‘I don’t want it, you know,’ she said. ‘I’d rather be normal. Like you.’
‘I’m not normal.’ McGregor turned away. ‘I’m not that good. They wouldn’t even let me fight, remember?’
She didn’t reply as she fell into step, but she slipped her arm through his and that seemed a comfort.
‘What do you say to dinner?’ McGregor said. ‘Let’s see what they can rustle us up at the bar.’
Chapter 16
To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect
The eggs were no better the second morning at breakfast than they had been on the first, and Mirabelle wondered if she should substitute them for beer, as the salesmen had done. She decided she’d consider it when McGregor came down and in the meantime she applied herself to reading the newspaper as Ella periodically topped up her tea. Languid drops of rain peppered the window and Mirabelle found herself in no hurry to get on with the investigation. Being down here with McGregor felt part-holiday at least.
‘The eggs aren’t up to much,’ she said without looking up as the seat opposite her was pulled out.
‘Well,’ said a familiar voice, ‘it’s just as well I had a snack on the train.’
‘Vesta!’ Mirabelle fumbled the newspaper into submission and laid it to one side. ‘I’m so glad to see you.’
Ella hovered with the teapot.
‘Yes, please,’ Vesta said encouragingly, placing her capacious handbag beside the chair and unbuttoning her coat. ‘I’ve been on the road since early.’
‘Would you like anything for breakfast, ma’am?’ Ella asked, as she poured a fresh cup.
‘No thank you.’
The girl brought another chair to the table.
‘Are you expecting someone else?’ Vesta lifted the steaming tea to her lips and took a sip. Then she sighed. No one could make a cup of tea sound more satisfying than Vesta.
‘The superintendent stayed here last night.’
The girl grinned. Mirabelle realised she was blushing.
‘Nothing like that,’ she said.
‘Of course not.’ Vesta’s smile continued nonetheless. She looked round. The breakfast room was almost empty, bar a middle-aged man with a shock of blond hair, who was wearing a burnt-orange tie. He was eating his eggs extraordinarily slowly over by the rain-splashed window. ‘Have you made any progress?’ Vesta kept her voice low.
Mirabelle nodded. ‘But we still don’t know who killed either of them. Highton had a threatening letter in his hand when he went down. We think he was being blackmailed.’
Vesta took this in. ‘We,’ she commented. ‘That’s progress in itself.’ That smile again. ‘You must be wondering what on earth I’m doing here? I brought this. I might have posted it but, to be honest, I was worried about you just going off like that.’
Mirabelle’s gaze didn’t falter as Vesta withdrew a large brown envelope from her handbag and handed it over.
‘You think the countryside will be idyllic, but on days like this there’s nothing to do, is there? I mean, if it rains. At least in town you can go to the pictures or something.’
Mirabelle didn’t reply. The trick with the countryside was to be dressed for it and neither of them were. Inside the envelope she found two sheafs of paper – the details of the estates of Douglas Elrick Beaumont and George Goodwin Highton.
‘Have these been released already?’
‘No. I called in a favour. I had to use our petty cash. Luckily, both men had the same solicitor – the office seems to deal with all things Beaumont. They handled the purchase of Dougie Beaumont’s flat, that’s how I tracked them down. Then it turned out one of Charlie’s old GI friends is seeing a girl whose cousin works there. I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, but both wills are dated the same day.’
Mirabelle’s eyes fell to the paper. ‘Oh yes. Directly before the racing season started this year. How curious.’
‘Young men seldom think to make a will. I mean, you just don’t consider death a possibility, do you? Charlie doesn’t have one. In fairness, I expect Dougie Beaumont had to think about his mortality more than most. After all, competitive driving is dangerous. But it looks as if he brought Highton along with him the day he went to the solicitor. Perhaps they were in for a penny, in for a pound kind of blokes.’
Mirabelle scanned the text. ‘And he left everything to Mrs Beaumont? His mother?’
‘They both did,’ Vesta said, sounding satisfied. ‘Actually, by instruction, the wills are more or less exactly the same.’
Mirabelle switched between the papers. She had been reading George Highton’s will and hadn’t realised. ‘Now that is interesting. Mrs Beaumont. How odd. We wondered if Michael Crowe, Dougie Beaumont’s brother-in-law, might have had a motive. He was the third partner in the car. But he isn’t mentioned here. Not a sniff.’
Vesta’s expression shifted only slightly at Mirabelle’s continued use of the word ‘we’. She decided not to dwell on it. Making a big deal might put Mirabelle off. Instead, she continued, indicating the papers in Mirabelle’s hand. ‘Highton’s will doesn’t mention the car. In fact, that’s the other thing that’s odd. Beaumont, it turns out, had a great deal to leave including two-thirds ownership of the famous racing car and what looks like an enticing portfolio of investments. He owned some valuable paintings and there’s also an “any property subsequently acquired” clause—’ Vesta leaned over and pointed to it ‘—which, I suppose, means his flat on the Lawns, which he didn’t buy till later in the year. Highton, on the other hand, didn’t leave anything much. His entire estate is composed of personal effects – a signet ring and a watch, that’s about it.’ She sipped her tea and let this sink in for a moment. ‘Also,’ she continued, ‘they are both down as living at the same address. I looked it up in the A–Z. It’s in Farringdon – Bleeding Heart Yard. Nice name.’
‘Bleeding Heart?’ Mirabelle remembered the phrase from the blackmail letter. Bleeding heart is not enough, it had said. Had the men made some kind of deal over a house? Did the letter refer to something between them or had someone else been involved? ‘Farringdon would be handy for George Highton,’ she said. ‘It’s close to the Daily Telegraph. But I’d have expected Dougie Beaumont would state his address as the family home, wouldn’t you? This predates him buying the flat on the Lawns. I mean, even if only for appearances.’
‘Hmm.’ Vesta sounded dubious. ‘And if the men were living together in London, why weren’t they living together in Brighton?’
‘Perhaps they didn’t want it to seem . . .’
‘What it was?’
Mirabelle nodded. She picked up George Highton’s will. Vesta was right. He had left practically nothing. It made no sense. ‘Highton was a partner in the car. They all seem to recognise that. And there was plenty of money discovered on his body. An impressive amount, in fact,’ she murmured, as she read the clauses again carefully. Her lips pursed.
‘What is it?’ Vesta put down her cup and leaned forwards.
Mirabelle shook her head and stowed the sheaf of papers back in the envelope. ‘Come along,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘We need to catch the next train from Chichester.’ She checked her wristwatch and pulled on her coat, searching in the pockets for her gloves as Vesta gazed mournfully at the unfinished tea and the welcoming fireplace in front of which she had imagined spending much of the morning. She couldn’t understand why Mirabelle hadn’t chosen a table closer to it. ‘But I only just got here,’ she said. ‘I was hoping for a day away from Brighton.’
‘Brighton?’ Mirabelle checked her hat was in place and removed her purse from her bag, motioning for Ella to bring her the bill. ‘Why would we want to go back there?’
As Ella telephoned Chichester station to send a car, Mirabelle tipped the girl generously. The colour of Vesta’s skin was so often an issue that she felt grateful the girl hadn’t made a fuss. But then Goodwood was cosmopolitan in all sorts of ways. She carefully sealed the envelope containing th
e wills and left it behind the bar. ‘Give this to Superintendent McGregor, when he comes down. It’s important.’
‘Superintendent?’ the girl mouthed as Mirabelle scribbled a note to attach to it.
‘That’s right,’ she said.
Meanwhile, Vesta checked her hair and powdered her nose. ‘Will we have long to wait?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Would you like to have a peek at Goodwood House, before the driver gets here? It’s only next door.’
Vesta peered across the room, out of the window. The sky was flint grey but the rain had stopped. ‘Is it far?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘Come along,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘We might as well.’
The gates were still open this morning. ‘Highton died on the drive,’ Mirabelle encouraged her and Vesta duly perked up and increased her pace. In the distance, about a mile away across the park, a woman galloped side-saddle on a bay, heading in the opposite direction. The horse’s movement was so fluid that Mirabelle found it difficult to take her eyes off it.
‘That’s so old-fashioned.’ Vesta smiled.
Mirabelle stopped at the bend. ‘It was here,’ she said. ‘This is where they found the body.’
Vesta stepped back to consider the spot from the side of the road. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? I mean you expect to be able to feel something but you’d never know, would you?’
From the other side of the house a smart burgundy Rolls-Royce rolled almost silently across the façade. It would seem the occupants of Goodwood House were up and about early this morning and all in motion. As the car turned down the driveway, the women hovered, keeping out of the way. It slowed as it came close. Mirabelle could see Mr Beaumont and his son-in-law deep in conversation on the back seat. She raised a hand to Kamari, who was perched in the front next to the chauffeur, with a set of golf clubs on his lap – presumably Michael Crowe’s. His face twitched in recognition, but he turned slightly inwards as if to protect himself from scrutiny. Perhaps the butler’s unwarranted violence had made him self-conscious.
‘Who’s that?’ Vesta asked.
‘Mr Crowe’s man. Dougie Beaumont’s brother-in-law. That fellow is his valet.’
‘The black guy?’
‘Yes. Mr Crowe comes from Nairobi.’
Elrick Beaumont suddenly spotted the women through the side window as the car rolled past. He gestured as he issued an order to the driver, who halted the vehicle abruptly. Beaumont rolled down the window and leaned out, staring back at them. Mirabelle noticed that his eyes were pale hazel, exactly the colour of the leaves that peppered the driveway. They were also set hard.
‘I say,’ he said sharply, ‘I’m sure you shouldn’t be hanging about here, ladies. The police wouldn’t like it. You know that what happened took place, well, exactly on this spot.’
Michael Crowe squinted at Mirabelle. He sat forwards. ‘You’re the woman from downstairs,’ he said slowly. ‘The one who fainted.’
‘What woman?’ Elrick Beaumont snapped.
Mirabelle immediately had the sense that he was a man who expected to be in charge and fully informed at all times. Here he was, after all, issuing orders about where she and Vesta were standing on a public drive.
‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan, Mr Beaumont. I live in the flat underneath your son’s in Brighton. I was there the night he died. This is Vesta Lewis, my business partner.’
‘Business partner?’
In the front seat, Kamari shifted so he could have a better look.
‘How do you do?’ said Vesta with, Mirabelle noted, a good deal of grace.
‘Mrs Lewis is one of your constituents,’ she added, spuriously. ‘She is an ardent Conservative.’
Beaumont did not look appeased. ‘Well, I can’t imagine what you’re up to down here,’ he batted back. ‘It seems rather gruesome.’
‘Not at all. We came to play golf.’ Mirabelle’s voice was smooth. She stared at the bag in Kamari’s lap and the man moved again, twisting himself away. Was it the golf clubs or himself that he was uncomfortable about, she wondered once more. ‘It’s a wonderful course,’ she went on. ‘Angela Waterman invited us down. But poor Mr Highton’s murder has rather put a damper on our plans. We thought we’d go up to London for the weekend instead. I’m so sorry for your loss. I know Mr Highton was a close family friend. He had known your son since they were children, hadn’t he?’
‘Yes. We adopted the boy, rather.’
‘Adopted?’
‘You know how it was during the war. Nothing official but we all did our bit and he needed somewhere to stay. It’s a second blow.’
‘Such a tragedy. Please extend my condolences to your wife.’
‘Thank you. I shall. Back to London, eh? Back to life. I really don’t think you should be here, Miss Bevan. Right here, I mean. You should move on.’
Mirabelle smiled. ‘Mrs Lewis and I are just waiting for a driver to pick us up. We thought we’d take a short walk. Country air and so forth. We ought to be getting back. We mustn’t keep you.’ She stepped away from the car. Michael Crowe kept his eyes on her as Elrick Beaumont rolled up the window and the driver pulled off.
‘I am not an ardent Conservative,’ Vesta spat.
‘Well, I had to say something!’
‘You could have told him it was you.’
‘He knows where I live so he knows I’m not one of his constituents. Besides, I’m a lifelong liberal,’ Mirabelle replied, as they watched the car pause at the gates before turning right.
‘I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he did it, you know.’
Mirabelle took Vesta’s arm. ‘I don’t think Elrick Beaumont is a murderer, dear. He’s used to having his way, but murder, well, that’s something else. Especially his own son and a close family friend. Besides any personal tie, Dougie was funding his career.’
‘Well, someone did it and he’s a politician,’ Vesta objected. ‘A Tory. There’s no saying what he might get up to.’
‘I had no idea you were so vehement. I only found out the other day that Superintendent McGregor is a revolutionary and now you turn out to be a committed left-winger.’ A smile played around Mirabelle’s lips.
‘And that black fellow was downright fishy.’ Vesta ignored her friend’s teasing.
‘Yes. He was. Come along,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘We had best get back to the pub if we want to make it up to town.’
At the door to the inn, the hired car’s exhaust shot a thick plume into the autumn air. As the women approached, the driver scrambled to find his feet on the tarmac and held the door so they could take their seats.
‘No luggage?’ he checked.
‘None,’ Mirabelle confirmed.
‘I don’t trust that black man,’ Vesta said under her breath as she settled. ‘I’ve got an eye for coloured fellows. I know a lot of them. And there was something up with him.’
Mirabelle didn’t respond. She wondered instead how the tinkerer felt this morning, on the other side of the fields. Was he already working on the car with ‘26’ on the side, putting Dougie Beaumont’s renovations into place? Through the bar window she saw the blond man with the orange tie take his place by the fire and open a copy of The Times. He looked set for the day. Then her eyes were drawn upwards to the bedroom floor. McGregor’s curtains were still closed. To her surprise, she felt almost sorry to be leaving.
‘Well.’ Vesta motioned from the back seat. ‘Come on.’
The service to London was regular and the women didn’t have to wait long at Chichester railway station before a train pulled in and they bundled into a first-class carriage. Outside the window, the Sussex countryside whizzed past in a jumble of green and flaming orange until at last they pulled in at Victoria. Mirabelle noticed Vesta’s heels clicking as they walked across the concourse. She really must buy a new pair of shoes, she thought. The flat ones Superintendent McGregor had provided weren’t up to snuff and she missed the feeling of authority that went with well-made high heels. As they approached t
he taxi rank, the air in town was scented with the first of the autumn fires, as London kindled its first coals of the season.
Mirabelle shuddered as she slipped decisively into the hackney cab at the head of the rank. ‘I’ve no idea if he’ll be working today, but it might be wise to start at the office, I suppose,’ she said.
‘What office? Who are you talking about?’
‘The only person I know who seems to know the truth about both Dougie Beaumont and George Highton. I just didn’t get it out of him the last time I was here.’ Mirabelle leaned forward and instructed the driver.
Vesta didn’t ask more questions. It was always intriguing to be back in the capital and, as the West End flew past the cab window, she studied the fashions and the enormous buildings, landmarks from her childhood, when now and then she used to venture out of Bermondsey. The great Georgian edifices always seemed cosmopolitan compared to the warren of low brick buildings, lines of two-up two-down houses, factories and warehouses where she had passed her childhood. It still felt to her that central London was grand beyond the scale of its population, composed of columns, porticos, pristine white stucco and elaborately dressed stone. The cab took them across town, into the fringes of the City, depositing the women on Fleet Street, where Mirabelle paid the driver. Without a word, she swept inside the office of the Daily Telegraph with Vesta in her wake.
‘I’d like to speak to Reuben Vinestock,’ she announced.
‘He’s out to lunch,’ the receptionist said smoothly, hardly looking up.
‘Could you check, please?’
The girl looked as if she might be about to object, but when she raised her eyes Mirabelle’s expression brooked her no opportunity. Recognising that she was beaten, she sighed and picked up a telephone that sported an array of buttons with carefully typed labels. Her elegantly manicured finger pressed one and a red bulb lit on the console. ‘Is Mr Vinestock in the office?’ she asked. ‘Oh yes. All right.’ The girl covered the mouthpiece. ‘You’re right. Seems he is up there. Sorry. I thought they’d all gone. Someone is fetching him now. Who shall I say?’
Operation Goodwood Page 18
