‘No. I mean, I saw George when he came in the other day before he died. But I hadn’t seen Dougie. I spent the summer in London. I covered the cricket and, of course, Ruth Ellis was hanged and I ended up doing a couple of pieces about that. It was holiday season so we have to fill in. What is it that you’re getting at, Miss Bevan?’
Vesta’s eyes blazed with the same question. ‘Well, it’s obvious. I mean, you’ve just confirmed that they fell out,’ she said.
‘And you think George would kill Dougie? You don’t understand. There’s no way George would do that. Whatever their differences.’
‘Why?’
‘He just wouldn’t.’ Reuben waited long enough to read Mirabelle’s dubiety. ‘But anyone can do anything, can’t they? I mean, that’s what you’re thinking? You didn’t know them, Miss Bevan.’
‘I’m just reasoning things through.’ Mirabelle paused. ‘Look, if you don’t mind waiting, I’d like to use the facilities.’
She closed the bathroom door and switched on the tap to cover the noise of her investigation. Then she opened the mahogany cupboard and reached for the clock. She pulled it from the leather case as she felt inside her bag for the key she’d found under Dougie Beaumont’s mattress. It fitted perfectly. Carefully, she turned the lock and the back opened. Inside there were no cogs or little wheels. The workings were gone and, instead, there was a bright yellow roll of Kodak film. Mirabelle weighed it in her hand. It was an interesting idea, she thought, using an old clock as a box, a hiding place that no one would think to open. What had Beaumont photographed? And why had he left it here – the only thing that seemed to belong to him in the whole house. Efficiently, she turned the key and slipped the clock back into place. Then she stowed the film in her handbag.
She stood back and looked at the shelf before picking up the burr snuffbox that lay next to the clock. In for a penny, she thought. It was empty, although telltale traces of white powder were caught in the hinges. Mirabelle leaned back against the toilet. Looking more carefully at the icons, she noted they were chipped at the edges and one had splintered so that part of the image was missing. There was a lot to consider. She’d need to have the roll of film developed for a start. Was this what they had fallen out over? The implied story felt biblical – had brother killed brother, lover killed lover? And if so, who had perpetrated the second killing? Or was Vesta right and Elrick Beaumont had found out about their secret life and taken action? That seemed insupportable given how important Dougie was to the family finances. She fumbled to flush the toilet and make her way back into the hallway. Vesta and Reuben were waiting downstairs.
‘It’s just not possible,’ Reuben was hissing, his voice low. ‘Whatever she thinks.’
‘Who do you think killed Dougie, then?’
It seemed he had no reply. There was a short silence before Mirabelle let them hear her footsteps on the stair.
The three of them walked back to Fleet Street in silence. Reuben paused at the door of the office. Inside, the receptionist peered through the glass as if she was trying to divine what was going on. It must be a slow day.
‘I suppose I ought to let Mrs Beaumont know,’ Reuben said. ‘I mean, the things in the house are hers now.’
‘I’d wait a little, Reuben,’ Mirabelle said kindly. ‘We know what’s in the will, but she might not yet.’
‘Well, if you figure out who did it . . .’ Reuben said.
‘I’ll let you know. It’d be a scoop, after all.’ Mirabelle smiled.
‘Not for that,’ he objected. ‘I suppose the police . . .’
‘Or the red tops,’ Vesta chipped in.
Reuben didn’t answer. He looked dejected as he disappeared inside.
‘I feel sorry for him,’ Vesta commented. ‘What are we going to do next?’
Mirabelle considered a moment. This was Fleet Street, so there were bound to be photographic studios nearby where she could have the film developed. But by the same reasoning the people who worked in those studios must have a maze of journalistic contacts. If she handed in the film here there was nothing to stop them selling whatever was contained in the images to the highest bidder. She made the decision to call on an old friend instead.
‘We need to go west,’ she said. ‘We have work to do.’
Chapter 17
Women of good taste always come to terms with fashion
The bus stopped at Harrods and Mirabelle decided she couldn’t stand the flat shoes any longer. Clothes rationing might have ceased but still, it could be difficult to find what you wanted and Harrods was not only a safe bet, it was on their way. The doorman swung the entrance open and the women slipped inside, squeezing past a gaggle of children no doubt bound for the school department for their annual outfitting. It was that time of year. Mirabelle and Vesta headed for the lift, where a sullen boy, wearing a gilt-strewn uniform, ran them up to the shoe lounge. Mirabelle had first visited this department with her mother when she left the nursery’. It was here she had slipped on her first pair of heels and had realised that they felt right. During the war, she had visited Harrods only seldom, although now and again there wasn’t an option and, if you had coupons, Harrods could generally get you what you wanted. These days the carpet in the shoe lounge was worn, although fetching plants had been strategically placed on side tables over the tattiest edges. The walls were decked with displays. A dowdy assistant hovered in attendance as, at the other end of the room, two women tried on stilettos and hobbled intermittently up and down in front of the mirrors.
‘They make your ankles look simply marvellous, Rosemary,’ one enthused.
Mirabelle called over an assistant and enquired after dark brown heels. ‘Nothing too sensible,’ she said as she gave her size and took a seat.
Vesta hovered with half an eye to a pair of red patent baby dolls on a revolving stand. Her face brightened every time they came around.
‘They’d suit you,’ Mirabelle encouraged her.
Vesta turned over the price tag the next time the baby dolls appeared. ‘Italian,’ she commented doubtfully. ‘Well, perhaps in the summer.’
Mirabelle removed her flats and stood up, flexing her toes to feel the carpet beneath her stockinged feet.
‘It all comes down to people, doesn’t it?’ she said.
Vesta cast her eyes over the display.
‘Not the shoes, silly. I mean, any case we’ve ever solved. It always comes down to people. That’s what I keep thinking. This time more than ever.’
Vesta sank into the seat next to Mirabelle. She put down her handbag on the carpet and looked thoughtful. ‘You mean someone they knew did it?’
‘Definitely. Whoever killed Dougie Beaumont knew him. George Highton too. It comes down to circles within circles. That’s what I realised at Goodwood, and I realised it even more today, talking to Reuben. All of these people knew each other for different reasons. Like that revolving display over there. One lot knew each other because they were part of the smart set, another lot knew each other because of a shared interest. Racing cars is an obvious one but these men had illicit interests and lots of them. Beaumont’s friend, Harrison, was right – that sleepy country estate is like Piccadilly Circus. Looking at their lives, Dougie Beaumont and George Highton had to fit into different worlds and they had to be whatever was expected of them. A loving son. A hard-nosed investor. A racing driver. A party person. A lover. A friend.’
‘Don’t we all have to do that? I mean, sometimes it feels I’m always trying to fit in.’
‘Yes.’ Mirabelle nodded, though it crossed her mind that she hadn’t made an effort like that in a long time. ‘But Beaumont and Highton were playing for high stakes. They couldn’t fail at any of it. They had secrets. One slip and they might lose everything. I don’t think we’re even close to getting at the bottom of everything they were up to. And really, where does all the money come from? Normally, I’d look at their debts but both men were cash rich. I mean, if you follow the money, it just gets you nowhere . . .’
> ‘What about the car?’
Vesta was about to press the point when the assistant returned with a stack of shoeboxes. Mirabelle stopped to peruse the options, picking one pair and inspecting the style from each side, before discarding it. Eventually, she settled on a pair of chocolate, crocodile-skin winkle-pickers with treacherous heels.
‘Gosh, I’ve rather missed the height,’ she admitted, strolling in a leisurely fashion down the carpet.
Vesta grinned. Mirabelle was far more elegant than the ladies with the stilettos, who were still trying on pair after pair in a flurry of indecision on the other side of the lounge. One looked as if she might tumble at any moment. By contrast, it was clear Mirabelle was born to high heels – nothing could topple her.
‘Would you wrap the flats and send them on?’ she asked. ‘I wonder if you still have my account details? It’s been a while. My name is Mirabelle Bevan. My address has changed since I last shopped in Harrods.’
‘I’ll look up the name, madam.’ The girl disappeared towards the counter with the flats in tow.
Mirabelle stared out of the window. On the street below, a smart lady was walking a Highland terrier on a lead.
‘That reminds me of you and Superintendent McGregor,’ Vesta giggled.
‘The cheek! Really, Vesta.’
As the woman stopped at the kerb the dog looked up at her as if to ask for permission to cross. Mirabelle and Vesta burst out laughing, guiltily.
‘You just abandoned the poor man in the country.’
Mirabelle looked mildly troubled. ‘I left a note,’ she objected. ‘The thing is that the superintendent can’t go where we need to go. As a police officer he’s far too conspicuous.’
‘Isn’t it his job?’
‘He is bound by too many rules. And in this world people are more likely to talk to you or me than someone from the police. Anyway, he doesn’t like it when we go anywhere he deems dangerous.’
‘Is that what we’re going to do?’
Mirabelle shrugged. ‘If it’s an inside job, we’ll have to go inside, won’t we? One circle or another.’
The sales assistant came back with a heavy ledger and scored out the address just west of Sloane Street where Mirabelle had lived with Jack.
‘Brighton?’ she said cheerily, as Mirabelle dictated the address on the Lawns. ‘I’ve heard it’s nice down on the coast.’
‘It’s nice in the summer,’ Vesta cut in. ‘At this time of year the wind can be vicious. One way or another.’
‘One way or another,’ Mirabelle repeated. ‘Come along, Vesta. We really need to be getting along.’
The Beaumont residence wasn’t far. Mirabelle wondered fleetingly why the family hadn’t settled in St James’s but the place she’d paid her respects to Mrs Beaumont had clearly been the family home for some time. Perhaps her forbears hadn’t been as ambitious as her husband. Mirabelle deftly guided Vesta in the right direction, through the maze of Georgian and Victorian streets behind Harrods. Before they hit the main road, however, she stopped in front of a blue door and hesitated.
‘Is this the Beaumont house?’ Vesta asked.
‘No. This is where we find out which of the circles these men dodged between was the most deadly.’ Mirabelle shuffled on the pavement.
‘What are we waiting for?’
‘I haven’t been here for a while,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘It’s a club.’
The girl squinted and Mirabelle realised that to Vesta the word meant something quite different. ‘Not for music.’ She shoved her fondly. ‘There’s no jazz.’
‘Did you come here during the war?’
‘Not really. Afterwards, mostly.’
‘Well it looks posh.’
Mirabelle shrugged. ‘The thing is that there’s been no measure following the money. Maybe it’s the other currency we should have been looking at.’
Vesta looked blank.
‘Information,’ Mirabelle said, rolling her eyes. ‘Come along.’
Instead of knocking at the front door, she pushed open the gate and took the steps down to the basement, where she rang the bell. Within seconds a kitchen maid answered. The girl was clearly shocked to find a well-dressed lady on the doorstep. ‘We thought you was the fishmonger,’ she said.
‘I wondered if William was in?’
‘He’s clearing lunch, miss. Up in the bar.’
‘Can I come in?’
The girl hopped from foot to foot. ‘We ain’t allowed. The Colonel says. It’s security. No one comes in this door. Not a soul. No matter what.’
‘Well, I could wait here and you could fetch William.’
The girl thought about this and then nodded. The door clicked shut, leaving Mirabelle and Vesta on the mat.
‘What does she mean about security?’
‘This building is the safest place in London,’ Mirabelle replied enigmatically. ‘It’s also the most dangerous.’
Vesta crossed her arms. ‘I thought you were making progress,’ she said. ‘But I see I was mistaken. Let’s try that again. What is this place?’
‘It’s the Blue Door. It’s a club.’
‘For . . .?’
‘Ex-servicemen and women.’
Vesta had been to plenty of ex-servicemens’ clubs. Charlie played them now and then. Once he had gone on a tour. Not one had been housed in a Georgian townhouse and no one had ever mentioned security. ‘Aha,’ she said.
‘I have a membership here. It’s for First Aid – nursing.’
This cut no more ice with Vesta than Mirabelle’s last answer. ‘The safest and the most dangerous,’ she repeated back to her. ‘A club for nurses?’
Mirabelle sighed. ‘It’s SOE,’ she admitted. ‘All the members are SOE.’
‘And you?’
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘First Aid Nursing Yeomanry.’
‘You were a nurse?’
‘No. Not really.’
Vesta felt her temper rising. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ she started, but she stopped as the door opened once more and a man with hair dyed an unnatural colour of brown stood before them. He was wearing livery. His face lit up.
‘Miss Bevan!’ he all but shouted in delight.
‘William.’
‘How nice to see you. How are you, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. You look well. This old place obviously suits you.’
The man’s gaze shifted towards Vesta.
‘This is my business partner, Vesta Lewis.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘We run a debt collection agency together.’
William made a strange move, almost as if he was bobbing a curtsy.
‘How do you do?’ Vesta said.
‘Well, what can I do for you, Miss Bevan?’
Mirabelle produced the roll of film from her bag. ‘I need this developed. It has to be done with a degree of . . .’
‘I understand, miss.’ He put out his hand.
‘How long might it take?’
‘I can have it for you later this afternoon. Two hours, perhaps.’
‘Might I telephone?’
‘Of course. Mr Golding is still in the office. I’ll let him know when it’s ready. I can have one of the runners deliver it to you.’
‘I’m afraid the pictures might be shocking, William.’
The expression on William’s face did not flicker on account of either curiosity or discomfort. It was as if every photograph he’d ever developed had been shocking.
‘Is there anything else, miss?’
‘No. Thank you.’
Back out on the street, Vesta regarded Mirabelle carefully. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘The house in Bleeding Heart Yard. I found it in the bathroom.’
‘What do you think it contains?’
‘I don’t know. My guess is that Dougie Beaumont left it there and intended to pick it up later.’
‘Not Highton?’
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘It was locked in a box. Beaumont had the key.’<
br />
Vesta did not ask any more questions. Mirabelle was a locked box herself, she decided. It was infuriating. They walked on, turning on to Sloane Street and then continued in silence to Sloane Square where the lights from the theatre on the east side glowed neon as they crossed the road. Mirabelle couldn’t help feeling it was good to be back in high heels, strolling along Eaton Gate. The private gardens in front of the townhouses were peppered with golden leaves like sovereigns strewn on the muddy ground. This area was unreservedly grand. As the women made their way along the pavement, they peered alternately between the huge first-floor windows and the near-black bark of the sycamores set against the last of the leaves. Mirabelle found herself feeling nostalgic.
‘I used to live around here,’ she admitted. ‘During the war.’
‘It looks nice.’
‘It was. We were further over, towards Chelsea.’
She touched Vesta’s arm to indicate that they should turn. ‘The Beaumont house is this way,’ she said.
‘How are we going to get in?’
‘We’re not, just yet. I think surveillance would be a good idea.’
Vesta sighed. The last time Mirabelle had put somewhere under surveillance Vesta had fallen asleep in a stairwell and Mirabelle had abandoned her just when things had got interesting. Admittedly, it was a while ago, on a case that had taken them to Cambridge, but still. ‘We’re a little conspicuous, aren’t we?’ she pointed out.
‘Yes. And it might take a while.’ Mirabelle looked around. In the park at the end of the road there was a wooden bench. ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘We’ll be able to see the house from there and nobody will question two ladies taking the air. Not even in this weather.’
‘It’s residents only. We can’t climb over the railings.’ Vesta sounded shocked.
Mirabelle removed her lockpicks from her handbag. ‘This won’t take a moment,’ she said. ‘Keep an eye out.’
The lock sprung easily and the gate creaked. Vesta rubbed her hands together. The gloves she’d chosen today were a wonderful jade green but they weren’t lined. ‘If we’d had to climb over, the heels would have been an advantage, you know,’ Mirabelle pointed out. ‘But you’re right – two women vaulting over a set of railings is far more noticeable than one fiddling with what most people would assume was a key.’
Operation Goodwood Page 20
