‘Not exactly. It’s only the money seems to benefit the men most – they were living it up, weren’t they? Beaumont and his flash career and Dougie and George and their international playboy lifestyle. The secrets belong to them. As far as I can see, Enid and her mother get a nice house to live in and that’s about it. But that’s not the only thing on my mind. The murders are very male. A woman wouldn’t have been able to garrote Dougie Beaumont and then hoist him on his chandelier. At least, it doesn’t strike me as a woman’s way to murder someone. Does it strike you?’
Vesta shook her head.
‘And smashing George Highton to death with a golf club? I mean, a woman could do that, but really, I can’t see it in our players. These men were a tight team – a club, if you like. Dougie and George were more like brothers than anything else, even if they’d had a spat. And Elrick Beaumont might be a bully, but sometimes it takes a bully to hold things together. I think this whole thing was a family concern.’
‘And where does Michael Crowe fit in?’
‘I don’t know yet, but he’s as close to a son as Beaumont has left. And it looks as if they are expecting him to take up Dougie’s mantle. Remember what Mrs Beaumont said to Enid: he’ll have to drive. Even if he isn’t any good at it. As if the driving, winning the races isn’t the important thing. There’s this sense of a family business to it all.’ Mirabelle’s eye fell on a framed print over the fireplace – an old political cartoon with Mr Punch peering from behind a mask – his own face even more grotesque than the one with which he was covering up. ‘It’s all about keeping up appearances. And you’ve got a point. Where on earth is Michael Crowe? The women are back at the house and Elrick Beaumont is here but where’s the only foot soldier the Beaumonts have left? What’s he up to?’
Vesta lifted the lid on Elrick Beaumont’s leather-inlayed secretaire. ‘Ooh,’ she squealed enthusiastically, pulling out a book and laying it on the desktop. ‘It’s a diary.’
Mirabelle cast her eyes upwards. Vesta was easily distracted. Nonetheless, she turned the pages till she got to the beginning of September. The diary, it seemed, was for parliamentary business. The summer recess lay annoyingly blank but the months ahead looked busy. After the General Election that spring, the House had a lot of business to complete. Elrick Beaumont sat on several committees, though not, Mirabelle noted, Lord Wolfenden’s inquiry. Flipping forwards, she noticed that the following Friday was blanked out with ‘FUNERAL?’ in black capitals to which an ‘S’ had been added in blue. The family clearly hoped to bury both Dougie and George on the same day. Further on, on a date in mid-December, Beaumont had noted ‘Heathrow to N’ which Mirabelle took to mean ‘Nairobi’. Busy people like the Beaumonts hadn’t the time to travel by ship.
‘What about last week?’ Vesta peered over.
‘The dates of the murders?’
She nodded. Mirabelle flipped the pages. ‘Well, on the Sunday night when Dougie Beaumont died he was at a dinner at Boodles. The night of Highton’s death there’s nothing. But he has an alibi for Dougie’s murder, depending on the time dinner ended.’
She sat back in Beaumont’s chair to consider. Vesta flipped through more pages.
‘Strange,’ she commented. ‘I mean a man like Beaumont must go out to dinner several times a week but it isn’t noted. This month he’s only put in that one dinner.’
The girl lay the diary to one side, checked the now-empty secretaire and moved on to a cabinet, which housed decanters of brandy and several packets of Brazil nuts, a smart leather case of cigars and a spare silk tie, lest Elrick Beaumont should need to change. Lastly, she searched Beaumont’s overcoat, which was hanging on a peg behind the door. Smiling, she pulled out an A–Z from the inside pocket.
‘That’s an odd thing for a man who has a driver,’ she commented. ‘Look, Mirabelle, this page is turned down at the corner.’
Mirabelle took the book and stared. The page included Fleet Street, Bleeding Heart Yard and all the streets nearby. ‘So he knows about their hideaway,’ she said. ‘Well, that makes sense, I suppose. I mean Mrs Beaumont knows about the will.’ She stared at the map, running her finger over the main road at Farringdon. ‘And just that one dinner in the diary. Lord, it must have killed him.’
‘What? What is it?’
‘I’ve been an idiot, that’s all,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Drugs! Honestly! What was I thinking? Beaumont wouldn’t let his son be killed over something so tawdry. No. Whatever it is, it has to be much more important. We’ve been looking at all the wrong things. You’re right – you come here and it’s like an old school. You go to Goodwood and it feels as if everything happening there is important just because it’s grand. But not everything deserves the gravitas it’s accorded. It depends how you look at it, and we’ve been looking at it back to front. That little house most of all. I mean why is it there, Vesta?’ Mirabelle jumped to her feet and stuffed the A–Z back into Elrick Beaumont’s pocket. ‘I’ve been a fool, but now I can see a way to follow the money. A real one.’
‘How?’ Vesta said. ‘Tell me.’
But Mirabelle had already left the office and was heading back down the corridor. When she got in one of these moods there was nothing for it but to follow. Vesta sighed and, after casting a glance back at Beaumont’s office to make sure they’d left no trace of their visit, she hurried to follow her friend.
Chapter 19
We have the best government money can buy
Mirabelle didn’t like to admit that she would be better off with McGregor’s help. Back on the pavement, outside Westminster Hall, she silenced Vesta as she thought through the situation. She comforted herself that at least she’d left him the dead men’s wills, so when she got in touch he ought to be in a good mood, no matter that she had abandoned him in the country. As she took Vesta’s arm and crossed the road towards the Tube station, she slipped into a red telephone box, motioning Vesta to wait.
‘The coaching inn at Goodwood,’ she instructed the operator.
In due course, Ella’s voice trilled down the wire. ‘Oh hello, miss,’ she said, when Mirabelle greeted her. ‘Did you leave something behind?’
‘Sort of.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘Superintendent McGregor.’
‘Oh, he left a while ago with the gentleman from customs.’
‘Customs?’ Mirabelle’s mind raced. ‘Did they leave their things?’
‘No, miss. They settled up.’
‘Do you know where they went, Ella? Did they leave together?’
‘Superintendent McGregor gave the chap a lift in his car. They never said where to.’
‘And what was the chap’s name, please?’
‘Hang on. I’ll check in the register.’ There was the sound of fumbling and then Ella’s voice returned. ‘Mr Mayhew. The signature looks like Charles.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
The phone clicked. The tip she had given to Ella had been worth every penny. Mirabelle leaned against the glass panes and watched Vesta staring up at Elizabeth Tower at such an angle that she looked as if she might fall over. It struck Mirabelle that Elrick Beaumont had simply palmed everything off on the younger generation. He’d got them to do his dirty work. He didn’t even own a share in the car. Not officially at any rate. She felt her temper rise. She had been looking at everything from the wrong direction and to get back on track it would be important to stay calm. Reuben was right – it was Beaumont who was in charge all right. She picked up the receiver again and asked for the excise service. Once she was connected she asked for Charles Mayhew.
‘Mr Mayhew is out of the office.’
‘Do you know where he went?’
‘I can take a message.’
‘No. Thank you.’
Mirabelle hung up. She had two choices and she weighed them carefully, feeling the chill as it seeped through the cold glass and into the fabric of her tweed coat. Then she picked up the phone again and asked the operator for the Telegraph. She visualised the receptionist on the front desk
picking up the handset.
‘Hello. I visited your office a couple of hours ago. I came to see Reuben Vinestock. Could you put me through to him, please?’
‘I’m afraid he’s out to lunch,’ the girl trilled.
‘Would you just check upstairs? At his desk?’
The girl’s tone relaxed. ‘Actually, miss, he really is out this time. He left only a few minutes after he’d come back to the office.’
‘After I said goodbye to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘And he hasn’t been back since?’
‘No. You’re not the only person who has been looking for him either. He had a lunch appointment with a friend and the gentleman was none too pleased.’
‘You mean someone came to pick him up?’
‘Yes. Mr Crowe. He’s often around the office.’
‘Goodness. And he wasn’t happy, you say? I do hope he wasn’t rude.’
‘Oh we get it all in here. He was difficult, that’s all. I mean it’s hardly my fault if Mr Vinestock leaves and doesn’t say where he’s going.’
‘What did Mr Crowe do?’
‘He shouted. Then he used the telephone to call for a car. He wasn’t even pleased when that arrived. I wouldn’t like to be his chauffeur, I can tell you that.’
‘Was it a Rolls-Royce? A burgundy one?’
‘Yes. Very smart. He sent it away. Berated the poor driver something terrible. Said he had no brain but at least he had muscle. Can you imagine?’
‘Well, that’s just unnecessary, isn’t it? Thanks for your help.’
Mirabelle replaced the receiver and let the information sink in. Outside the phonebox, Vesta waved at her as if to say, I’m here. Mirabelle pushed open the door.
‘Where exactly was the solicitor’s office?’ she checked.
‘What?’
‘The office that the Beaumonts used? Mrs Beaumont knew about the bequest when she came home in the taxi. Presumably she had been there.’
Vesta thought for a moment. ‘Bell Yard. Near Lincoln’s Inn.’
Mirabelle nodded and made her decision. ‘We can walk there from Bleeding Heart Yard if we have to.’
‘I suppose.’ Vesta’s forehead wrinkled.
‘It’s all within walking distance, in fact. I must have been a fool not to see it. And if McGregor is coming up to town with Mr Mayhew, which I assume he will, he is going to turn up at one of these places, at least.’
Vesta’s eyebrows raised expectantly as Mirabelle ducked back into the phone box and raised a finger as if to say, Just one minute, and then dialled again for the Blue Door and was put through to Mr Golding.
‘Ah, Miss Bevan,’ he said, his tenor soothing. Mirabelle remembered how much comfort she had taken in Mr Golding’s unflappable nature on the many occasions when she had called him in her earlier career. ‘How nice to hear from you,’ he said smoothly. ‘Your package is ready. Where should I have it sent?’
‘I’m heading for Farringdon. Is there somewhere you would recommend?’
‘Let me see. There’s a café on Greville Street. It’s close to Farringdon Road. It’s a discreet place – nothing fancy, just Formica tables. I can have it dropped to you there. About half an hour.’
‘Thank you.’ Mirabelle hung up.
As she stepped on to the pavement and raised her hand to hail the next passing taxi, Vesta fell in behind her.
‘Well. Where are we going?’
‘Lunch,’ Mirabelle replied decisively, as the cab pulled up. ‘But we can’t talk about it until we’re there.’
Vesta checked her watch. Lunch was indeed overdue. ‘Couldn’t we get a bus?’ she suggested. ‘I mean, if it meant we could discuss things on the way.’
‘You can’t talk about this kind of thing on a bus, Vesta,’ Mirabelle said, as if the girl was completely mad.
‘Well, where can we speak?’
Mirabelle leaned forward and gave the driver instructions to drop them at the end of Greville Street.
‘In the park, if we’re sure we’re not being followed,’ she said. ‘Or over the telephone. Sometimes.’
Vesta turned, her eyes were hot with such fury that Mirabelle laughed out loud. Vesta folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘Well really.’
‘Shh,’ Mirabelle instructed with a nod towards the driver as the taxi set off along the river. ‘We’ll get there soon. I promise.’
The coffee shop on Greville Street was almost deserted as Mirabelle and Vesta took a table in the corner and a grumpy waitress with her hair tied in a pale purple scarf came to take their order. The walls were decorated with posters that were peeling at the edges but apart from this the place was spotlessly clean. The sound of a wireless at low volume was set to a music channel somewhere to the rear. At the other side of the room an old man, who looked as if he was a tramp, nursed a long-cold cup of coffee. At the table next to him, a woman dressed in black was reading a copy of Bonjour Tristesse. She sighed as she turned the pages.
‘What do you want?’ the waitress asked in an offhand manner.
‘Tea,’ Vesta started, ‘and a filled roll.’
‘What kind of roll?’
‘Ham?’
The girl shook her head. ‘We don’t do ham cos of the Jews. The Yids don’t come in otherwise. I’ve got egg or cheese.’
Mirabelle ordered one round of each and Vesta craned to look at the biscuits that were laid on a thick green plate on the counter. ‘And one of those,’ she added, pointing to an iced shortbread with half a glacé cherry on top. ‘Unless you want one too?’ she checked with Mirabelle.
Mirabelle declined and the girl walked back to the counter and disappeared behind a large urn from which there emanated copious amounts of steam as she made the tea.
‘Well?’ Vesta whispered, looking around. ‘I think we’re OK to speak here, don’t you?’
Mirabelle paused. ‘All right,’ she replied. ‘It’s terribly complicated, though. The Beaumonts have a rather unusual family business. And they have a set-up that is predicated on misdirection.’
‘Try me.’
‘Well, you look at the family and you see a strong father but one kind enough to take in a Blitz orphan. You see new money ladled on top of old debts. The house in Belgravia is top class. Then there’s the Rolls-Royce. Mrs Beaumont’s jewellery and so on. After you’ve taken in the money, you see these hopelessly glamorous young men travelling the world with their passion – completely invested in racing cars. Groundbreakers, really, with smart ideas. But the men, well, most of that is only a front. They’re just like Edith, really – the way she was when I first saw her. She seemed too small a person – an ordinary woman living inside a glamorous shell. Not a woman, really, more a child. I should have taken greater note of that.’
Mirabelle fell silent as the waitress served the food. Vesta poured the tea and regarded the cheese roll. ‘Have you got any pickle?’ she asked.
‘You should’ve said.’ The girl disappeared back to the counter.
Mirabelle picked up her egg roll and took a delicate bite. Vesta stirred a spoonful of sugar into her cup as the waitress returned with a smear of what looked like Branston pickle on a side plate.
‘There,’ she said.
Vesta scraped it into the roll. ‘Go on.’ She nodded.
‘None of these people are the way they seem. You see, after the war, the Beaumonts solved a problem they’d had for a while. They were short of cash and Dougie made a very fortunate friendship in that regard. He sealed the deal by using his sister – he married her off to Michael Crowe, who is just as involved as the rest of them. His marriage to Enid tied him in. So they were a team, you see. The thing is that Dougie had found a way to make money. A gravy train. But all that happy family stuff. I mean it was only a cover. Elrick Beaumont is a bully. He needs people to dominate and he’s dominated all of them. He got exactly what he wants.’ Mirabelle stared at her cup of tea. ‘That’s why he t
ook in George Highton. Highton was just someone else to bully. Someone he could bend to his will, if you want to be old-fashioned about it. All the members of the Beaumont clan had a difficult childhood, to put it mildly. And my guess is that it wasn’t only beatings. There’s a certain kind of man who needs to dominate absolutely. Do you know what I mean, Vesta?’
Vesta put down the cheese roll and swallowed. She felt sick. Mirabelle continued.
‘What that meant was that the children stuck together – don’t you see? I mean Dougie and George and Edith – they were united in their troubles at the mercy of this bully – this monster. They tried to protect each other and I suspect they tried to protect Mrs Beaumont too. And that’s why they stayed even after they were grown. I mean, she’s their mother – hopeless but they love her.’
‘And even now? I mean, they’re old enough. If he did what you said . . .’
Mirabelle’s eyes were limpid. ‘I’m sure they talked about getting away. They may even have intended to. But they couldn’t leave Mrs Beaumont and the truth is that now she is the only innocent party. Those situations, they’re more difficult to leave than you’d think. Children from happy families grow up and make their own lives because the home is happy, but children from unhappy families . . . haven’t you noticed? They keep trying to work out their problems over and over. Even if they leave home, the unhappiness isn’t over. It haunts them. Anyway, the boys got themselves out physically, if not financially. They were lovers and friends. A team. And Edith was their sidekick, really, and probably marrying Michael protected her to some degree. Elrick Beaumont may well have been holding their sexuality over them – after all the boys would end up behind bars if he gave evidence against them. Not that he would – not while they were all making money. So ostensibly they were having a glamorous life. Something most people dream of. And that was all fine until George and Dougie fell out.’
‘You mean their lovers’ tiff?’
‘I don’t think it was a lovers’ tiff exactly.’
‘You think George killed Dougie?’
Operation Goodwood Page 23
