An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  He picked up a sheaf of notes and started to read from it. “The deceased was identified as Simon Gerald Beaumont, aged forty-seven years. He was born on May the seventeenth, 1943, and he lived at number seventeen Bolton Place, London SW7. His body was found on the French coast, at Gravelines, near Calais, on August the twenty-sixth, where a postmortem was performed and the cause of death stated as drowning. A dry drowning—that is to say, one where the water reaches the top of the trachea and closes it, shortly after which the heart stops.

  “The deceased was identified initially in France by his passport, which had remained in the pocket of his trousers, and later by his widow, Mrs. Elizabeth Beaumont. His body was brought to England and taken to the mortuary at the Kensington and Fulham Hospital.

  “Until shortly before his death, Mr. Beaumont had been employed as a board director of Graburn and French, Merchant Bankers, and—”

  She was losing concentration already. It just didn’t seem relevant, was nothing to do with her. The body had nothing to do with Simon, or the deceased; it was all very odd. Mr. Jeffries was continuing to read from his statement; a report from toxicology stated that blood samples contained alcohol and analgesic, consistent with perhaps one or two glasses of wine and one or two paracetamol…insufficient to cause any loss of consciousness; there was indication of a blow to the back of the head, probably from the boom; the deceased had been wearing a life jacket but it was not inflated; there was no indication of foul play; the boat, a twenty-two-foot Seal, was found intact the following day adrift in the Channel. Mr. Beaumont had apparently been fit and well and in good spirits the day before his death.

  Dr. Holden leaned forward. “Thank you, Mr. Jeffries. Perhaps we can hear now from Mrs. Elizabeth Beaumont. Mr. Jeffries, would you read Mrs. Beaumont’s statement?”

  She listened as Mr. Jeffries told the court that she had identified Simon’s body and where, that a visit from the police had informed her of his death by drowning, that he had been in good spirits the day before…again she found it hard to concentrate.

  “And now, Mrs. Beaumont,” Dr. Holden said in his beautifully courteous voice, “would you please go to the witness box.”

  Suddenly it was all real again: real and terrifying. She felt sick, she felt panicky, her mouth dry, her head spinning. She stood up and stared at Dr. Holden, and couldn’t move.

  “Mrs. Beaumont are you all right?”

  For a long time, it seemed, in that courtroom there was silence: everyone looking at her. She could see the mass of faces, some kindly, some concerned, some shocked, some embarrassed. She realised that in spite of carefully dressing in a looser jacket, her pregnancy must be obvious: she was nearly five months now and without the taut stomach muscles of her twenties to help conceal it. She felt absurdly foolish, desperately alone; the full horror of her situation hit her suddenly. Here she was, alone in a courtroom, widowed, pregnant, giving evidence about her husband. Her late husband. Who had abandoned her, abandoned her to this.

  And then she saw Annabel looking up at her, standing up too, taking her hand, and Tilly also standing, putting her arm round her waist, and strength soared back into her.

  “Yes,” she said, with a quick smile at her two daughters. “Yes, I’m perfectly all right. Thank you.”

  She walked over to the witness box; Mr. Jeffries gave her some water. She sipped it gratefully, and then put her hand on the Bible.

  “I swear by Almighty God,” she began, and heard her own voice growing in confidence, and when she had finished, Dr. Holden smiled at her, and she felt as if she had just passed some tricky exam. Which she supposed, in a way, she had.

  “Would you like to sit down while you give your evidence, Mrs. Beaumont?” Dr. Holden said, and, “No,” she said, “no, I’m perfectly all right now, thank you.”

  “Very well. I see you live now at 14 Kensington Avenue, and you are employed by Hargreaves, Harris and Osborne, who are”—he paused, looked at his notes—“advertising agents.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “And what is your position there?”

  “I’m the managing director.”

  “I see.” He looked up, just slightly surprised, and then smiled at her briefly—and it made her feel better, that reaction, slightly less vulnerable somehow, that she could still impress—and then went back to his notes.

  “Now, you have moved from Bolton Place, I see. Could you tell us the reason for that?”

  “Yes. We were forced to sell our house. We lost a lot of money at Lloyd’s and—”

  “And was the house already on the market on August the twenty-first?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Was your husband distressed by that? By being forced to sell the family home?”

  “Of course. We both were.”

  “Thank you. Now, it was you who identified your late husband’s body?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “And you last saw him alive on the evening of August the twentieth. Perhaps you could tell us about that.”

  “I came home very late; Simon was half asleep. I had been working on a presentation.”

  “A presentation? Could you tell us what that is?”

  “It’s an advertising term. It describes work that you present to a client, work that will promote a product.”

  “I see. And did you have any kind of conversation that evening?”

  “Not really, no. We were both terribly tired. We went to sleep.” After making love; after making this baby. The last thing he did for me.

  “And did he tell you where he was going in the morning?”

  “No, he didn’t. But he left me a note, to say he had gone sailing. That he’d be back probably that same night, but quite late.”

  “You didn’t actually see him that morning?”

  “No.”

  “And did he often go sailing? During the week?”

  “Often—he loved it. He had a sailing boat of his own once, but he had had to sell it. And not usually during the week, no, but he had recently lost his job, he had been dismissed by the bank he had worked for, for twenty-five years, and—”

  “Yes, we will come to that. So it was not anything out of the ordinary that he went sailing?”

  “Not at all, no.”

  “And was he a competent sailor?”

  “Very competent. He had won many races, had many trophies.”

  “And had he been depressed during the days leading up to August the twentieth?”

  She hesitated. “Not exactly depressed. That wasn’t his style. But he was worried. He had lost a great deal of money at Lloyd’s, as I said. And he had lost his job. We were selling the house. It wasn’t a situation likely to make him very cheerful.”

  “Was he inclined to be depressed?”

  “Not at all. He met life head-on, always had; he was meeting this head-on—”

  “He wasn’t undergoing any treatment for anxiety or depression?”

  “No, of course not. As I said, he wasn’t inclined to be depressed.”

  “And were there other changes to your lifestyle recently?”

  “Well, yes. We had a house in Sussex, which we sold over a year ago.”

  “Would you describe your marriage as happy, Mrs. Beaumont? Forgive me for asking.”

  “Very happy,” said Elizabeth firmly. She felt suddenly acutely aware of her bump.

  “Thank you. And your own employment was perfectly stable, was it? There was no question of your losing your job?”

  “No, there wasn’t.”

  “You have quite a large family. Three children at public school…”

  “Only two when Simon died. Our older daughter had been working for a while.”

  “I see. Still, even two is expensive.”

  “Well yes. But I could pay the fees. He wasn’t worried about that.”

  “Now I see that your husband was involved in a lawsuit with Lloyd’s?”

  “He would have been, yes. It hadn’t begun.”
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br />   “That must have been expensive.”

  “Yes, indeed. We were planning to invest some of the proceeds of the house in it.”

  “So you were supportive of him in that, were you, Mrs. Beaumont?”

  “Yes. I felt at first it meant further risk, but I came to see that if we gave the money to Lloyd’s, they would continue to demand more, ad infinitum. Better to let them sue us, we thought.”

  “I see. Thank you, Mrs. Beaumont. You may sit down. I would now like to hear from Mr. Beaumont’s GP.”

  Dr. Rice’s evidence was swiftly over: Simon had been in excellent health, was exceptionally fit for his age, and had an extremely well-adjusted and optimistic outlook on life. He had never prescribed anything more for him than an occasional course of antibiotics, and certainly never any antidepressants or even sleeping pills. He had last seen him a year earlier for an annual checkup; he had passed it twenty-twenty.

  “Thank you, Dr. Rice. Mr. Martin Dudley, please.”

  Dudley was self-righteous even in his statement; on his questioning, more so. He hadn’t wanted to terminate Simon’s employment but had been forced to do it by the terms of his contract. Mr. Beaumont was about to be involved in a lawsuit against Lloyd’s and possibly to become bankrupt, and therefore could not remain as a director of the bank. Yes, Mr. Beaumont had taken the news well.

  “You make it sound as if he was grateful to you,” said Dr. Holden, rather briskly. “Were there no harsh words uttered at all? May I remind you that you are under oath, Mr. Dudley.”

  Elizabeth wanted to climb up onto the bench and hug him. Dudley looked deeply embarrassed. “As I recall, Mr. Beaumont did say he thought perhaps I could have tried to find a way round the problem. He was quite…quite offensive.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He…he called me a miserable, mean, cowardly bastard,” said Dudley with extreme reluctance.

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Well, he said he hoped I didn’t think this was going to finish him. I said of course not.”

  “Did that not occur to you, though?”

  “No. He was a very self-confident, competent person.”

  “I see. And then?”

  “And then he left the building. We never saw him again.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dudley. You may sit down.” He watched Dudley return to his place then said, “Well now, where do we go from here?” He looked out at the court, his handsome face thoughtful. I bet he wanted to be an actor, Elizabeth thought.

  “I think we should hear from the people who saw him in the two or three days before his death. Could we begin with Mrs. Lucinda Cowper.”

  They were all wonderful, Simon’s girls. They all said he had been amazingly cheerful, considering how extensive his worries were. He was fantastic, Lucinda said, “So brave and upbeat and good.”

  “Did you see a lot of Mr. Beaumont?” asked Dr. Holden. “I mean, was he a good friend of yours?”

  “Oh yes, terribly good. We had lunch sometimes, and before I had the baby—”

  “The baby?”

  “Yes, I’ve just had a baby. Well, about six weeks ago.”

  “I see. Now you are still married, Mrs. Cowper?”

  “Well, yes I am, but the baby…” God, she was making a hash of this. “I think I’d better start again,” she said. Her blue eyes were huge and earnest. “Sorry. I was married, to someone who had also lost a lot of money at Lloyd’s, that’s how I met Simon—Mr. Beaumont—but the father of my baby is…was…The father of my baby is that gentleman over there,” she pointed at Blue, who half stood up, as if ready to acknowledge any applause. “It was a rather difficult time, you can imagine, but whenever I was a bit down, I used to ring Simon for a chat, and he always cheered me up. He cheered us all up.”

  “And did Mrs. Beaumont know about these chats?” asked Dr. Holden. He was clearly very taken with Lucinda.

  “Yes, of course she did. We all had connections with Lloyd’s. And we met at Ascot, things like that.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Holden. He was clearly struggling now not to laugh.

  “Anyway, I felt a bit bad because Simon wanted to have lunch with me, the day before—the day before…Oh dear.” She stopped, wiped her eyes. “And I felt a bit bad because I couldn’t. But he said, ‘Let’s do it next week,’ and he said he’d ring me and fix it.”

  “But he didn’t set a date then?”

  “No. No, he didn’t.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cowper.”

  Catherine was next; she said he’d been really kind and good to her, he’d got her a job at the bank which had saved her bacon. Dr. Holden asked her to explain how at this point—“But when he was fired, they fired me too. He was very upset about that.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, he enjoyed being able to help people. It was important to him. And that day, the day before the accident, he came to see me with a big bunch of flowers, to say he was sorry.”

  “Sorry that you’d been fired?”

  “Yes.”

  “Although not by him?”

  “Well, no, but he felt responsible. He took it all on himself, rather.”

  There was a silence, while Dr. Holden made a note.

  Where was he, Debbie wondered in an agony of tension. Maybe he wasn’t coming at all, maybe he was already in New York and hadn’t got to come…God, this was awful. Horrible. Every time the door opened, her heart quite literally seemed to stop. God, oh God—

  “Could we hear now from Mrs. Deborah Fielding?” Well, at least she hadn’t got to stand there, giving evidence with him watching her. She’d be able to speak, to think; just the same, she was shaking violently as she put her hand on the Bible, swore the oath. She listened to her statement. A statement from someone very calm and competent. Who would have guessed that someone had been caught up in a kind of madness—reckless, lying, dangerous, adoring madness? Ready to jettison her husband, her family, everything she had? Who would think it, looking at her now, composed, careful, neatly dressed?

  “Mrs. Fielding.” The coroner smiled at her; he was quite handsome, she supposed, in a middle-aged sort of way. Not unlike Simon, actually. Not unlike the Simon she had so resolutely disliked until she came actually to love him for his kindness, his patience with her, his interest in what she did, his wise counsel. Not as she had loved Joel, of course, but loved him just the same. And he was gone…

  “Mrs. Fielding. Perhaps you can tell us exactly how you came to know Mr. Beaumont?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was faint now, faint with fright. The door was opening. She…no, it was all right, it was yet another carafe of water being passed to someone—Flora this time, thank God, thank God. “I met him through my mother-in-law,” she said, her voice firmer now. “I got very fond of him and he was very, very kind to me.”

  “In what way?”

  “He advised me on my career. He was imaginative and clever, and he loved helping people. He was sort of a family friend,” she added. “I used to see him when he went to Wales with his daughter, to stay with my mother-in-law. She was looking after a horse for them.”

  Oh, and he introduced me to my lover. I forgot to mention that. Who might walk through the door any minute now.

  “Yes, I see. And I believe you saw him very soon after he had been fired from the bank.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I offered to buy him a drink.”

  “You offered to buy him a drink? An interesting way round.”

  “Not at all. He’d bought me drinks from time to time, and I felt it was my turn.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, that was very generous of you. And how did you find Mr. Beaumont on that occasion?”

  “Well, he was slightly anxious, but full of plans. He was going to mount this lawsuit, you know, and—”

  “Indeed. Now, this was some time before he went on that fateful sail, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. A couple of weeks.”

  “And did you see him after that?”
r />   “I spoke to him several times. Including the day before he died.”

  “And how was he that day?”

  “Well…” she hesitated. “He was a bit subdued.”

  “Could you define subdued?”

  “He was less…less cheery than usual. But far from depressed.”

  “And what was the purpose of his phone call?”

  “Oh, just to have a chat. He was at a bit of a loose end. And to ask me to lunch.”

  “Really? And did you agree?”

  “I said I couldn’t, that day.” She’d said worse than that, she’d said she was too busy to talk. Suppose that had done it? Suppose it had been that, that had tipped the balance? “But he said another time, maybe next week. He said he’d be very much around.”

  “Right. Well, thank you, Mrs. Fielding. And now I see we have another Mrs. Fielding. Mrs. Flora Fielding.” He looked at Flora as she stood up, assisted by Colin. “Are you able to get up into the witness box, Mrs. Fielding?”

  “I most certainly am.”

  She heaved herself across the court on her crutches and was helped up into the box. She stood there looking magnificent in the blue velvet jacket that she’d worn the very first time she’d met Simon. She’d worn it deliberately, in his memory, the better not to let him down.

  “May I tell you before you ask me any questions,” she said, having taken the oath, “the last thing I said to Simon Beaumont was, did nothing ever get him down? And he said, ‘Not much.’”

  “The procedure of the court is for me to ask the questions, Mrs. Fielding,” Dr. Holden said briskly, “which you are required to answer. Please observe that.”

  “Very well.”

  “Now how was his mood that afternoon? When you had the lunch referred to in your statement.”

  “Well, he was very upset. Briefly,” she added hastily, “and more angry than anything.”

  “Why was that, do you think?”

  “He’d been involved in getting this lawsuit together. Against Lloyd’s. It was only in the planning stages, but he was trying to gather evidence…”