‘Miss,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I was just taking a walk and I have got rather lost, I’m afraid. There’s a sawmill near here, isn’t there? I mean, on the estate.’
‘The sawmill is a couple of miles off, easy. This belongs to the golf club.’
‘Ah. I see. So all this stuff . . .’
‘Golf balls. Tees. That kind of thing,’ he said cheerfully. Mirabelle looked doubtfully at the boxes. They’d easily house a lifetime’s supply of either of these commodities.
‘And you look after it. You work for the club, do you?’
‘Yes, miss. I can give you directions to the sawmill if you’d like.’
‘Do you have golf clubs here? I mean, in stock?’
‘You need to go to a proper shop to buy a set of clubs, miss. Lillywhites just up from St James’s is where most of the members go. You’re a player, are you?’
Mirabelle looked coy. ‘I’m staying at the coaching inn but I’m rather taken with the area.’
‘They’ll look after you over there.’ The boy grinned. ‘My sister is a waitress at the inn. She works behind the bar a few days a week.’
‘Oh, the blonde girl?’ Mirabelle squinted to try to make out the resemblance in the parts of the boy’s face that were showing. He had the girl’s beautiful blue eyes, or a version of them and, just like hers, his skin was very pale. If he wasn’t so swamped by his clothes, the similarity might have been more obvious.
‘That’s right. Ella.’
‘She was very helpful this morning. Everyone is in such a state with this business over Mr Highton.’
The boy’s eyes hardened.
‘Did you know Mr Highton?’ Mirabelle enquired, trying to sound innocent.
‘Yes, miss. I caddied for him.’
‘Were you caddying for him yesterday? When he played Mr Crowe?’
The boy nodded. Mirabelle waited a moment to see if he would continue. When he didn’t she tried to encourage him.
‘The Crowes were here to pick up a car, I heard. But they must have been tempted to stay on, I suppose. A round of golf would do that, wouldn’t it? I was there when the car came in.’
‘Mr Beaumont’s car?’
‘It was flown in. Sounds so glamorous, doesn’t it? Did you know Mr Beaumont too?’
‘Yes. Him and all.’
‘I think there was work to be done to the motor. Seems a shame now Mr Beaumont is . . . well, you know.’
‘The car’ll win without him,’ the boy said. ‘That’s what they was saying yesterday. They’re going to ask one of the other drivers to drive it in the races that count and Mr Crowe is going to manage it the rest of the time. I half fancy a punt on it myself. In memoriam, isn’t that what they call it?’
‘This whole business must’ve shaken you up. It’s always strange when somebody dies out of the blue, never mind two people at almost the same time. Never mind murder.’
The boy half shrugged but the movement was indecisive.
‘I heard Mr Highton was a good tipper. That’s what Ella said.’
‘Yeah. He was generous all right. What happened – it’s a shame.’
‘A shame?’ It seemed an odd word to choose – more suited to losing a friendly match or missing a train.
‘No one deserves that, do they?’ the boy continued.
It hardly needed saying. What was the child getting at? ‘I can’t say George Highton wasn’t difficult sometimes,’ Mirabelle tried to draw him out.
‘He knew what he wanted.’
Mirabelle stared. ‘Did the police check here yesterday?’
‘Yes, miss. They asked me for an alibi and all.’
‘And did you have one?’
‘I gave it to the policeman. ’Course, everyone was in bed that time of the morning, so no one’s alibi is worth much. That’s what we was saying afterwards. I mean, anyone on the estate could’ve got up and gone over to the big house and no one would have been the wiser. The truth is anyone could’ve done it. But my money’s on someone just passing through – a tramp or something. That’s what everyone’s saying. The police have got some job on. I mean, how do you find out a thing like that? In the middle of the night and no witnesses?’
‘It’d need to be someone strong though, wouldn’t it? And angry.’
‘Yeah,’ the boy said. ‘Angry.’
‘You don’t seem terribly shocked, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I don’t know who whacked Mr Highton, miss. No one does.’ Mirabelle held back from disagreeing with him. At the very least, one person knew. The person who had done it. She decided there was no more to be got out of the exchange. The boy gave her the directions she’d asked for and, walking away from the hut, she realised that he was the first person she’d met who hadn’t liked George Highton or Dougie Beaumont. Everyone else seemed charmed.
It was colder now but still a pleasant walk back to the inn and, if nothing else, the time afforded her some grace to think things through. Questions were forming. Had the Crowes also been invited to dinner at Goodwood the night George Highton was killed? Had Highton lied and said he was out of money to end the backgammon game? Did he simply want to stop playing or did he have an assignation planned when he left the house? Had he come to Goodwood to meet someone? Now, as Mirabelle turned down the last stretch of road, the low autumn sun seemed frozen in the sky. It was odd to be away from Brighton; the sea’s constant movement and the brisk wind that whipped off it. The Goodwood estate was still by comparison. At the bar, the warmth from the fire was welcome. Mirabelle sat on a tall stool beside the pumps and ordered a half-pint of bitter and a cheese sandwich.
‘I met your brother when I was out,’ she chatted, as Ella bustled about her duties.
‘Benji?’
‘At the golf club. He caddied for Mr Highton the day he died.’
‘Benji always caddies for that lot.’
‘That lot?’
‘The racing crowd.’
‘Do they come often? Outside the races, I mean?’
‘A couple of times a year, I suppose. There are parties at the house.’
‘Of course. I wonder why Mr Highton came down this time, though? I mean there wasn’t a party, was there?’
Ella shrugged. ‘Well, he missed the hunt. That was the weekend before. Everything usually goes quiet after the hunt and the ball and that. There’s nothing much right up till Christmas. I dunno what he’d come down for,’ she said, as she placed Mirabelle’s glass on the bar.
With a sigh, Mirabelle sipped. The ale was delicious – yeasty and sharp – she hadn’t realised how hungry the country air had made her. The cheese sandwich she’d ordered appeared and, as Mirabelle tucked into it, Ella started to clean a shelf, moving glasses around. It struck Mirabelle that bartenders seemed to spend more time cleaning glasses than they did serving drinks. She wondered why she had never noticed before. Sitting there, the scraps of information she’d gathered knocked against each other, like balls in a pinball machine in one of the arcades on the front. Secrets drew her in every time – the unsaid. Mirabelle knew her interests weren’t normal but still, how could the others just lay things aside? People were so intriguing and, besides, over the last few years she’d figured out more than one crime that never would have been solved by the police on their own.
When she’d finished eating she picked up the Daily Telegraph and went to sit by the fire to leaf through the rest of the news. Reuben Vinestock had written an article about horse racing and there was a feature about how London’s smog was damaging the fabric of the buildings. She was just about to put down the paper and ask whether an Evening Standard might be delivered, when a girl in a white apron appeared from the kitchen and whispered in Ella’s ear. The two of them disappeared into the back. Mirabelle hesitated for a moment. There was nobody else in the bar, no one to see. It was an easy decision. Lithe on her feet, she slipped behind the servery and peeked down a short, dark corridor, which led to the kitchen. The smell
of soup hung around the kitchen door and, inside, the second girl was alone, chopping vegetables at an old pine table. There was nowhere else for Ella to have gone, Mirabelle reasoned, and then, outside the barred window to the rear of the kitchen, she saw movement. Thinking on her feet, she sneaked back up the corridor, through the bar, out of the front door and past the crates of empty beer bottles piled against the flint wall. Peering around the corner, she could see Ella and her brother hovering at the back. The girl had her arms wrapped round her frame to keep warm.
‘What do you reckon?’ Benji asked.
‘Just go over. It can’t do no harm. I mean, if you reckon you’re owed something . . .’
Benji kicked the ground.
‘Go on,’ Ella encouraged him.
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘You wanted the money. No one made you, Benji.’
‘You wouldn’t have done it.’
Ella looked bashful. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to.’
Benji made a noise that Mirabelle interpreted as exasperation. ‘Right,’ he managed to get out. ‘I will then. It’s all quietened down since yesterday and it’s only Mr Harrison. He ain’t the worst of them by a long shot.’
Mirabelle fell back. She recalled the name immediately. Harrison was Dougie Beaumont’s friend. The tinkerer, the girl in the Bader Arms had called him. She’d said that the men had fallen out. This was intriguing. Ella darted back inside and Benji stamped his feet to keep warm as the girl fetched something for him from the kitchen – a bread roll it looked like. Taking this as a sign that their exchange was over, Mirabelle sneaked back to the front, just in time as Benji strode on to the road and headed in the direction of Tangmere. Ella and Benji may or may not know about the blackmail letter found on George Highton’s body, but it sounded as if Benji was about to instigate some blackmail of his own. Mirabelle fetched her coat from where she had left it by the fire. When she was a little girl, her mother used to warm her winter coat before they went out. Now her senses prickled as she got close to the flames and it felt as if the fire was an enemy in waiting. She ignored the feeling, telling herself it would pass. Ella appeared behind the bar just as Mirabelle was pulling on her gloves.
‘Are you off, Miss Bevan?’
‘Yes. I thought I’d take advantage of the light. It’s lovely walking in the countryside.’
‘Are you staying tonight, miss?’
‘Yes. I think I will. Would you see to it that the room’s made up?’ Mirabelle said over her shoulder, considering the possibilities as she made for the door.
Tangmere was less than an hour away, closer to Goodwood than when she’d walked there from Chichester. Mirabelle set off at a lick down the country lane. She was determined to catch up to Benji and see what he wanted from Mr Harrison. She chided herself that she mustn’t be naive. Within such easy striking distance of London, Goodwood was a play park for the rich and those who wanted to be. The various sporting occupations on offer were a huge draw. Most were above board but no doubt there were others, private concerns. People thought that underground secrets were the preserve of Soho, but out here, in respectable county society, you could hide a certain kind of party. You could put people together who wouldn’t be seen dead in their real lives. Highton and Beaumont, it appeared, had got caught up in something secret. Their world looked glamorous from the outside but scratching the moneyed veneer of racing cars and glamorous locations, what she’d found was both murky and nebulous – a potentially dirty cocktail of money, sex and drugs.
Wondering momentarily if it would be quicker to cut across the fields, Mirabelle decided against it. The autumn soil was thick and muddy and the layout of the farms was irregular so she would find it more difficult to navigate away from the road. After walking for half an hour, she made out the spire of Tangmere church over the treetops and picked up her pace. With Benji out of sight, she stopped at the shop on her way into the village. As she opened the door, a bell sounded. Inside, there were shelves floor to ceiling, which, she noticed, were stacked in no particular order. The place smelled faintly of stoneground flour with a hint of citrus. This exoticism was immediately explained by a wooden box propped against the counter, piled with oranges the size of Mirabelle’s fist. Some were wrapped in squares of tissue and others were displayed bare skinned. This box was the most interesting thing in a random collection of tinned goods, sacks of flour and sugar, and cardboard containers of onions. From the back, a woman dressed in a claret-coloured tabard emerged with a sniff.
‘Hello,’ said Mirabelle. ‘I’d like an orange, please.’
‘Help yourself.’ The woman sniffed again. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose.
‘The first of the winter,’ Mirabelle commented, as she picked one wrapped in red and white with the word Jaffa crumpled across its surface. ‘I wonder if you might help me. I’m looking for a friend’s place. Mr Harrison?’
‘Sixpence,’ the woman said, holding out her hand.
Mirabelle scrambled in her handbag. ‘I must say, they look delicious,’ she commented, slightly shocked at the price.
The woman deposited the coin in a cashbox on the shelf behind her and did not answer the question.
‘It’s always rather difficult coming to a new place. Finding your way around,’ Mirabelle tried.
‘You were here the other day, weren’t you? You’re the lady who fainted.’
Mirabelle recalled the face at the shop window as she had walked into the village on her way to the Bader Arms. This kind of thing was precisely the reason why she didn’t want to live in a small place where everyone knew everyone else’s business. In the past, she’d been labelled nosey by people who didn’t like her, but at least she had a purpose when she went sniffing around. This woman’s observations were simply intrusive. Still, there was nothing for it but to confess, at least in part.
‘Yes. I’m staying at the coaching inn at Goodwood,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t get the chance to drop into Mr Harrison’s the other day because of what happened. I thought I’d walk over and see him now.’
The woman paused before she accepted this explanation. ‘Well, he’s not in Tangmere exactly, miss. He lives back out the way you’ve come. You must’ve passed the turn-off.’
Mirabelle cursed inwardly. This mistake would cost her time. ‘Oh, I’m just hopeless with directions,’ she said lightly.
‘Back the way you came, out of the village and second on the right at the old oak with the branch down. It’s a farmhouse, Mr Harrison’s got.’
‘Oh yes. I expect that garage of his used to be a barn.’
The woman sniffed again. She clearly felt no need to make helpful small talk.
‘Well, thank you,’ Mirabelle said and the bell chimed on her way out.
There was no sign on the main road, but seeing the old oak tree Mirabelle took the turn-off anyway. The hedgerows grew high on either side, enclosing the track so it felt as if she was being funnelled down it. There were no passing places and no view. This must have run for about half a mile before Mirabelle came across the first of the outhouses that skirted an old farmyard. Two cars were parked untidily outside – a Ford and a Jaguar. This meant that in all probability at least someone was in, she thought, as she cut off the side road and on to the uneven cobbled surface of an old yard. It struck her that the place might have been a steading originally. One length of the farmyard appeared inhabited but the other sides looked abandoned. Coral-pink paint peeled from the old doors and windows and, here and there, engine parts were piled up. They didn’t look as if they had been left in any particular order. In the corner, there was a tower of old tyres. To the right, one of the doors was half open and a thin wash of light emanated from behind the oil cans. That must be the garage. Mirabelle peered inside and smiled. She was right and not only that: she recognised the car. It was the long motor with ‘26’ on the side – the one she’d seen him race. The one that had been in both the photographs she’d seen on Dougie Beaumont’s m
antel and in the leather pouch he’d hidden under his bed. Like a patient on the operating table, the car was jacked up directly under a wide skylight with a scattering of tools spread around it. She squinted to see further in. ‘Hello,’ she said, her voice uncertain. There was no reply. If Mr Harrison had been tinkering he was perhaps finished for the day.
Coming back into the courtyard, Mirabelle peered towards the occupied part of the building – a low, two-storey house with a glossy black door banked by an array of geraniums in pots on the moss-strewn cobbles. She didn’t like to approach the windows – after all, the yard was enclosed and she wanted to keep her options open. Instead, she went back on to the road and nipped down the side of the building to the rear. The courtyard might have been messy but at the back there was a well-tended garden. A row of apple trees scattered ripe fruit across the grass and from this side of the house she could see straight into what looked like a sitting room. Mirabelle smiled. Benji was standing at the fireplace. With his coat and scarf off, she noted he was a very good-looking young man. His hair was less blond than his sister’s and his cheeks sported a few freckles. He was perhaps nineteen years of age at most. In his hand he held a bottle of beer, from which he was swigging repeatedly between holding forth. Listening to him were two other men – Harrison must be the one at the drinks cabinet, she reasoned. He was pouring a tumbler of whisky or brandy – amber spirits. Mirabelle squinted. She put her head to one side as she realised that the second man was Michael Crowe, Enid’s husband. He laughed so loudly at whatever was being said that it echoed through the glass. What on earth were they discussing? What did these men owe Benji?
Mirabelle sneaked across the lawn and took her place beneath the window. Though the sound carried from inside, it was indistinct and, even this close, she couldn’t make out the words. It was frustrating but at least it gave her time to take in the details of the room. Her eyes were drawn to the low table in front of the sofa, on which there was a single florid Victorian tile, thinly dusted with the remains of a stack of white powder. Dougie Beaumont, it seemed, had not been the only person who had procured a supply of cocaine. That was another link between the men, she thought, leaning as close as she could to the glass. It was no good – the words were too indistinct and she realised that if she wanted to hear what they were saying she’d need to break in. She was just eyeing the bedroom window further along, when the doorbell sounded and the conversation in the sitting room came to a halt. Harrison left. The room fell silent for a moment and then she heard his voice. He must have been shouting if she could hear him from here, she thought. Then all of a sudden Crowe got up and, in one move, stuck the tile behind a cushion and threw Benji’s jacket at him. The French doors opened and the boy was slung on to the grass, his beer bottle still in his hand as he scrambled with his scarf and hat. He pulled up against the wall out of sight as he did up his coat buttons. Then, as he spotted Mirabelle, his forehead wrinkled.
Operation Goodwood Page 15
