kissed. It had been surprisingly passionate – but nothing more. He’d never asked her back to his place. It wouldn’t have been seemly. After that day at Goodwood, he had suggested they go away for the weekend but then there had been a murder in Hove and the idea had somehow got lost on the warm summer air.
‘He lives in a boarding house?’
‘Yes, miss.’ The woman’s expression softened. ‘Mr McGregor made an arrangement with Alfie, my brother. He wanted me well provided for, you see, when he went. He had debts to cover, so he sold this place to Mr McGregor on condition that I could work here. He trusted Mr McGregor to look out for me. As long as I live, he said. He’s a nice fellow.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Mirabelle stumbled. ‘At a time of bereavement . . . your brother . . .’
&n
bsp; The woman grinned. ‘Alfie’s not dead, miss. He’s inside and he won’t be coming out again. He got fifteen years and he’s not a well man. So I run this place for Mr McGregor to earn my keep. He’s not bad for a copper – a gentleman, like I said. And the old fella’s only up at Lewes so I can visit now and then.’
Mirabelle hesitated. This was a new side to McGregor. She couldn’t imagine him making a deal with a criminal even if it helped out this woman, who appeared, after all, perfectly pleasant. Fifteen years was a substantial sentence. She wondered what crime Alfie had committed. ‘Did Mr McGregor, well, was he the officer who arrested your brother?’
The woman laughed. ‘No, miss. I think Alfie was one of Mr McGregor’s informants, if I’m honest. Alfie’s not a bloke you’d trust. He’s my brother and I love him, but that’s the truth. He’d never admit he was a grass, but, well . . . It was nice of Mr McGregor to help us out, really. Look, if you don’t want me to attend you getting dressed, I’ll just go back downstairs. The paying guests have gone so I’ve got rooms to make up and I was hoping to nip up to church later.’
‘Sorry. Of course. Go on.’
Mirabelle waited until the woman’s steps had receded before she got out of bed to inspect the contents of the Hannington’s bag and run hot water into the sink. As she did so she realised she had no idea where she was – she didn’t even know Superintendent McGregor’s address.
Coming downstairs ten minutes later, Mirabelle felt odd. She didn’t have a handbag or a coat to hand, but the clothes fitted perfectly. She caught sight of herself in a mirror by the door – the outfit wasn’t what she’d have chosen, but it wasn’t too poor a selection. She hovered. The woman reappeared almost immediately.
‘I’ll wash your nightie, shall I, miss?’
‘Yes. I left it on the chair. Thank you. What shall I call you?’
‘I’m Brownlee.’ The woman smiled. ‘Betty Brownlee. Miss Brownlee, I suppose. I never married, what with the war.’ She reached into her apron pocket. ‘You’ll need a key, miss. We have rules for the guests but you and Mr McGregor come and go as you please. Dinner is always at seven.’
‘Thank you.’ Mirabelle took the key and fumbled as she realised the dress she was wearing didn’t have a pocket. Betty Brownlee’s eyes lighted on the front door. She opened it, letting in a sliver of fresh autumn air.
‘I’ll need a hat,’ Mirabelle said, absentmindedly laying a hand on her hair as she hovered at the threshold.
‘Oh yes. Of course.’ Miss Browlee darted into a room to the side and emerged with a garish blue rayon square. ‘There,’ she said, handing it over. ‘Now it’s down to the front, miss. Turn right into town.’
Mirabelle tied the scarf in place, nodded distractedly and set off down the terrace. She could feel it was Sunday on the air – there was something that would have felt too still on any other day. On the street half of the properties had boards advertising rooms to let. Glancing back, she checked what McGregor’s was called. The Arundel. She wondered if it was the Arundel she would have picked if she’d come here on holiday. Casting her eyes over the others, it seemed likely. One or two of the boarding houses seemed strangely unwelcoming. Mirabelle pursed her lips. A sign saying no dogs no jews no blacks hung on one front door. Another was encased in flaking paint, as if it had a terrible case of dandruff. By contrast, the Arundel was in good repair, the small front garden was tidy and there was a substantial laurel in a terracotta pot at the entrance. She decided McGregor had brokered a good arrangement for a bachelor. He’d needed looking after and, now she thought about it, the last few months he’d seemed more presentable than when she first met him. Recently his coats had not been missing buttons and he’d appeared marginally more rested and well fed. Betty Brownlee had done a decent job. Still, he might have told her.
It was a bright morning with a chill on the air. Along the front there were a few day trippers arrived from London, strolling along the promenade, but most of Brighton had yet to wake up. A couple of locals, keen but late, hurried past her on their way to Sunday service.
Mirabelle was pink cheeked when she arrived at McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery, her mind racing as she ran through the last few hours. She climbed the stairs, realising how eager she was to see Vesta and talk about what had happened. She managed to control her disappointment when she opened the office door and the girl was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Bill Turpin was at his desk. An ex-policeman, Bill was sandy-haired and reliable in all things. He had worked at McGuigan & McGuigan for two years now and this was the first time he’d ever surprised her.
He sprang to his feet as Mirabelle entered and Panther, the office dog, Bill’s almost constant companion, came to attention at his heel like a low black shadow. At rest Bill always appeared to be smiling but now his features shifted into an expression of concern.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, coming forward.
‘You heard about what happened then?’
‘Yes. Vesta called one of the neighbours. She asked me to come in and help. I’ve been trying to get hold of a locksmith but no one is answering the telephone. I think I might have to go and knock one up. Out of hours,’ he said.
Mirabelle cast her eyes round the office. ‘Where is Vesta?’
‘She got on to it straight away.’ Bill smiled.
‘Oh?’
‘The insurance.’
‘Insurance?’
Bill pulled out Mirabelle’s chair and she found herself almost falling into it. It was possible she was suffering from some kind of shock, she thought. She still felt like an observer, as if she couldn’t quite grasp what had happened. Everyone was being so kind.
Bill didn’t skip a beat. ‘Vesta saw to it last year. Don’t you remember? The larger-than-expected profit?’
Mirabelle nodded slowly. The previous year – 1954 – had been their busiest since they had taken over the business, and a bumper profit had ensued. Vesta had arranged to spend some of the money. She’d talked about investment and, as Mirabelle recalled, they had bought another typewriter, ordered a brass plaque for the door and had the place painted. They had also treated themselves to a slap-up office meal on Christmas Eve at the Grand.
‘We’ve all got insurance now. Life insurance. Personal insurance. Household insurance. The lot.’ Bill grinned. ‘Just as well, eh? Don’t worry. Vesta is seeing to it. You know what she’s like – she’s got her head screwed on.’
Vesta had spent the first eighteen months of her working life in Brighton, at Halley Insurances, down the hall from McGuigan & McGuigan. That’s how the women had first met. It was four years since she joined the company, though these days Mirabelle couldn’t imagine being without her. Vesta brought the office to life and she was meticulous about contracts. Comprehensive insurance was exactly the kind of thing Vesta would arrange given some extra money.
‘She’s gone over to your place to take an inventory,’ Bill said. ‘For the assessor. They’ll send someone down tomorrow, see. Would you like a cuppa?’
Bill, like most men, rarely made tea but today, it seemed, almost anything might happen. He checked the kettle was filled and plugged it in.
‘Did you hear about the poor fellow upstairs?’ she asked.
Bill clattered as he sorted out the cups and saucers.
‘Tragic,’ he said. ‘Another year and he’d have been on the Jaguar team. They’d have brought him round. Nothing surer.’
Mirabelle leant forward slightly.
‘The Jaguar team?’ The words tumbled from her lips as if she had dropped them.
Bill spooned sugar into the cups. ‘I expect you’ll want it sweet today,’ he said. ‘He was a hell of a driver, Dougie Beaumont. He stuck to the track like glue.’
‘So it was him? It really was?’
‘Oh yes. Seems he bought the flat over the summer.’ Steam rose as Bill poured boiling water into the teapot. Then with no time to let it brew he poured it into a cup, added milk and laid the resulting cupful of liquid proudly o
n Mirabelle’s desk. The contents were almost completely white. ‘Suicide too,’ he said. ‘A crying shame.’
Mirabelle eyed the pale liquid. She was about to pick up the cup when something stopped her. Weak sweet tea was not what she’d choose, even if it was nice of Bill to pitch in. It wasn’t only the tea that was perturbing her. She didn’t seem able to control her thoughts. On top of her inbox there was a large debt to be processed – a complex web of missed hire purchase payments. It should be first on her list for tomorrow and suddenly it felt impossible. Overwhelming, even. Everything seemed irregular this morning. Mirabelle glanced at the hook by the door and was grateful to see her green tweed overcoat. She’d left it in the office after Vesta had picked it up the week before from the laundry on Conway Place.
‘Perhaps I’ll pop over to the Lawns, just to have a look. I still don’t know where the fire started, you see. Or how. Last night is rather a blur.’
‘Oh the brigade will be looking into that. It’s only natural, you can’t remember much,’ Bill said cheerily.
Mirabelle got to her feet and pulled the coat over her shoulders. There was a pair of dark leather gloves in the pocket in a pristine brown paper bag. A happy discovery. She must have left them there by mistake and the laundry had cleaned them too.
‘Vesta might need a hand,’ she said, doing up the buttons and thinking that now, if she could only find a hat, rather than this horrible scarf, at least she’d be respectably arrayed.
‘Right-o,’ said Bill, slurping his tea. ‘I’ll get a locksmith over as soon as I can knock one up. Superintendent McGregor told Vesta the front door is open – stoved in by the brigade. First things first, eh?’
Panther rubbed against Mirabelle’s leg and she felt suddenly intensely fond of the little dog. She leaned down to pat him and he wagged his tail, keeping a steady eye on Bill. There was no question where Panther’s loyalty really lay.
‘Do you want to take the little fella with you?’ Bill offered.
Mirabelle shook her head.
Operation Goodwood Page 2
