The girl made a noise that indicated her dubiety. Mirabelle rarely, if ever, took holidays and certainly not to the countryside. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I’m fine. I’m off to the golf course this morning.’
‘Golf? I didn’t know you played golf. Where on earth are you?’
‘Goodwood.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard it’s lovely. Charlie’s friend Jacko played there last year – a party at a big house. I think they thought that jazz was rather risqué.’ Vesta’s voice slowed and Mirabelle made out the sound of newspaper crinkling down the line. The tone of the girl’s voice changed as she put two and two together. ‘Was that Goodwood you said?’ She sounded disapproving.
‘Is what happened in the Argus?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does it say?’
‘That some bloke was killed.’
‘Read it out, Vesta.’
‘George Highton. Twenty-nine. A racing journalist. Oh, really, Mirabelle!’
‘Does it say how he died?’
‘Murder. He was murdered. Well, suspicious circumstances anyway. I can’t believe you won’t touch divorce cases, but you’ll dive into this sort of thing. I’m going to ring Superintendent McGregor.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake. Goodwood is out of McGregor’s jurisdiction. There’s nothing he can do. That’s the problem with the police. It takes different forces for ever to coordinate.’ Down the phone line Mirabelle could feel Vesta’s lips purse. ‘Look, I can’t just ignore this,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘This man was a friend of Dougie Beaumont’s. I have a duty.’
‘McGregor really ought to be told.’
‘I’m going to find out what I can.’
‘Mirabelle, you’re impossible.’
‘You can’t complain that I don’t tell you what I’m up to, and then complain anyway when I do. I’m perfectly safe, Vesta. I’m just going to look around.’
‘All right,’ the girl conceded. ‘But be careful.’
As Mirabelle hung up and handed back the telephone, the waitress couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ Mirabelle said, ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Did you see Mr Highton when he was here the other day?’
The girl nodded. She looked as if she might cry.
‘Had you seen him before?’
She nodded again. ‘He stayed here when the racing was on.’
‘It must be very busy then, but you remembered him?’
‘He always tipped,’ she said. ‘Not all the gentlemen bother.’
‘I imagine it was a terrible shock when they found his body. Did they bring him here after they found him?’
‘The ambulance came to the big house. But the policeman wanted his things. You know, from his room. I packed it all up.’
‘What had Mr Highton brought with him?’
‘Just his razor, some clothes and his clubs, of course.’
‘Clubs?’
‘Golf clubs. He played yesterday afternoon. Oh, and he had a bottle of brandy on the bedside – he never had that before.’
‘There wasn’t a journal or letters or photographs?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘A snuffbox?’
The girl shook her head.
‘I wonder, did you find out how he died? I mean, how it happened?’
‘Cook says it must’ve been a tramp. A vagrant, she called it. They pass through sometimes. Them and the gypsies.’
‘Did anyone see a tramp?’
The girl shrugged. ‘They come and go.’
This seemed unlikely, given the amount of money that it would appear had been left on Highton’s body and the presence of a threatening letter in his possession, but Mirabelle didn’t argue. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m sure the police will find who did it.’
‘We ain’t allowed out now. I mean once it’s dark. We were told we ain’t allowed on our own cos the man’s still out there.’
‘Quite right,’ Mirabelle said. A vision of herself the night before, stumbling around the park in the pitch black came into her mind’s eye. ‘Well, I’ll just go for a walk, I think.’
As she left the inn, she fell in with the perimeter of the golf course. The air was heavy this morning and the fallen leaves clustered in damp smears along the road. It must have rained just as it was getting light. The air smelled damp. Two women dressed in tweed were hacking their way around the fairway. How enlightened to allow women members, Mirabelle thought. She stopped to watch them tee off. Her mind wandered as she arced around the park and she found herself wondering where George Highton had hidden whatever personal items he took from Dougie Beaumont’s top drawer and if they might now turn up. Then the irony struck her that, if that was the case, he might not have saved either himself or his lover from the censure of the police or the wider world. As she followed the road, she caught glimpses of Goodwood House across the fairway. She could just make out a policeman in uniform, still on duty at the front door. Then, as the house fell out of sight, she passed the estate farrier where three horses were tethered in the yard. She continued on. After almost an hour she came to a Georgian building – the clubhouse. A sign pronounced it was members only. At the front, three smart cars were parked to one side and, as Mirabelle approached, she realised that they were masking another sign that said THE KENNELS. The building seemed far too nice to house dogs.
Just inside the front door there was a scruffy reception desk and a man perched on a high stool behind it. He jumped to his feet as she came in.
‘Miss.’ He nodded towards a registration book, which was clearly used for signing in.
‘I’m not a member,’ Mirabelle admitted.
The man’s eyes hardened. ‘It’s members only,’ he said.
‘I see.’ She thought on her feet. ‘The thing is, I’m staying at the coaching inn and I went for a walk and I seem to have hurt my ankle. The road is slippy, with all the leaves. When I spotted you . . . I wonder if you might make an exception. I need to sit down, you see.’
The man cast his eyes towards Mirabelle’s ankles. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I best put you in the bar.’ He nodded in the direction of a doorway ahead. ‘I’ll get someone to come with the first aid kit.’
‘Thank you,’ Mirabelle said and tried to limp convincingly.
The bar was painted a neutral tone of green and on the walls the club’s tournament results were mounted on wooden display boards. This year’s Women’s Champion, Mrs Butler, had evidently just had her name added to the roll. The paint seemed brighter than previous years but it would no doubt tone down. Mirabelle dropped into a chair by the window, which afforded a view of Goodwood House beyond a ha-ha that was cut into the rolling fields. She wondered how many golf balls had been lost there. Behind the bar, an elderly woman, with her greying hair in a bun, was polishing glasses. She was dressed tidily in black. ‘We don’t serve the tables,’ she said, noticing Mirabelle moving towards a chair. ‘If you want something you’ll have to come up.’
Mirabelle looked around. There was nobody else in the room. ‘The thing is, I’ve hurt my ankle,’ she said. ‘But I’m fine. It’s rather early. I don’t need a drink.’
‘Was it the seventh?’ the woman enquired.
‘Pardon me?’
‘People get carried away with the view on the seventh. You can see right over the Downs. One gentleman let go his golf cart and it rolled right down the hill.’
‘I slipped on the road. I wasn’t playing this morning. I’m awfully glad to see you have women members though.’
‘The Duke wouldn’t have it otherwise,’ the woman chimed enthusiastically. ‘There’s always been lady golfers at Goodwood.’
Mirabelle smiled and decided to try her luck. She stared out of the window. ‘I see they’ve kept the police guard over at the house.’
‘Terrible business.’
‘He played here, didn’t he? Mr Highton? The day he died.’
‘I served him myself.’
‘Did he seem . . .?’
The woman needed little encouragement. ‘They cut short the round because of the rain and I said, “You’re soaked, Mr Highton. You better be careful you’ll catch your death.” “I’m a hardy soul, don’t worry about me,” he said. Makes you shiver.’
‘Who was he playing with?’
‘The fella with the black caddy. That makes me shiver and all.’
‘Mr Crowe?’
‘Yes. That’s him.’
‘I bumped into his wife only yesterday.’
‘I don’t think she’s a golfer, Mrs Crowe. No, I can’t recall her ever coming to the club.’
‘I think the Crowes had come down to sort out a car that was arriving over at Tangmere. Mr Highton too. It was Dougie Beaumont’s car, you see. It’s all such a shock, really, when this kind of thing happens and you know the people. One murder after another. It’s so unexpected.’
‘We got used to it in the war. The fellas from the airbase – here one day and gone the next. But not in peacetime. And not a murder, as you say.’
‘Do you know where they found George Highton’s body?’
The woman gesticulated towards the window but did not have time to answer, as the conversation was interrupted by a man appearing at the door.
‘Are you the lady who is injured?’
Mirabelle silently cursed the fellow’s timing but she nodded and he came in, holding a leather case.
‘May I?’ He knelt down and reached for her ankle. ‘This one?’
She tried to remember which foot she had limped on when she walked in. Working in the field was not easy, she noted. You really had to be on the ball. ‘Yes – here,’ she said, indicating the left.
The man touched the joint gently and Mirabelle pretended to wince. ‘I’ll bind it up for you,’ he offered. ‘But the nearest doctor is over at the airfield. I can call him, if you like.’
‘No. I don’t think it’s broken. It’s only a strain. There’s no need to trouble anyone else,’ Mirabelle said lightly, imagining Dr Coughlan’s face if she turned up again in his vicinity so soon after she’d fainted at the Bader Arms. ‘I’m sure that if it’s supported with a bandage it’ll make all the difference.’
The woman behind the bar returned to sorting out stock on the shelf behind her, as the fellow wound the bandage tightly around Mirabelle’s ankle. Then he sat back on his haunches to survey what he’d done. ‘You should try walking.’ He held out a hand to help Mirabelle get up. She did so, still affecting a limp, though only slightly now.
‘That’s much better,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’ll just take rest and you’ll be good as new.’ The man packed up the first aid box and Mirabelle wondered if she ought to leave. But then the bar door opened once more and the women she had passed earlier came in from their round of golf. One was wearing a fetching purple hat, which Mirabelle hadn’t noticed from her vantage point beyond the hedgerow.
‘Good morning, Iris.’ They both made for the bar. ‘Is tea too much to hope for?’
Iris made no promises. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said and disappeared into the back.
The women settled at a table near the bar. ‘That looks painful,’ one offered sympathetically.
‘I went over on the road.’ Mirabelle smiled, beginning to feel guilty about lying. ‘I saw you playing earlier. Did you have a good round?’
‘Not bad.’
‘I imagine it feels rather grim round here today.’
‘Quiet as the grave,’ the woman admitted. ‘Did you know the poor chap?’
‘I had met George Highton. Yes. Iris said he was in here yesterday – only hours before he died.’
‘Dreadful. They must be quite shaken in the big house.’
The man closed the first aid kit with a decisive click and got to his feet. ‘Well, if that’ll be all,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Mirabelle smiled again. ‘It’s much better.’ She turned her attention to the women. ‘Mr Highton was playing with an acquaintance of mine. Mr Crowe. Well, I know his wife, really.’
‘Enid?’
‘You know the Crowes as well?’
‘And that terrible business about the poor girl’s brother. It’s been a ghastly week. Quite gruesome.’
‘Dougie Beaumont was a neighbour of mine.’
‘In France?’
‘No. Down on the coast. He was a wonderful driver, as I understand it, though I only saw him race once.’
‘We were at the race meeting last year and afterwards there were drinks. They’ve taken over the old traffic control tower for that kind of thing. It’s quite fun actually. Dougie seemed to enjoy himself. They live life to the full these fellows. Quite right too. His parents were there – so proud the pair of them. And now, this week, Dougie Beaumont and George Highton, both of them dead within days. We were just saying on the fairway—’
‘Now, now,’ the woman in the purple hat cut in. ‘Really, Angela, we shouldn’t gossip.’
Mirabelle tried not to look downhearted. She’d far rather that they told her everything. ‘I’m sure the police have it all in hand,’ she chipped in.
Angela shook her head and, laying a palm on her friend’s arm, she ignored the other woman’s warning. ‘That’s why it’s so quiet today,’ she explained. ‘I mean the police simply took down the club yesterday. They searched the whole place. Swarms of them. They stopped play and everything.’ The woman in the purple hat looked on disapprovingly but that didn’t stop Angela. ‘And they didn’t find it. Well, of course they didn’t find it. As if a member here would . . .’
Mirabelle’s forehead wrinkled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t understand. What were they looking for?’
‘The weapon.’ Angela’s tone was insistent. ‘They think it was a golf club, or some such nonsense. As if anyone would leave their clubs just lying around the park. They had chaps all over the greens and down in the ha-ha searching for the bally thing and two fellows in the captain’s office checking the membership rolls. Honestly! What a hoo-ha.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The thing is, as far as we heard, Highton was being threatened. Blackmailed even, but what I say is, there must be more to it. What kind of blackmailer carries a golf club around with them at two in the morning? And blackmailers don’t kill people, do they? I mean, how would the fellow get his money then? It’s nonsensical.’
Mirabelle’s eyes were drawn across the grass to Goodwood House. She’d bet there were golf clubs aplenty in there. And then there were Highton’s own clubs, which had been back at the coaching inn.
‘It must be a dreadful way to go,’ the lady in the purple hat said. ‘Just imagine. A nine iron out of the blue. And the idea of blackmail – it’s too sordid. Please, let’s not talk about it any more.’
‘What do you mean, a nine iron?’
The women looked at Mirabelle as if the question was inexplicable. ‘It’s a kind of club used for chipping the ball,’ Angela explained.
The woman in the purple hat grinned. ‘We don’t know it was a nine iron,’ she said. ‘I was speaking figuratively.’
‘But a nine iron would do it,’ Angela cut in. ‘It’d be better than a wood. I mean, if the police are right and it was a club, which I doubt.’
‘I don’t know. If I was ever to decide to actually kill Jerry I’m sure any old club would be adequate. If I ever got up the nerve,’ the other woman quipped.
‘Oh don’t!’
‘A sand iron would be best. I mean, if you really wanted to stave in someone’s head. The angle and so forth.’
There was a clinking sound and Iris returned to the room with a tray of tea things that she laid down solidly, clearly indicating that the table would not be served and all drinks should be picked up at the bar. ‘Would you like to join us?’ the woman in purple offered Mirabelle as she sprang to her feet to comply with Iris’s unspoken dictat.
‘No, thank you,’ Mirabelle replied, thinking Jerry had best be careful. ‘I’d probably bett
er get along.’
Chapter 14
The world is but a canvas to our imagination
Out of sight of the clubhouse, Mirabelle removed the bandage from her ankle and continued her walk, arcing round the house. If the police were right, then someone had attacked George Highton head-on, though the darkness would have shrouded their approach. In which case, he might have had no chance to take defensive action against the blow. To batter a person to death with a golf club was an act of extreme violence and one that bore the hallmarks of a spur of the moment decision. You’d need to be furious, Mirabelle thought, and, given that, your fury would need to be provoked. She wondered what had happened at Goodwood House that evening. What had Highton said or done to infuriate his killer? Or was it simply a matter of what he was? Many people were outraged by queers. It wouldn’t be the first time.
As the facts emerged, Mirabelle found herself increasingly uncomfortable. Highton and Beaumont, initially golden boys, were becoming sullied, hour by hour. Still, she told herself, they were also becoming more real. Their affair was still the most likely subject of any blackmail attempt and a decent motive for both murders. There was something unjust about this that spurred Mirabelle on. After all, why did it matter who you wanted to be with? The arrangements one person made with another wasn’t anyone else’s business. Perhaps it was no wonder that Dougie Beaumont had kept a stash of drugs. It was an escape.
Along the road, only a couple of minutes from the clubhouse, she came upon a large wooden hut set back from the tarmac. There was no sign outside but she could hear someone whistling behind the door. In for a penny, she thought, and knocked. The hut was within walking distance of the scene of George Highton’s death after all.
‘Hello,’ she called tentatively as she turned the handle.
Inside, it was gloomy and, if anything, colder than the open air. The place was laid out as a stockroom. Brown cardboard boxes were piled everywhere. At the sound of Mirabelle’s voice, the whistling stopped and a boy appeared from behind one of the stacks. He was bundled in a blue, irregularly knitted hat and scarf and wearing padded gloves that were too large for him. He was probably in his late teens, but the outfit gave him a comical appearance, and made him look younger, like a child trying on his older brother’s clothes.
Operation Goodwood Page 14
