‘Tell me, where did you pick them up?’
‘They were at the House of Commons. One of the policemen flagged me down.’
‘And? Anything else?’
The driver considered a moment. ‘No. That was it.’
‘You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.’
Mirabelle handed over the five pound note and he grinned widely.
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Nice doing business with you.’
‘Will you take us back there?’
‘To the house where I dropped them?’
‘No. To the Commons.’
‘But shouldn’t we go back and see . . .’ Vesta objected.
Mirabelle’s eyes flashed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This hasn’t been about the women, Vesta. Let’s face it. Haven’t you been listening? This whole thing is about the men.’
‘I knew it was Elrick Beaumont. You can’t trust a politician – not a Tory.’
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Well, I don’t know how you came to that conclusion. Really.’ She kept her voice very low. ‘Besides, for heaven’s sake, haven’t you just learned to never say anything of importance in the back of a taxi?’
Chapter 18
Know how to listen, and you will profit even from those who talk badly
It had been some years since Mirabelle had visited the House. During the war, occasionally, she had spent a morning sitting in the Strangers’ Gallery, lulled by the speeches. It had felt comforting be close to the pulse of decisions and to know that, in sharp contrast to the regime Britain had been fighting, the people on the green leather seats had been elected to represent their constituents and were accountable, because anyone could come and hear what they had to say. If it hadn’t been rude, she’d have said that there was something soporific about the House of Commons. Something settled. The gothic grandeur of Pugin’s design made it seem more ancient than it was. The statues, tapestries and paintings were soothing. The movement of the river outside the leaden panes of the committee rooms and offices felt perpetually tranquil. In fact, the old place resembled a church more than anything else, though it was far larger. Certainly in the dark days of wartime Mirabelle had been more likely to seek comfort at the Palace of Westminster than at the cathedral over the road. Today, the deep chime of Big Ben from the Elizabeth Tower announced her arrival and immediately drew her back to wartime days, listening to Winston Churchill at the dispatch box.
Deposited on the pavement, Vesta drew herself up and checked her coat was properly buttoned. ‘I’ve never been inside,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve only ever seen it from the bus.’
‘There’s no need to be nervous. This building belongs to you. It belongs to all of us,’ Mirabelle reassured her.
‘Did you used to work here?’
‘No. I was a secretary in Whitehall, that’s all,’ Mirabelle replied sadly.
Vesta looked at her friend with dubiety. Whatever Mirabelle had done during the war, she couldn’t believe it ought to end with the words ‘that’s all’. She stood a little straighter walking inside, as a policeman in a dark cape held open the door.
‘Thank you, constable,’ Mirabelle breathed and, as usual, Vesta wondered, How does she know?
Inside Westminster Hall, the faint smell of bleach mingled with the scent of printed paper. The summer recess had just passed and the House had reconvened. It was lunchtime and the hallway was almost deserted. A man in a pinstriped suit wearing a bowler hat, scurried out of the door, clutching a battered black briefcase, late for a meeting. A female secretary in a pale blue suit and a Baker Boy beret, hugged a buff file to her chest as she slipped inside with only the barest nod at the policeman on duty. In a rush, she overtook Mirabelle and Vesta as she made her way across the tiled floor, tipped a wink at the doorkeeper and tripped up the stone stairs.
‘Well,’ Vesta hissed, ‘what do we do now?’
‘Follow her.’ Mirabelle fell into step. ‘Come along.’
The women headed up the long hallway with the sound of their heels echoing, till they came to the foot of the stone stairs where the secretary had disappeared round the corner. The doorkeeper was a young man, freshly shaven. He had the air of someone who had just completed his National Service, his military haircut not yet grown out.
‘Ladies?’ he said. ‘Visitors, are you?’
Mirabelle adopted a lofty air. ‘We’re here to give evidence to the committee.’
The man picked up a clipboard and consulted it only in passing. ‘The Wolfenden?’
Mirabelle nodded. As if this was somehow amusing, the doorkeeper’s face assumed a supercilious air and his manner became instantly more relaxed.
‘Well, they’ve broken for lunch.’ He smirked, eyeing the women up and down. His gaze lingered on Vesta’s décolletage, where a slice of dark flesh showed beneath her tippet. From his leering expression you would think she was practically naked. He licked his lips.
‘Well, really,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Can’t we go up and wait?’
The man took his time before answering. He leaned against the table and checked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t overheard.
‘What’s your hurry? All the lads are wondering what the Wolfenden’s going to come up with. Morals of the nation, and that. It’s been a downward spiral since the war. And, whatever comes out of it, just remember, we know what they decide first, so we should get it first, right?’ He gave an exaggerated wink.
‘Oh dear.’ The words escaped Mirabelle’s lips as she recalled what she had read about the committee’s business in the paper – an examination of the laws surrounding prostitution and homosexuality. There seemed little question of the matters in which the young man was assuming she and Vesta were expert. Casting her mind back to the column in The Times, she remembered that the evidence the committee was to hear was considered so repugnant that there had been some discussion about whether the female committee members would be up to the job of listening to it. Quickly, she scrambled to regain lost ground. In a way, she decided, this was the best assumption the boy could have made. It didn’t take more than a couple of seconds before she rounded on him. ‘You have misunderstood, young man. Mrs Lewis and I are from the Ladies’ Christian League. I can’t believe that you mistook us for Jezebels. That is to say, all I can do is point out that you’ve made my case about the cesspit our nation is wading into. Mrs Lewis and I are not prostitutes.’
As Mirabelle spat the words, the doorkeeper realised his mistake. His cheeks coloured and his gaze plummeted to his boots. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sorry, ma’am. It’s just some of the people in attendance at that committee, the ladies and the gentlemen, for that matter—’
‘I don’t want to know.’ Mirabelle cut him off. ‘Perhaps we could get a cup of tea in one of the dining rooms? I’m sure this dreadful assumption of yours won’t come to light when we give evidence. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I mean, were we to loosen moral constraints, men will have the right to make such assumptions. Why, if my husband could—’
The man fumbled with the clipboard. ‘I’m sorry,’ he cut in. ‘I didn’t mean to offend anyone . . .’
But Mirabelle was not to be stopped. ‘You, sir, have offended God. Which is far more important. And worse, you have been so busy cavorting that you’ve succumbed to a dereliction of duty. Had you not been eyeing up Mrs Lewis perhaps you might have remembered to ask our names. This is the House of Commons, young man. You are in Her Majesty’s service. I tell you, when I worked in Whitehall during the war . . . well, we shan’t go into it, but the men on duty here were spruce. Stand straight, won’t you? Eyes ahead.’
The boy stood to attention, his expression now betraying his terror at this protracted onslaught.
‘That’s better.’ Mirabelle raised her eyes heavenwards and took Vesta’s arm. ‘Come along, dear. Let’s try to settle ourselves before we have to go in.’
As they climbed the stairs, Mirabelle allowed herself the barest smirk. Then rounding the corner at the top, Vesta�
�s eye was caught by the ornate tapestries and the huge stained glass windows. It seemed that there was no surface in this building that wasn’t painted, gilded or carved. Ahead of them, St Stephen’s Hall was skirted by a long row of statues that led into the central lobby.
‘The Wolfenden Committee. Ladies’ Christian League,’ Mirabelle informed the next doorkeeper loftily. ‘We’re early, of course. It being lunch.’
This man was far older and more interested in his newspaper than testimony relating to the morals of the nation. He waved the women through with hardly a second glance. This lobby acted like a crossroads. Ornate offshoots headed in all directions.
‘It’s very grand,’ Vesta hissed, peering towards the double doors to the Commons Chamber.
‘Oh this is nothing. You should see inside the Lords. There’s a golden ceiling. Honestly.’
The girl looked upwards. Even ungilded, the vaulted ceiling was impressive. It seemed impossible that it could get grander. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘What on earth is the Wolfenden Committee, anyway?’ It seemed Vesta was taking things in slowly.
‘It’s examining gross indecency.’
‘And that bloke thought we were . . .’
‘He thought you were a prostitute. I’m not quite sure what he thought I was up to, at my age.’
‘You’re not so old. Perhaps he reckoned you for a madam,’ Vesta rejoined. ‘You’ve got some nerve, Mirabelle.’
‘No more than he had.’
‘Well, we’re in now. So what is it that we’re looking for?’
‘Elrick Beaumont’s office. Every member has an office. This way.’ She pulled Vesta towards the corridor directly ahead.
Through the double doors another keeper moved forwards solicitously. ‘Madam?’
‘We’re giving evidence to the Wolfenden Committee but not for another hour. We were told we could find my constituency MP, Elrick Beaumont, in the members’ dining room. He left a message to join him.’
‘Of course. Shall I take you through?’
‘No. There’s no need. I know Mr Beaumont – he’s a personal friend. I’m sure the staff in the dining room will help us. I’ve been here before.’
‘Yes, I thought I recognised you.’
Mirabelle allowed herself an enigmatic smile. The smell of cigarette smoke and hot bread rose as they approached the first of the dining rooms, but now out of sight of the last doorkeeper, she didn’t stop. ‘The libraries are along here somewhere and the committee rooms are upstairs,’ she whispered for Vesta’s benefit.
‘And the offices?’
‘All over.’
‘What’s downstairs?’ The girl’s eyes were drawn to a dark and archaic-looking stairwell.
‘The crypt. There’s a chapel.’
‘So . . .’
‘Upwards. I think we want to go up.’
They took the first set of stairs. As they climbed higher, the windows became smaller but still, there was a view of the Thames and far below they could make out several members drinking brandy on the terrace, catching what might be had of the autumn sunshine. It was impossible to tell who was who, the men forming a collection of dark hats amid the wisps of cigarette smoke. Up here there was a warren of corridors. The carpets were thick and every so often a heavy leather chair had been placed outside one of the doors so that applicants could sit and wait.
‘We’ll never find it.’
‘We’ll ask when we bump into someone,’ Mirabelle insisted.
Sure enough, as they continued, a man juggling a high stack of files rounded the corner ahead.
‘Excuse me,’ Mirabelle accosted him. ‘I’m new here and I’ve to go to Elrick Beaumont’s office.’
‘New? What do you mean?’
‘I’m a secretary. These corridors are rather labyrinthine. I got lost, I’m afraid.’
The man peered around the side of the files, his thick glasses shifting down the bridge of his nose. In his top pocket an ebony pipe balanced precariously as if it might tumble any minute. ‘And who is this?’ He tipped his chin at Vesta.
‘Vesta Lewis,’ Vesta introduced herself, holding out her hand. ‘How do you do?’
‘I can’t shake.’ The man swayed the files in her direction. ‘Are you working for Beaumont too? I know he’s fond of his African connections.’
Vesta was about to deliver her line about Bermondsey when Mirabelle cut in. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Mrs Lewis comes to us from Nairobi.’
‘The Mau Mau,’ the man replied. ‘I mean, what to do about the uprising? It’s going on too long, wouldn’t you say. I’m just not sure how we should tackle it.’
Vesta bit her lip. ‘More of what we’re already doing, I’d say.’
This transpired to be a good guess.
‘Quite. I mean, we can’t let them just overrun the whites, can we?’ The man’s tone was earnest. ‘We have to put them down in the end, whatever it takes. We’ll come out on top, of course.’
‘Well,’ Mirabelle cut in, ‘that’s certainly what Mr Beaumont is hoping. As you know, he has interests there.’
A strange look crossed the man’s face. ‘It’s a shame about his son.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re on the wrong corridor, by the way,’ he offered. ‘Left and left again and you’ll probably recognise it. Don’t worry – everyone gets lost at the beginning. It took me ages to get used to the old place. I hope to meet you again.’
‘Thank you.’
When they turned left the corridors began to look almost domestic, painted thickly in cream with a few watercolours of Victorian politicians mounted on the walls. Turning left once more, they passed a low bookcase housing leather-bound books on the subject of jurisprudence. The fourth door along bore Elrick Beaumont’s name. Mirabelle paused before knocking. There was no reply. She tried the handle but the door was locked.
‘Keep a lookout,’ she instructed Vesta, as she withdrew her lockpicks. It took her only a few seconds to spring the door.
Inside, the room smelled of newspapers and dry leather. There were two windows, one either side of a small fireplace in which a single-bar electric fire was set. On Beaumont’s desk there were pictures of his family – Mrs Beaumont reading a book, Dougie and Enid playing tennis and one of George Highton bent over the engine of a car, looking up with a smear of oil on his cheek.
‘I didn’t have Highton down as a mechanic.’ Mirabelle showed Vesta as she rounded the desk and started to search the drawers, which yielded the usual array of pencils and rubber bands as well as a file of draft legislation. The papers were loosely bound and Mirabelle flicked through to find the titles: The first was called ‘The National Health Service Act (1946)’. Reading what Beaumont had scribbled, she realised he had been questioning costs. ‘Talk to Winston’ was written next to one clause, which had been underlined, and then, further down, he had written ‘Nothing but filthy Socialism’ followed by ‘We Must Change This’. The Tories had opposed the health service from the beginning. Mirabelle tried to stay calm – this was no time to get caught up in politics. She pursed her lips and moved on. Beneath the bill there were more papers relating to the Army Act upon which Elrick appeared to have written notes in the margins of a similar reactionary nature. Unsurprisingly, his main concern appeared to be to keep army action in British colonies as unregulated as possible. In another drawer there was a note inviting Beaumont for a drink with a fellow member, several cards expressing condolences on the death of his son, and a bill from a gentlemen’s club.
‘If Dougie Beaumont funded this for his father, I’m not sure he spent his money wisely. Look at this place,’ Vesta tutted, running her finger along the dusty window ledge. ‘The whole building feels like a filthy old boys’ school.’ Mirabelle was accustomed to such places. Vesta had noticed it again and again – she was at home in Cambridge or in a posh hotel in St James’s or in the British Embassy in Paris. Just as she was at home here. Mirabelle did not comment, instead she sank into the leather chair behind Elrick Beau
mont’s desk.
‘I’m still interested in how Dougie made his money,’ she said. ‘I mean the family owned the house already but he revived it. And paying for a parliamentary career, even if your office isn’t very impressive, is costly too.’
‘And Christmas in Kenya must lay them back a pretty penny.’
‘I’m not buying this golden boy image. Winning races and gambling on the stock market.’ Mirabelle felt in her handbag. ‘Not entirely. They’re hiding something. More than one thing.’ She brought out the silver box she’d taken from under Dougie Beaumont’s mattress. It had been on her mind. ‘This belonged to Dougie Beaumont.’ She flipped open the lid.
Vesta peered inside. ‘What is it?’
‘Cocaine.’
‘The stuff the dentist prescribes?’
‘Yes. I found traces of it at the place on Bleeding Heart Yard too. In a snuffbox in the bathroom.’
‘You think Beaumont and Highton were selling drugs?’
‘It’s possible they might have been smuggling drugs. They travelled enough and it’s potentially lucrative though I don’t know if it would generate the kind of cash they needed. So far, it’s the only thing I can think of.’
Vesta leaned against the desk and shook her head. ‘The boys like a smoke – Charlie’s friends. Or opium pills – you can get the doctor to prescribe them. Cocaine, though, just isn’t so popular. I don’t see anyone getting killed over, well, something you can pick up at the chemist if you have a friendly dentist. I mean, if it was cigarettes. That would make more sense. You could make a fortune off bringing fags in. Besides, if you think about it – these men were hale and hearty right up to the moment they died – they definitely haven’t spent a lot of time lounging around in opium dens.’ Mirabelle shrugged and Vesta continued. ‘In the taxi you said they’d cut out the women and you thought whatever is going on was between the men alone. Is this what you meant?’
Operation Goodwood Page 22
