Operation Goodwood

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Comings and goings. I’ll stay here. I’ve plenty to think about and, in the meantime, you can check around the back. See if you can figure out who is in the house. Why don’t you try to find Kamari – the fellow you don’t like the look of?’

  Mirabelle sat on the bench and placed her handbag on her lap.

  ‘You’ll be here?’ Vesta checked.

  ‘I’ll be watching.’

  It was, after all, a better option than sitting still in the freezing cold. Vesta nipped back on to the street, passing a footman walking two less than energetic black Labradors. She disappeared out of sight around the corner. The houses here might be grand but there were laneways that led to rows of mews to the rear, which nowadays formed garages and sometimes accommodation for the staff or even relations who were down on their luck. London was short of housing and people would move into places they might not have considered before the war. A well-dressed man in a silver Mercedes Benz drove sharply around the corner and cut past her rather closely. Vesta held her nerve despite the fact that the cobbled street was difficult to negotiate in heels. When the car had passed, she started to count the houses until she came to the rear of the Beaumont residence.

  They had done a good job on it, she thought, she’d give them that. Other places had windows that were poxed with peeling paint, especially at the back, but the Beaumont place was shipshape all round. The mews door was open and the burgundy Rolls-Royce that had passed them on the driveway at Goodwood filled the garage with only a foot either side to spare. Vesta listened, but there was no indication of movement inside the garage. In fact, the mews felt curiously still. Turning sideways, Vesta edged past the car and slipped through the door that led on to the Beaumonts’ garden. Mirabelle had nerves of steel, she thought, as she perused the arrangement of doors and windows. Mirabelle would just break in but Vesta simply couldn’t. She never had. Instead, she loitered, peering through the windows that overlooked the garden. The light was on in the kitchen and inside, a woman in a white cap and apron was overseeing several pans on the range. Vesta wondered what was on the menu, but she wasn’t close enough to make it out. The upstairs windows were still, but she could pick out a vase of fresh flowers on a dressing table. High above, the chimneys spewed smoke into the pale sky. At least she’d established the house was in use.

  Next, she turned her attention towards the garage. First, she checked the car, but the luggage had been removed and there was nothing of interest in the boot or the glove compartment. Moving on to the rest of the mews, there was a small room off the garage that housed tins of oil, a deep white sink with a dripping brass tap and some gardening equipment. At the end there was a wooden staircase so steep that it was almost a ladder. When she climbed it, she saw that it opened into what must have been the old hayloft but now served as some kind of store. Ahead of her, battered suitcases were piled at one end. Two dressmakers’ dummies propped each other up as if they were the worse for wear. Behind the cases there were three heavy leather trunks. These were embossed with initials: ‘D.E.B.’, ‘E.B.’ and ‘D.G.H.’ Vesta smiled. Crouching, she opened them one by one. It would seem they had been used to pack away old school clothes. Enid’s contained a hockey stick and a small silver cup engraved with the words ‘House prize: Drama’ as well as several pieces of a navy uniform. Dougie’s was mostly full of sporting whites, very much like George’s. A few well-worn textbooks were stacked at the bottom. A cricket ball. A leather pencil case. A long out-of-date ticket stub for a Chelsea home game. Nothing of importance.

  With a shrug, Vesta moved on to the filing cabinets, the contents of which were in disarray and certainly not filed according to her own exacting standards. The first contained a mass of unsorted papers that related to the work that had been undertaken on the house – roofing receipts, surveyors’ reports, delivery chits for plumbing supplies, wallpaper cuttings and paint swatches. The renovation of the house had cost a small fortune, but then Vesta could have guessed that. Getting Mirabelle’s flat back into shape came with a hefty price tag, so upgrading a whole house would be prohibitive for most people. Even at a cursory glance, the bills came to ten thousand pounds. She moved on. The second filing cabinet yielded riper fruit. Carefully, Vesta leafed through a thick sheaf of correspondence as she sat on the end of one of the school trunks. Contrary to Mirabelle’s understanding of the men’s finances, it looked as if George Highton was in considerable trouble. He was in hot water with the taxman. The letters claimed tax payments outstanding in the sum of over £2,500 in a dispute that had been ongoing since 1952. Vesta wondered how on earth George Highton might have run up such a huge bill. Two thousand five hundred pounds was more money than Vesta and Charlie had recently paid for their new house. ‘How interesting,’ she mumbled, recalling the terms of his will. If Highton had run into trouble perhaps he had signed away his assets with the intention of declaring himself bankrupt. People did it. They’d had cases like that in the office. It was a dishonourable way out of financial difficulty but perhaps Highton had chosen it. She was considering this when she was startled by the sound of movement downstairs. Moving slowly, she replaced the papers, closed the cabinet drawer and crept to the head of the staircase. With her heart pounding, she crouched to peer through the banister.

  Downstairs, Kamari was whistling beside the sink as he polished a set of brasses with a filthy cloth. Vesta tutted, almost unconsciously. He’d never get them gleaming that way. The sound was out before she could stop herself. Kamari turned.

  ‘Bobby? Is that you?’

  Vesta froze. Kamari peered into the garage next door, but finding that the chauffeur wasn’t there, he shrugged his shoulders and returned to his work. Vesta’s hands were shaking. She clutched them together. Effectively, she was now trapped in the attic. Mirabelle was far more adept at this kind of thing. She could escape from practically anywhere. Vesta cursed silently. What on earth had she been thinking? Kamari finished the brasses and moved on to oiling Mr Crowe’s hickory golf clubs and scrubbing a scatter of muddy tees and some grass-smeared golf balls in the sink. He was drying these with an old piece of towel when the chauffeur popped his head through the door.

  ‘Are you almost done?’

  ‘You need a hand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kamari propped the clubs to one side and disappeared into the garage. Vesta crept silently downstairs and peered around the door frame. The chauffeur was underneath the Rolls-Royce and Kamari was handing him a spanner.

  ‘The boss is gonna love you even more for this, Bobby, boy.’ Kamari’s face was lit by a grin.

  ‘It’s my job, isn’t it? Seeing to the car.’

  ‘No, he’s gonna love you.’ Kamari’s lips formed a smooch.

  ‘And you’ve never been tempted? You want to get ahead, nigger? Well, you ain’t got what they’re looking for. Have you? You’re just soft on Mrs Enid. You love her and she hardly gives a sniff in your direction. As if a lady like her would care about a nigger like you.’

  Kamari’s grin dropped away. His lip curled in an expression of contempt. When he spoke, his voice dripped with fury. It was quite a turnaround from the persona he presented normally – the wide grin that protected him. Vesta felt almost afraid.

  ‘If you weren’t so white, I’d say you were Kikuyu,’ Kamari spat. ‘You can’t trust a Kikuyu. And you got that look in your eyes.’

  Bobby rolled out from under the car. ‘You don’t look in my eyes, darkie. You got it?’

  ‘Big white man, big big.’ Kamari was undaunted.

  Bobby’s temper frayed. He pushed Kamari against the wall with such force that a scatter of loose plaster crumbled on to the concrete floor. ‘I dunno what they see in bleeding Kenya, anyway,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Well, you never will, cos they won’t take you, will they?’ Kamari grinned again though it was hardly easy-going. ‘Don’t think I don’t hear you dropping those hints. Like doodle bombs.’

&
nbsp; ‘At least I get something out of it, my way.’ The chauffeur rubbed his fingers together in the internationally recognised sign for money.

  Kamari turned away, rolling his eyes.

  Vesta ducked back towards the sink. No love lost there, she thought. And still no safe way out of the mews. She crept back up the stairs as Kamari skulked through, picked up the brasses and left through the garden door. It was odd that the two men had been taunting each other about the Beaumonts and the Crowes. In that moment it had seemed as if everything about them revolved around the people they worked for – as if being here wasn’t only a job. These people seemed so tangled up with each other. Still from what Vesta knew of Enid Crowe, she didn’t seem like the kind of woman about to embark on a cross-race affair. That took guts. Charlie’s friends who dated white girls were hounded even more than the black men who stuck to their own kind. It was the preserve of rebels and thrillseekers, not a pampered upper-class girl who’d never done anything. And what about the chauffeur? How many men were involved in this ring that circled Beaumont and Highton and their particular tastes?

  Sniffing, Vesta realised she could smell tobacco snaking through the bare boards – after the altercation, the chauffeur was having a cigarette. Her heart still pounding, she sneaked down to take a peek. The man was standing in the laneway watching another chauffeur further along who was washing a Bentley. While he had his back to the garage, she decided to try to get away. Pressing herself against the wall, she edged round the car and stepped smartly on the cobbles. Just at that moment the chauffeur swung round. Vesta’s heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Oy! What are you doing?’

  With her mind racing, Vesta tried to remain nonchalant – that, after all, is what Mirabelle would do. There was no way that the man could know she had come from the garage. In fact to him it could look as if she had walked down the lane. Just say something, she chided herself. And then the words came. ‘I’m looking for the black guy. You know the one? He works for the Beaumonts?’

  The chauffeur drew on his cigarette in what could only be described as an aggressive fashion as he eyed Vesta up and down. ‘Whatchya want him for?’

  It crossed Vesta’s mind this was a good question, just as she decided she might as well push the bloke’s buttons. ‘I wanted to talk to him about Kenya,’ she said decisively.

  ‘Bleeding Kenya!’ The chauffeur practically exploded. ‘Who cares?’

  ‘Have you been?’ Vesta asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t go if they paid me double.’

  ‘Me neither,’ she admitted. ‘But the Beaumonts seem to like it.’

  The man’s face contorted into a sour expression. He threw down the butt of his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. ‘It’s all monkeys and malaria and all they go on about is the stunning views. Stunning bleeding views from the cockpit of the plane.’

  ‘I have heard it’s beautiful.’

  ‘So you’re not one of them, then? Kenyan, I mean?’

  ‘No. I’m from Bermondsey.’

  The man snorted with laughter. ‘Bermondsey,’ he repeated. ‘Yeah. You look local.’

  Vesta checked her watch. ‘Well, if he’s not here, I better be going,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I can fetch Kamari, if you want? He’ll be sniffing around inside. He’s housebroken, see.’ The man’s eyes were cruel.

  ‘I can’t wait. I have to get back.’

  She spun on her heel and stalked up the mews, picking up her pace as she rounded the corner. On the upside, she no longer felt the cold, she thought, as she strode down the pavement, heading for the safety of the park bench. Vesta’s heart rate settled down but, she noted, having to hide had been thrilling. In the park, Mirabelle hadn’t moved.

  ‘Fruitful?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes. George Highton owes a bundle of money to the taxman. Over two thousand pounds. And there is some suggestion that the chauffeur might be involved in, well, you know. Indecent behaviour.’

  ‘Gosh. One does begin to wonder if there are any traditionally orientated men left.’

  A wisp of a smile crossed Vesta’s face. She was about to say something about the terror she’d felt, about being caught in the hayloft and having to bluff to get away when Mirabelle straightened up, straining to see beyond the railings. Vesta followed her gaze just as a hackney cab pulled to a halt outside the Beaumonts’ residence.

  ‘Well, well,’ Mirabelle said, watching keenly as Enid Crowe emerged and darted through the front door. The girl had a curious expression, which Mirabelle couldn’t read – was it fury or determination, she wondered. Whichever, Enid had the gait of a sulky child, her smart hairdo bobbing beneath her hat.

  No sooner had Enid disappeared into the house than a butler slipped down the front steps and paid the driver before helping Mrs Beaumont on to the pavement. The poor woman lingered a moment, looking at the house as if she was entirely defeated at the prospect of going inside. One hand darted to her pearl necklace, though this time she wasn’t twisting it in distress, this time she clutched the pearls as if she was holding on to them for her life. Then the butler offered his arm. The door closed with a decisive click and Mirabelle immediately got to her feet and set off at a lick along the pavement.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Vesta demanded, following two steps behind, but Mirabelle had no time to explain. She knocked smartly on the cab window before it could pull away.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

  ‘Where to, miss?’

  The driver was surprisingly elderly and bundled up in at least two thick, home-knitted sweaters with a jacket on top and a tweed flat cap. Perfectly spritely, he jumped on to the road and rounded the car to open the door, casting a frosty look over Vesta. Mirabelle checked over her shoulder to make sure that no one in the Beaumont house had spotted her. Then she ushered Vesta on to the back seat and slipped in next to her. The driver slammed the door, retook his seat and started the engine.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘just drive, will you?’

  The man glanced back at her, but he did as she asked. At the end of the street, he paused before deciding to turn right. ‘Harder than you’d reckon, making your mind up which way to go.’ He smiled. ‘You trying to dodge somebody?’

  ‘Quite the reverse,’ Mirabelle assured him. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me.’

  ‘Me? Help you?’

  ‘It’s my god-daughter, you see. I’m most dreadfully worried about her.’

  Vesta looked back in the direction of the Beaumont residence. Then she stared at her friend. Mirabelle really was quite extraordinary. If only she’d had this kind of imagination in dealing with the chauffeur only a few minutes before. She was sure she’d appeared shaken but perhaps he was so furious after his fight with Kamari that he hadn’t noticed. The cab driver was more on the ball.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ The man laughed.

  Mirabelle reached into her purse and pulled out a five pound note. She unfolded it ostentatiously. ‘I pay highly, you see,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you’ve got my attention, miss. I’ll say that.’

  Vesta sat back, waiting to see what Mirabelle would say. This was better than the wireless, she thought. Really.

  ‘The thing is,’ Mirabelle continued, ‘the poor girl has been led astray and her mother is not dealing with it well.’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My god-daughter. Her mother is a very dear friend.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how . . .’

  ‘You just dropped them off, driver.’

  The man pulled into the kerb and turned in his seat. ‘Them two?’ He gestured in the direction of the Beaumonts’ house.

  ‘I want you to tell me about the argument they had. You’d be doing me the most enormous favour.’

  ‘Who says they had an argument?’

  ‘Her Majesty says so.’ Mirabelle flicked the banknote. ‘I’d be terribly grateful. You see, I want to help, but to do so I need to know more than is evident. It’s a family s
ituation, you understand.’

  ‘I dunno.’ The man considered a moment. ‘I mean, I don’t want you thinking I eavesdrop on ladies in the back of my cab.’

  ‘Well, of course not, but the poor girl is dreadfully distressed. I’m sure she must have raised her voice. I mean, you might not have heard anything she said, in which case you can drop us here. Vesta, dear, do you have a shilling for the fare?’ Mirabelle went to put away her money.

  ‘And you’re her godmother?’

  ‘Oh yes. Lifelong. I just want to know what I shall be walking into later, if you see what I mean? Be prepared and all that.’

  ‘Like the Girl Guides?’ The man hooted, opening his mouth wide and revealing a pink-gummed grin. Mirabelle stared blankly and within seconds the driver regained his composure. ‘All right, miss,’ he said, ‘but it wasn’t anything much. They were only arguing about some fellow.’ The man put on a voice, mimicking the women. ‘“Now he’s gone things will never be the same.” That’s what the girl said. And your friend, the mother, said something about money and how she hadn’t expected it. Something about being left something in a will. And the girl went quite potty at that. “It’s not about the money. How could it be about money? You’ll just do whatever Daddy wants anyway.” Furious she was. She shouted that bit. And then your friend said that the girl had never lived without money, though it seemed to me that a lady like that, well, she probably hadn’t lived without money either. And the girl said something about never getting over it and that she’d had enough. Very dramatic.’

  ‘Gosh.’

  ‘Well, you know what females are like when they say things in temper. And then the mother said it was just as well the girl was married cos she’d shown her true colours and they all had to live with that.’

  ‘True colours? I see. Did they mention any names?’

  The man thought for a moment. ‘She said, “It’s all down to Michael now.” The mother, not the daughter. And the girl said, “He can’t drive for toffee.” And the mother said it didn’t matter how well he could drive, he’d just have to do it cos they could find someone else for this and that, but mostly it had to be someone they trusted.’