‘Do you mean, Dougie and George had never fought before?’ Mirabelle’s voice was calm.
Vinestock shook his head. ‘Not seriously. It came out of the blue, I think – a surprise for both of them. I mean, they were totally fired up. Dougie had to do something. George felt he absolutely shouldn’t. It got worse and worse. Dougie said George could start again from scratch for all he cared. That this place would be his only asset. They’d put together some kind of fiddle, I think, months before all this came up. Dougie had taken all of George’s assets. He was supposed to hold them for him.’
‘So George could avoid paying his tax bill?’
‘I suppose so. George had made a fortune, quite separately from what the Beaumonts were up to. He liked those icons, you know the ones with gold leaf – there are a few upstairs. He collected the ones that got damaged that he couldn’t sell on. Mostly, he’d buy them on the sly from Russians on the lam. Then he’d hide them in his suitcase and bring them in. There’s a lot of art on the Continent. George had a good eye. He sold several pieces to collectors for a small fortune and he never paid any tax, but the revenue service was on to him. The way it worked out, George and Dougie made it look as if Dougie owned almost everything – George’s share of the car, for a start. They didn’t want the taxman to seize that. They figured that if George couldn’t pay up, then the taxman would have to go hang.’ Vinestock faltered, blushing at his unfortunate analogy. ‘I didn’t mean . . . They just thought it’d make it easier to settle George’s case.’
‘That’s why George was so keen to go down to Tangmere when the car came in. He was staking his claim to his share and he expected the rest of the Beaumonts to honour it.’
‘I suppose. The Beaumonts must have known the two of them had been fighting. There was one family dinner, I heard, where the whole thing blew up over a hundred quid that George insisted Dougie owed him. The truth was, Dougie wasn’t being fair. He was angry. But life isn’t fair.’ Vinestock brandished the sheaf of photographs in Mirabelle’s direction.
‘So Dougie took these photographs?’
‘Yes. Three or four weeks ago. He went back to Nairobi on a flying visit. He intended to give them to me, so I could get them published. I said we had to keep it quiet until we could get the photos to press, but Dougie shot his mouth off a couple of times in France on the circuit. He’d drink and get angry. He couldn’t understand why so many people he considered friends, didn’t care about what was happening. It turns out they did care – just not in the way he expected. I don’t know who killed him but this is why they did it. There are a lot of vested interests in Kenya – the Beaumonts aren’t the only family that has a finger in the pie. There’s a lobby to keep what’s going on out of the public eye. Dougie was too upfront. Apart from anything else he had told his father and Michael that he intended to take action.’
‘Do you think Elrick Beaumont killed him? His own son?’ Vesta looked as if she wanted to punch someone.
‘No. Tough as Elrick is, Dougie was the goose that laid the golden egg. I don’t think he’d have knocked him off. But I’m not saying he didn’t have a suspicion or just stand aside.’
‘He knew,’ Mirabelle cut in. ‘He knew enough to give himself an alibi.’
Reuben stopped to take this in. Vesta was still trying to work out the story.
‘So George? Might he have killed Dougie?’ she said.
‘George? No. He was genuinely beside himself when Dougie died. I didn’t lie about that. After Miss Bevan came to the office the first time I asked him why he’d gone down to Brighton the day after the fire.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He cried. I think he’d gone because he couldn’t believe it. He thought they’d get over it. Make it up.’
‘Did you find out what he removed from Dougie’s bedroom?’
‘He said it was a letter he’d written. I don’t know what it said. Maybe I’d have found out if George hadn’t died too.’
‘Who do you think killed them, Reuben?’
Vinestock shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Dougie died because of this, though. British Army? British Intelligence? Or maybe just a family friend who didn’t want to lose the land he owned in Africa. With George, I mean, he could be difficult. He was tenacious. But the only person he’d had a fight with recently was Dougie, and Dougie was already gone. His death was a real bolt from the blue. It doesn’t make sense. If I’m honest, I’ve been trying not to think about it. I’ve been trying to focus on these photographs. They’re more important. The deaths were bad enough but losing the images too – I mean, Dougie died for them. When his flat was set on fire, I thought it was likely the film had been destroyed, I mean, that was why they’d done it. It wasn’t until we came here earlier today that I realised there was a chance that Dougie might have left the film here, intending to drop it off after he’d sorted out his car.’
‘But there’s nothing of Dougie Beaumont’s in the whole place.’ Vesta sounded mystified. ‘You said he’d moved out.’
‘He did. I didn’t expect to find Dougie’s clothes. All that had gone months ago. But it was odd that there wasn’t any mail for him. I mean, George clearly hadn’t been back – God knows where he was staying. But he had a pile of letters and there was nothing for Dougie. I figured someone had come in and picked up Dougie’s mail. Dougie, as it turned out. And if that was the case he might have stashed the film, mightn’t he? Where did he hide it, Miss Bevan?’
‘Upstairs. In the bathroom. In a locked box – a carriage clock. Clever really.’
‘Dougie was clever. I miss him.’
Mirabelle stared at the sitting-room shelves. Reuben Vinestock had been working his way through the stacks of books, hoping to find the film.
‘I found their cocaine,’ he said cheerfully, picking up a hardback copy of The Weekend Cricketer and opening it to reveal a recess that had been cut into the pages. ‘But that isn’t what I was looking for. Thanks for doing what you’ve done.’
‘Please, be careful,’ Mirabelle said. ‘They have arrested Michael Crowe and the Beaumont’s chauffeur.’
‘Arrested?’
‘Just now. Only round the corner. The Beaumont family business has been under surveillance for some time. I wasn’t the only person who realised they had been smuggling diamonds. And I realised rather late.’ Mirabelle indicated the table shrouded in the dark velvet cloth. ‘You helped, didn’t you? It’s how you got involved with them in the first place. Translating. Like you said – a clever Jew.’
Vinestock nodded. ‘Do you think the police will pick me up?’
‘I imagine they’ll want to question you. They know you have translated for Michael Crowe in the past. He always does the deals, doesn’t he?’
Vinestock nodded again.
‘Well, you need to be careful all round then. If there are people who were prepared to kill Dougie Beaumont to suppress these photographs, they’d happily kill you for the same reason, Reuben.’
‘I can’t stand by while this is happening. Not if I can do something about it. During the war almost all my family . . .’ His voice trailed.
Mirabelle touched his arm. ‘You have to stay away from the police for long enough to write the article and sell in the pictures. Then your best bet will be to leave the country. You understand that?’
Vinestock looked touched. ‘That will be the easy part. Well. Come on, then.’ He picked up his coat and hat from the chair. ‘I better to get on with it.’
‘You need to leave by the back. The window in the kitchen.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a long story. Please, trust me. Go that way. It’s safer.’
They helped him to open the sash and drop on to the laneway. ‘Don’t go home or to the Telegraph. Just do what you need to do,’ Mirabelle instructed before closing the window.
Reuben hovered for a moment, staring through the grubby glass as if he was asking a question. Then he checked over his shoulder and was on his way.
&nb
sp; ‘We should put back the books,’ Mirabelle said. ‘With our gloves on. At some point I’m sure the police will come and search for prints in here. We have to stay for a few minutes anyway, to give Reuben a head start.’
Vesta didn’t say anything. She followed Mirabelle into the sitting room and started restocking the shelves. When she came to The Weekend Cricketer she held it up.
‘What do you want me to do with this?’
‘Just pop it back.’ Mirabelle turned her attention to the last of the hardbacks – a set of three books about boxing – as Vesta slid the drugs into place and paused, leaning against the velvet-clad table as she perused the restored bookshelves.‘Thanks for not asking too many questions.’
Vesta shrugged. She wasn’t tearful now. ‘You’re right about it being Piccadilly Circus.’
Mirabelle’s face softened. ‘Different people have different concerns. Most of the Beaumont clan only care about money. They have been smuggling diamonds since Dougie met Michael Crowe all those years ago. They found a way out of their predicament. They found a way to be rich.’
‘And that’s why Mr Crowe got arrested? That’s what you said, didn’t you?’
‘It seems so unimportant compared to what Reuben Vinestock is about to attempt. But yes – Michael Crowe and his chauffeur, the pair of them. And Elrick Beaumont too.’
‘Does this mean the two murders aren’t linked, after all?’
‘Really,’ said Mirabelle, ‘I’m beginning to think that killing George Highton was just a terrible mistake. And that would make sense except for the money.’
‘Money?’
‘Yes. He said he had no money to continue playing backgammon. But he died with over a hundred pounds in his pocket. At first I thought he’d lied about it, but now I wonder. And that note, as well.’
‘The blackmail letter?’
‘Yes. If Highton didn’t have anything left, why blackmail him? I mean, there is no point in blackmailing somebody if they can’t pay. He’d fallen out with Dougie and by extension with the rest of the family, so why would someone target him? I’d have thought Dougie himself, or Crowe or even Elrick Beaumont would be a better bet. He had nothing but this place.’
Vesta cut in. ‘Do you want to go to the solicitor’s office? We could ask some questions.’
Mirabelle considered. ‘No. I think we need to go back to the Beaumonts’ house. Enid and her mother will be there. They might not have heard the news yet. But there’s one last thing we have to deal with before we go.’
Vesta followed Mirabelle’s line of sight as she glanced only momentarily out of the window to the front of the house.
‘Is there somebody out there?’
‘I imagine so.’ Mirabelle checked her watch and then reached for her handbag. ‘I’d be surprised if there wasn’t.’
Bleeding Heart Yard appeared deserted as they stepped on to the cobbles. Mirabelle strode confidently to a lock-up opposite George Highton’s front door. The opening was a fraction askew. She pushed it further. Inside was the man who had dropped off the photographs and another fellow that Mirabelle hadn’t seen before, though he must have been following them since they dropped in at the Blue Door Club.
‘Reuben Vinestock is long gone,’ Mirabelle announced. ‘You can tell Mr Golding neither Mrs Lewis nor I will have any more to do with this. We just gave Mr Vinestock a decent start, that’s all. And you might also tell Mr Golding that the Firm is on the wrong side in this matter. That’s my opinion.’
The men shuffled uncomfortably.
Mirabelle turned on her heel and stalked towards the gate that led on to Ely Place. ‘We can probably hail a cab on the main road.’
‘We’re never going to find out who killed Dougie Beaumont, are we?’ Vesta glanced behind. She was almost sure they were no longer being followed but she still felt uneasy.
Mirabelle didn’t answer. She didn’t even break her stride.
‘Are we in danger?’ Vesta checked.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But they’ll kill Vinestock if they can.’
‘They’ll try to get the photographs. They’ll only kill him if they have to. If he won’t give up.’
Vesta didn’t know what to say. It was clear that Reuben Vinestock was determined not to quit. And those men. She wanted to ask how Mirabelle knew about them, but she was certain Mirabelle would never tell. She cast her mind back to the office on Brills Lane with its detailed ledgers, easy certainties and cosy cups of tea. It seemed like a different world. No wonder Mirabelle sometimes seemed so separate from everyone else. At the corner, Mirabelle raised a hand and a hackney cab pulled to a halt at the kerb. As she stepped inside, Vesta realised she was relieved that they couldn’t discuss anything in the back seat. She decided she’d spend the journey thinking of what she would tell Charlie she’d been up to in London, because she definitely didn’t want to admit what was really going on. Not by a long shot.
Chapter 21
Real knowledge is to know the extent of one’s ignorance
The black Maria was parked outside when they got there. Mirabelle placed a gloved hand on the engine, which was still warm. McGregor must have left Mayhew to his interrogation and dispatched himself to Belgravia with the news of Michael Crowe’s arrest. Perhaps he wasn’t taking his eye entirely off the ball, after all. She rang the bell and the butler answered the door in short order.
‘Mrs Beaumont is indisposed,’ he said.
An English butler was a buffer between the family he worked for and the world – the post was an institution that stretched back for centuries. Mirabelle couldn’t help think that the Beaumont’s butler had the look of a man who would never say yes to something if he could say no instead.
‘I think Superintendent McGregor might be glad we have arrived,’ Mirabelle replied smoothly. ‘Do you think you could let him know that we are here?’
The man’s face did not betray any recognition of the name Mirabelle had dropped. ‘Please wait,’ he said.
Mirabelle smiled. The truth, of course, was quite the reverse. McGregor most likely was cross with her. She’d embarrassed him in front of Charles Mayhew. Then he’d told her to stay in the pub on Hatton Garden and she’d left at the first opportunity. Still, at least the butler would have to announce that she and Vesta had arrived and Mrs Beaumont might be glad of the company. She could not be having an easy day.
Mirabelle shifted. A buffer of warm air lingered on the doorstep from the long radiators that were concealed behind covers running the length of the Beaumont’s hallway. It was cold outside.
‘Well,’ said Vesta, ‘it’s terribly rude of him to leave us here, don’t you think?’
Mirabelle was about to remark that she was sure he wouldn’t be long when the door opened smartly and the butler reappeared. ‘Mrs Beaumont is engaged, I’m afraid. Would you like to leave a card, Miss Bevan?’
It was a long time since Mirabelle had carried calling cards. ‘No. Thank you.’
The door closed and Vesta let out an exasperated sigh. She stepped back on to the pavement and looked up at the house as if inspiration might come from one of the long windows that loomed above. Then her eyes lighted on something further up the street. ‘Mirabelle,’ she said, ‘they arrested the chauffeur, didn’t they?’
‘Yes.’ Mirabelle sounded distracted.
‘So—’ Vesta could hardly contain herself ‘—who’s driving the Rolls?’ She pointed along the road just as the long burgundy car turned into the lane.
Vesta led the way. She was the one who had visited the garage before, after all. Mirabelle noted that you could tell the girl was furious from the way she walked. She had a sudden vision of Vesta not bothering to ask any questions, just punching whoever it was she found in the garage. The photographs had clearly shocked her. It was difficult, she remembered, when you first realised what evil there was in the world. Not only a murderer – something domestic – but cold hard evil. There was a worse revelation that Vesta hadn’t come t
o yet – that evil like that required evil to take it on.
The Rolls-Royce was parked untidily outside the garage and they had to squeeze past it to get in.
‘Hello,’ Vesta called.
The sound of movement carried from the utility room next door and Kamari appeared in the connecting doorway. He squinted towards the women as if he couldn’t quite make them out. The light, after all, was low. Still, the pretence was affected. They were quite recognisable, the two of them.
‘Couldn’t you get the car in?’ Vesta said, pointedly. ‘It’s a tight turn.’
Kamari glared. He had given up smiling, it seemed, and from his expression it looked as if he was angry too, although Mirabelle wasn’t sure exactly what he was angry about. ‘You’re the one who came earlier right? The black girl? What is it? Why are you sniffing around, following me?’
To her credit, Vesta kept her voice smooth. ‘We’re trying to find out what’s going on,’ she said. ‘To help.’
The man’s eyes strayed in the direction of the main house. ‘Help,’ he said contemptuously. ‘We don’t need help. Not from two women. Go away. I have things to do.’
Vesta caught Mirabelle’s eye, as if she wasn’t sure what to say next. ‘Don’t you want to know who killed Dougie Beaumont?’ Mirabelle stepped in.
Kamari’s eyes widened. His voice lowered and, given what she had said, he stayed unnaturally still. ‘The authorities will find out who perpetrated this terrible crime,’ he said coldly. It seemed rather formal. Mirabelle let the silence lie. People gave themselves away every time, you just had to give them long enough. After four or five seconds, Kamari smirked, almost imperceptibly, but not quite, as if he had got away with something.
‘You know who killed him,’ she said. ‘You know why, as well, don’t you?’
The man’s tone switched to outrage. ‘How can you say that? As if I would know anything about Mr Beaumont’s death and say nothing of it.’
Operation Goodwood Page 25
