Operation Goodwood

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Goodwood? Yes. It’s the only racetrack.’ The deacon fumbled, bundling a sheaf of musical notation under his arm. ‘We don’t have any of the Gordon-Lennox family buried in the cathedral. Most of them rest at Boxgrove, but we do have a few noble departed – medieval in the main. You know, over the last few years there have been several deaths at the track and we also have some of those poor souls. They drive at speed, you see. Quite reckless. The bishop had to have words with the duke. There is something so very tragic about unnecessary loss of life – well, I hardly need to tell you. We interred one chap last year as a result of a collision.’ The deacon gesticulated in the direction of the apse. The walls were peppered with stone carvings, ancient tombs and brass plates and it was unclear to which he was referring.

  ‘Mr Beaumont didn’t crash, though.’

  ‘No. Such a waste.’

  Mirabelle didn’t correct him. After all, a murder was as much a waste of life as a suicide, or a car crash.

  ‘It seems before he died, Mr Beaumont was planning renovations to his motor. He had a friend with a garage somewhere nearby.’

  ‘There are a lot of garages around Chichester. On account of Goodwood, you see. People round here are quite potty about motor cars.’

  ‘Yes, I visited once. It was fun. I live in Brighton and the main point of sporting interest is horse racing. There were thousands of people though, the day I came to Goodwood.’

  ‘It gets busy. Sometimes I think the chaps round here will race just about anything. People get terribly excited. All that rushing about. It puts me in mind of the William Tell Overture.’

  Mirabelle laughed. ‘It was very nice to meet you,’ she said.

  Outside, she loitered a moment, near the gate to the school. This would be a pleasant place to be laid to rest. She didn’t mind thinking of Dougie Beaumont being buried here. She strolled back across the grass trying not to wonder what Superintendent McGregor was getting up to today. He’d probably informed the Beaumonts of the news by now and would be setting himself to the task of investigating the murder. Turning out of the laneway, she noticed a group of older boys, the organist, Peter, and one of the singers from the choir among them, ducking across the road and into a pub. She decided to follow, though it seemed a rough kind of place – the windows needed cleaning and the paintwork was badly chipped. As she walked through the door there was a strong smell of stale beer.

  ‘You looking for someone, love?’ the man behind the bar grunted.

  ‘I thought I might have a gin and tonic.’

  ‘I ain’t got no tonic and we don’t serve ladies if they’re unaccompanied,’ he said without looking up.

  As Mirabelle turned, she noticed that she was the only woman in the place. ‘I’ll accompany you all right, dearie,’ a man growled from the corner. There was a cackle of laughter and she spun on her heel. Back outside, she stared in the direction of the station and cursed herself. What was she thinking of walking into a place like that on her own? She really ought to know better. She decided that she’d get off at Bognor Regis on the way back and see what she could do about the outstanding debt. There had been no point in her coming. She was about to get going when the organist emerged on to the pavement.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said. Peter was fresh-faced, now she saw him in daylight. ‘I’m sorry—’ he jerked his head towards the interior ‘—that was rude. If you like I’ll walk you down to the Ship. They’ll serve a lady.’

  ‘It’s early to be looking for a drink anyway,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Your playing sounded lovely. I was sitting at the back.’

  The boy blushed. ‘I always need one after rehearsals. Deacon Bartholomew has us all on tenterhooks. He’s an odd fish but he gets the best out of you.’

  ‘Are you allowed . . .?’ Mirabelle cast her eyes back towards the pub.

  The boy shrugged. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But in the final year it’s one of the perks. As long as no one gets too mashed up they turn a blind eye. It’s a hole in there, really. Please, let me take you down to the Ship. It’s the least I can do.’ He held out his arm and Mirabelle took it. They set off in the direction of South Street. ‘There’s a restaurant in the pub– it’s quite fancy,’ Peter said. ‘I’ve only been in when my parents visit.’

  ‘I was just hoping for a gin – a stiffener, I suppose. I came to Chichester looking for a friend but I haven’t found him.’

  ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘A man called Dougie Beaumont.’

  ‘The racing driver?’ The boy’s face coloured. ‘Haven’t you heard what happened?’

  ‘I heard. I was looking for sight or sound of him, I suppose. Some kind of trace. He’s to be buried at the cathedral and I know that he liked it here. I’m not sure what I hoped to find, really. It’s silly.’

  ‘I met Beaumont once in the pub in Tangmere. I got him to sign my autograph book. It was a couple of years ago. I was younger then. I had to sit outside.’

  Mirabelle stifled a smile. The boy seemed hopelessly young and if anything his good manners made him seem even more childlike. They came to a halt outside the brick façade of the Ship. ‘Was that at RAF Tangmere?’ she asked.

  The boy considered for a moment. ‘Yes. There’s an aerodrome all right. I was with my father. He came down to visit and we’d been to watch the racing. Afterwards he had a beer and I got a lemonade. I was supposed to sit outside on the bench.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Anyway, most of the drivers went back to the big house. We were just lucky to bump into Mr Beaumont and his mate. They’d sneaked off for a chat, I think.’

  ‘The Bader Arms is the pub in Tangmere, isn’t it?’ Mirabelle recalled the name being changed in honour of Douglas Bader who’d flown missions from the base during the war. She’d read about it in The Times. Jack had said something about naked commercialism and that Bader probably wouldn’t have appreciated the gesture. ‘It’s not much of a war memorial, is it?’ he’d snapped and Mirabelle had pointed out that there were plenty of pubs named after Nelson.

  ‘The Bader Arms? I wouldn’t mind seeing that,’ she said.

  ‘I’d guess it at three miles.’ The boy’s eyes followed the line of the road. ‘There’s a bus but it’s hardly regular.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mirabelle. ‘It’s a lovely day. I might as well walk. You’ve been very kind.’

  Chapter 9

  There are only two forces that unite – fear and interest

  She always thought Sussex was God’s own county – a glorious mixture of seaside and landscape that was the best of England. The hedgerows were losing their leaves and there were berries, bright against the muddy track, and now and then a tree with a blaze of orange fluttering on its branches almost ready to fall. On the road out of Chichester short rows of cottages were set back here and there. The harvest was over and the fields were tidy, mostly finished for the year and now set for the long, fallow winter. She met a boy walking three cows along the winding back road. He stepped aside to let her pass, like a medieval peasant, as if the road was not wide enough for both of them. ‘Thank you,’ Mirabelle said briskly as he doffed his cap. A couple of times the old-fashioned atmosphere was broken by the sound of an airplane passing overhead but Mirabelle wasn’t overtaken by a single car and only saw a tractor in the distance, moving silently across the naked fields.

  Coming into Tangmere there was a rash of houses, a small village green and a telephone box. An old stone church punctuated the main street, a tiny cemetery spread around it. Some of the trees here had already lost their leaves and skirted the graveyard like black sentries. The pub was in a two-storey building, half brick and half white pebble-dash. Across the road there was a village shop from which a woman’s face peered at Mirabelle as she pushed open the door of the pub. Inside, the Bader Arms was like a hundred country drinking holes. The bar was carved mahogany with a short rack of spirits behind and two beer pumps. Chairs and tables were spread around the room, which was mostly empty. At the wide fireplace, a woman with hair so blonde t
hat it could not possibly be natural was on her knees, setting the fire, a cigarette suspended between pursed, painted lips. She had just set a tower of kindling alight and was now balancing two logs on top.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mirabelle, glad after her experience in Chichester that there was a woman in charge.

  The girl nodded and got to her feet, removing the cigarette and brushing the sawdust off her palms. Mirabelle couldn’t help noticing she was wearing white patent leather stilettos that did not belong in a rural setting. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I’d like a gin, please.’ Mirabelle removed her gloves.

  The blonde slowly headed for the bar, where a tin ashtray by the till was full to overflowing. She picked up a glass. ‘Anything with that, love?’

  ‘Tonic, if you have it.’

  ‘Sure.’ The girl smiled and reached for a measure.

  ‘It’s quiet in here.’ Mirabelle looked around.

  ‘We hardly see a soul till they come off shift at the airfield at four.’ The girl laid down the glass and poured a small bottle of tonic into the gin. ‘Are you meeting someone?’

  ‘No. I came because an old friend used to drink here.’

  ‘A pilot, was he? You aren’t a widow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We used to get a lot of that after the war. Less now. Can’t get anything right today, can I?’ The girl stubbed out her cigarette. ‘And none of my business anyway.’

  ‘I don’t mind. My friend was a driver, not a pilot. I know he liked it here. Dougie Beaumont.’

  ‘The racing driver? Mr Harrison’s chum?’

  ‘Mr Harrison?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a retired gentleman. He lives outside the village. Calls himself the tinkerer.’

  ‘The tinkerer?’

  ‘Yeah, cars and that.’

  Mirabelle sipped the gin. It was refreshing after the long walk – lighter than whisky. ‘You mean he’s an engineer or something?’

  ‘Not that he comes in here all covered in grease. Nor in overalls neither. He’s a proper gent. It’s just a hobby – no money involved or nothing like that.’

  Mirabelle leaned in. ‘I wonder if he might be the chap who was helping Dougie? I know he was planning to do something to his car.’

  ‘Nah. I doubt it.’ The girl pulled a grubby-looking cloth from beneath the sink and held a glass up to the light to check if it was clean.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They had an argument right after the Easter races. A proper bust-up. Mr Beaumont and Mr Harrison. I ain’t seen them together since. I ain’t seen Mr Beaumont at all, come to that. Shame. He always dressed nicely – one of them houndstooth jackets and his hair all slick. Suntanned too. Just like he looked in the papers. Handsome devil.’

  ‘Do you know what it was about?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The argument?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘I dunno. But there wasn’t a stand-up or nothing. They was gentlemen. You’ve heard, haven’t you? About Mr Beaumont?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mirabelle was about to push the girl further when the door of the pub swung open and she was surprised to see a black man enter carrying a small box filled with wine glasses.

  The girl sniffed. ‘Put it down there,’ she said cursorily, indicating the end of the bar.

  ‘Yes, lady.’ The man had an accent that Mirabelle couldn’t place but she held back from asking. It drove Vesta quite potty when people asked where she came from. One thing was sure – this fellow did not hail from Bermondsey. He was wearing military overalls. ‘You’re from the airfield?’ she asked.

  The man’s eyes fell to his shoes. ‘No, lady. I’m not RAF.’ He grinned as if the suggestion was ridiculous and then gave a vigorous salute that left Mirabelle in no doubt he had never had any military training. ‘Mister just got me these for today,’ he said, indicating his outfit.

  ‘You’re helping out?’

  ‘That’s the ticket. I’m helping out. Yes. When the plane comes in.’ The words were alien in his mouth, the vowels long and low, like music.

  Mirabelle smiled and raised her glass. ‘Well, you’re very welcome.’

  The girl picked one of the glasses out of the box. She sniffed once again.

  ‘I washed them all, missy,’ the man said, still grinning. It struck Mirabelle that smiling was this man’s defence mechanism – a filter he put between himself and the world.

  ‘Still. I better do them myself. Properly,’ the girl said and lifted the box over to the sink.

  The man seemed unfazed by the implication. ‘Mr Crowe said to thank you very much for lending them.’ He grinned again and the girl barely nodded.

  From behind, Mirabelle could hear the fire crackling in the grate as the blaze the girl had set spread to the logs. By the time the men came off shift at the airfield there would be a bed of glowing embers and the room would have warmed up. She could feel the heat already, as it advanced across the room. It felt uncomfortably as if the fire was sneaking up on her from behind. She shifted at the bar so she could keep an eye on it.

  ‘Was there a party?’ she asked.

  The black man rubbed his hands together, clearly enthusiastic about making conversation. ‘Yes indeed. Mr and Mrs Crowe are party people.’

  ‘It must be pleasant to work for them. Do they live in the village?’

  ‘We are up from London,’ the man said. ‘It is a sad day. But there is business that has to be done when somebody dies.’

  ‘Oh I am sorry,’ Mirabelle replied. She was about to ask another question when the fire suddenly crackled and spat a flash of hot sparks on to the brick floor. Mirabelle faltered, almost losing her footing.

  ‘Don’t worry, missy.’ The man rushed forward to stamp out the bright embers.

  Mirabelle felt the colour drain from her face. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ashamed of having jumped. She tried to recover herself but found that she couldn’t control her breathing. ‘I hadn’t quite realised . . .’ she said. Her heart was beating strangely and she felt woozy as the gin glass tumbled out of her hand on to the floor. It didn’t even feel that she was in same room any more. When the man offered his arm, she grasped it. He was small, no taller than Mirabelle, but he was steady. She felt grateful as he guided her to a wooden chair.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the barmaid turned. ‘Hey, you, nig-nog, leave her alone.’

  But Mirabelle wasn’t all right. A wave of nausea started in the pit of her stomach moving upwards and she realised that she was shaking. She bent over, head between her legs, but it didn’t help and she kept watch on the fire out of the corner of her eye. She knew her blood pressure must have dropped because she found it impossible to clench her fingers. Then there was a clicking sound, which she realised was the barmaid coming to help. The girl pushed the black man out of the way and he stepped back, holding his hands in the air as if in surrender. ‘Are you all right?’ the girl repeated.

  Mirabelle kept her attention focused on her breathing. That was what you were supposed to do and it seemed patently obvious that she wasn’t all right. More than anything she felt foolish having such a silly reaction. Then, as if in the distance, she heard the girl snap, ‘Fetch Doc Coughlan. Over the road. Go on. Hurry.’ The black man’s shoes moved away and the pub door creaked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mirabelle managed. It took a good deal of effort to get out the words but once she’d done it, she found herself repeating them. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. But there was nothing she could do. This appeared to have overtaken her. How ridiculous, she thought, that I should feel like this, after everything I know, everything I’ve seen. Her skin flushed and then a sheet of fog engulfed her slowly as if it was rolling all the way from the long-dead blaze at the Lawns. The last thing she managed to say before everything went dark was ‘Be careful of the fire.’

  When Mirabelle woke, she was in a sitting room, laid on a sofa that was upholstered in grey glazed cotton. Turning, she made out the corner of the Bader Arms through a small sash and case
window to the right, and, as she did so, she remembered what had happened. Outside, a motorbike zoomed too quickly along the village street. The room was pleasant, with a few watercolour landscapes on the walls and a small brick fireplace on the other side of a loosely woven green rug. The clock on the mantel sat at just after one o’clock and next to it was a leather case containing binoculars, which was decorated on one side with a clutch of enamel badges on cord – passes from racing days. She could just make out a white one, the latest addition, which read ‘B. A. C. Goodwood 1955’. She felt glad the fire was not lit and cursed herself for being so foolish. She began to wonder whose house this was, when from behind the closed door she heard movement. Then the knob turned and a man in a RAF uniform came in. He was an officer.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ he said, his Irish accent apparent immediately. ‘Good show. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Sheepish,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Not at all. The gin over at the Bader Arms often has that effect.’ The man grinned, which set his blue eyes alight. ‘I’m Desmond Coughlan – the doctor at the base.’ He crossed towards her and Mirabelle noticed that behind him there was a well-dressed woman with her hair styled in a smart Italian cut. ‘This is Enid Crowe, who heard you had been unwell and came to see if you were all right.’

  Mirabelle, still slightly woozy, struggled to place the name.

  ‘How do you do?’ the woman said. ‘I think one of my husband’s men, Kamari, fetched Dr Coughlan when you got into difficulty.’

  ‘Ah. He’s Kenyan?’ Mirabelle was not so woozy that she didn’t recognise an unusual name. ‘I wondered about his accent.’

  ‘Yes. My husband’s family live in Kenya. How clever of you.’

  ‘Now,’ Dr Coughlan cut in, checking Mirabelle’s pulse, ‘I’d like to see you eat something, young lady – you’re my patient, you know, so it’s doctor’s orders. I’ve asked my housekeeper to fetch you some sandwiches and a cup of tea. Let’s start with that.’

  ‘Thank you, but . . .’

  ‘But nothing. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten anything today, have you?’ Mirabelle gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘Well, we need to look after you, Miss . . .’