“I have, sir, yes.”
“And was it faulty in any way?”
“Absolutely not. It just hadn’t inflated.”
“And what could explain that, do you think?”
“Well, my theory would be that Mr. Beaumont had this blow to the back of his head from the boom—they come at you very hard, booms do—and he would be momentarily stunned.”
“But why should the boom be swinging about? I thought it was central to the control of the boat.”
“Of course it is. But Mr. Beaumont had clearly run into this storm, worse than he had anticipated; it’s a lot to handle on your own. You’ve only got to get out of control for a few seconds, you know. Everything goes haywire very quickly. So he’d have got hit on the head, fallen into what would have been pretty rough water, and it’s easy to imagine that he wouldn’t have been able to find the cord. Underwater, as it were.”
“Yes, I see. Have you heard of other instances of people not opening these life jackets?”
“It’s unusual. But it does happen, yes.”
“And why do you think people continue to use them?”
“As I said, the automatic variety can be cumbersome. And unreliable.”
“I see. Thank you, Mr. Phillips. I—”
The door of the court had opened and a clerk came in, spoke under his breath to Mr. Jeffries.
Mr. Jeffries followed him outside and shortly afterwards, and looking distinctly ruffled, reappeared with a note which he passed up to Dr. Holden. Dr. Holden read the note, nodded to Mr. Jeffries, who issued the now familiar exhortation to them all to rise. Which they did, and Dr. Holden left the bench and indeed the courtroom, having announced a short break. The whole thing was a bit like a courtroom drama on television—as Annabel whispered to Elizabeth.
Proceedings recommenced with some very tedious evidence on yachts and their seaworthiness, which lasted for about half an hour. How much more of this could she take? Elizabeth wondered. Did it really have to last so long? Surely—
“I would now like to hear from Mr. Maurice Crane,” Dr. Holden said, “of Jenkins and Jenkins, insurance brokers. Mr. Jeffries, could we have Mr. Crane’s statement, please, and Mr. Crane, would you please go into the witness box…”
Elizabeth heard Mr. Jeffries reading out Mr. Crane’s statement, that he was employed at Jenkins and Jenkins as an insurance executive, that Mr. Simon Beaumont had been one of his clients, how he had consulted him on the morning of 20 August about his insurance policies…she had the feeling something crucial had been said, but couldn’t think what it exactly was…
“So, Mr. Crane, you were quite possibly one of the last people to speak to Mr. Beaumont?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And he telephoned you in your office. Do clients often telephone you about your policies?”
“Yes, sir. If it’s something that requires an immediate answer.”
“Yes, I see. And Mr. Beaumont telephoned you to ask you what, exactly?”
“It was about…about his life policy.”
“His life policy?” said Dr. Holden. “And what exactly did he ask you, Mr. Crane?”
“He asked me if his life policy was—well, safe.”
“Safe? You mean was it still viable? That is what I could not ascertain from your statement.”
“Well, not exactly viable, no. He was concerned that in the event of his death, the policy might not benefit his wife and family. That it might go to Lloyd’s, as part of his estate.”
There was an absolute silence in the courtroom. Nobody moved, nobody looked at anyone else. Down in the street, Elizabeth could hear a police siren wailing, and a lot of cars hooting and a burglar alarm going off somewhere, and she thought that she would never be able to hear such things for the rest of her life without reliving that moment. That moment when she knew, for a fact, that Simon must have gone out deliberately that morning, to drown. To leave her forever and not tell her about it. He had told her he loved her, made love to her indeed, and then left her for all eternity. The bastard, the absolute bastard.
“And what did you tell him, Mr. Crane?”
“I told him that the policy was in trust for his wife. That Lloyd’s couldn’t touch it. Ever. That it was safe. As I said earlier.”
“I see. And was that the end of your conversation?”
“Yes, sir. He thanked me, he was a very courteous gentleman always, and then rang off.”
“And what time was this?”
“About half past ten, sir.”
“So, shortly before Mr. Beaumont arrived at the Sailing Club. Did he sound in any way distressed or anxious, Mr. Crane?”
“No, sir. I would say he sounded more excited than anything.”
“Excited! I think that was how Mr. Green described Mr. Beaumont’s mood as well. Thank you, Mr. Crane.” Dr. Holden paused. “That would have concluded the evidence. However, we have another witness, who has arrived unexpectedly, with some new facts about Mr. Beaumont’s last day. I have agreed that we should hear it.”
And into the court, mounting the steps to the box, came a blond woman, wearing what the initiated could see was a Chanel suit, and the uninitiated could just see was a very nice one, in pink tweed, the lapels in slightly lighter pink silk, the hemline just above the knee to show superb legs. She was tanned, and her long blond sun-streaked hair was held back loosely with a black ribbon, her shoes were brilliant pink, and extremely high-heeled, and as she looked round the court, her eyes finally settling on Elizabeth and the children, she gave the touch of a smile.
“Miss Parker Jones, thank you for coming today. Mr. Jeffries, perhaps you would read Miss Parker Jones’s statement.”
And so they learned that Felicity Parker Jones was a divorcée, that she lived in East Sussex, that she had spent the last four months sailing in Barbados, and that she had met Simon Beaumont several times at various regattas and sailing events. That she had actually sailed with him on several occasions; and that she had seen him on that fateful last morning and that they had met at the St. George Hotel, Arundel, to discuss a proposition. She had heard that he had drowned, but no more details, and had not realised that there was to be an inquest until she arrived back in England the evening before.
“So, Miss Parker Jones, you last saw Mr. Beaumont before that, on the twentieth of August. Where was that?”
“At the Caprice restaurant.”
So that was who it was, Elizabeth thought, but not Her, please don’t let this be Her, this overconfident, tough-looking woman.
“He was having lunch with someone and we talked briefly. He told me he was no longer employed and I said I could have a proposition for him. As I was leaving for Barbados the next day, we agreed we should talk sooner rather than later. He told me that he was going down to Chichester the following morning, and we arranged to meet at the St. George Hotel in Arundel, as I said in my statement.”
You bastard, Simon. You knew you were going to meet her, and you didn’t tell me. Just went off and didn’t tell me. Well, a lifelong habit dies hard.
“And what was Mr. Beaumont’s mood when you met him that morning, Miss Parker Jones? Was he cheerful, buoyant?”
“Very cheerful. And pretty buoyant, yes. Of course, I knew about the Lloyd’s thing, everyone at the Sailing Club did; it was so terrible when he had to sell the Lizzie, but of course he wasn’t the only one—lots of friends have gone under. Simon always seemed to me to be taking it so much better than most people; he was so—so positive about it, and—”
Keep going, Miss Parker Jones. This is better, much more helpful. I might even forgive you at this rate and him as well.
“Now Miss Parker Jones, this proposition. Would you like to enlarge on it?”
“Oh yes, of course. I’ve got two yachts, one I keep in Barbados—just a cheap little thing—and then another, much bigger one which I joint own with my father. He always does the Atlantic Rally in it.”
“The Atlantic Rally, could you tell us what that’
s about?”
“It’s a race from the Canaries to Saint Lucia.”
“I see. That’s quite a long way, I would think.”
“Yes. It can take anything from two weeks to a month. It’s a great race, any size of boat can enter, from twenty-seven to fifty-five feet. It’s very exciting, and huge fun. Anyway, we were looking for a fourth crew member. I asked Simon Beaumont if he’d like to join us.”
“I see. Tell us about this race, Miss Parker Jones. When does it take place?”
“In November.”
“And it’s a favourite, is it, in the sailing calendar?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And is it dangerous?”
“Well, it’s like all sailing—it can be. On the other hand, it sometimes isn’t dangerous at all. It’s all down to the weather.”
“I see. And what would most people’s reaction be, to being invited to crew in such a race?”
“Well, I think I could say that most people would be thrilled.”
“And was Mr. Beaumont thrilled?”
“Absolutely. He said it had given him a real motive for going on, getting the better of bloody Lloyd’s, all that sort of thing. Yes. But—”
“But?”
“Well, he said he must talk it over with his wife, obviously. That he would do so that night, and let me know.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Such a silence there was then: time itself seemed not just to stand still but to freeze.
Lucinda gripped Blue’s hand; Flora, Colin’s; Annabel, her mother’s. Fiona Broadhurst held her hands together as if in prayer; Catherine bit her lip so tightly that afterwards it was quite swollen. Every eye, every muscle of every face, was concentrated on Felicity Parker Jones.
“Well, then he said that one thing would be very important as the race was potentially dangerous, and that was his life policy. He would need to check it out, make sure that the money was safe for the family, that Lloyd’s couldn’t take it. He said his wife would obviously need to be reassured on that point. And he said he might as well do it straightaway, so that at least was out of the way…”
Half an hour later, Dr. Holden finished his summing up. And then he said, and he looked at Elizabeth and smiled, just very briefly, before he said, “On the evidence before me,” and then he paused, “I am satisfied that this death came about by misadventure…”
Elizabeth burst into tears.
Much, much later that evening, when Elizabeth had gone exhausted—but happily—to bed, and Toby had gone out with his friends and Tilly with hers, and the phone had finally stopped ringing, and Annabel was sitting in the kitchen, trying to concentrate on a very tedious old film, and wondering if she would ever feel properly happy again, there was a knock at the door. She thought it must be Tilly having forgotten her key as she so often did, and went to open it, mildly, no not mildly, very irritated.
“You really are a complete idiot,” she said, as she pulled it open.
“I know I am,” said a voice: speaking rather humbly. Only it wasn’t Tilly. It was Jamie. Jamie, looking slightly pale but very determined, in the light of the porch. “Do you think I could possibly come in?” he said. “I need to talk to you about something.”
And as she stood there, only half able to believe he wasn’t some figment of her imagination, he said, “Annabel, I’ve left Boston. I’ve left Cartwright and Partners. I told Dad if working for the firm meant living in some kind of fifties time warp, then it wasn’t for me. I can work here as a lawyer, for God’s sake. I love you and I want you to have a career if you want one, and I want to marry you. If you’ll still have me.”
And Annabel, amazed and moved beyond anything at this demonstration of courage and determination, and indeed of love, said she most certainly would and that yes, he had better come in.
“I told Dad all I wanted was to come to London to work for a year, so we could spend some time together, get our lives figured out, that there was no reason why not, the firm hardly depended on me, and that you had your career to consider as well. And of course he said your career should be taking care of me and our children, and I told him you felt that you could work and do that, and he said he didn’t want anyone in the family who felt that way. So I said I was going to come over and see you anyway, for a week or so, that we had to talk, and that was when he got really angry and said he didn’t want me back in the firm if I came at all.”
“But you did, just the same.”
“Yes, I did,” he said staunchly, and she thought that nobody who hadn’t spent time with the Cartwrights could ever know what courage that had required. And realised also how much he must love her.
“Oh Jamie,” she said, “I love you so, so much. And I’m sure your dad doesn’t mean it. And if he does, I can think of a dozen firms that would be thrilled to have you join them. Mummy knows lots of lawyers.”
“Really?”
“Really. Now let me tell you what happened at my dad’s inquest today. It was truly amazing…”
“Oh God,” he said. “I forgot, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just listen.”
Epilogue
MAY 1991
She made the most extraordinarily beautiful bride. Everyone said so. The blessing had been lovely, and as everyone also said, virtually indistinguishable from the marriage service proper: she had swept down the aisle in a cloud of white silk and pink roses and happiness, to join her fiancé who was so overwhelmed by this vision that he walked up to greet her.
There was an exceptionally large group of bridesmaids and page boys, including the bride’s nieces and nephews, and the children of friends, but none so excited and proud as Caroline Morgan who, when she heard she had been granted this great honour, dropped the glass of Ribena she was holding onto her grandmother’s spotless white carpet. Her mother reflected rather sadly that she had clearly inherited more of her own genes than the ones responsible for Caroline’s brown eyes and hair, and that her pretty hands—also an inheritance—were going to drop a great many more things before very long.
The chief bridesmaid, Miss Molly Rose Horton, wasn’t actually up to most of her duties, and certainly not capturing the heart of the best man, but she did succeed in looking absolutely ravishing—carried in the arms of Catherine Morgan, who had, after all, been present at her birth—beaming toothlessly on the congregation, wearing a dress made of the same material and as closely as possible in the same style as her mother’s and, her large blue eyes wide with wonderment, watched as her parents exchanged their vows.
The bride’s mother had smiled graciously at the congregation as she entered the church on the arm of her youngest son, and at her husband as he rejoined her after giving the bride away himself. There was a sharp social divide in the church; the bride’s side brayed, as Blue put it afterwards, while the groom’s whooped; the only visual difference was that the morning suits on the left were a lot older and shabbier than those on the right: and many of the whoopers were not in morning dress at all, but rather sharply cut suits.
Lucinda had carefully chosen hymns that everyone would know—“It’s like listening to Songs of Praise,” Mrs. Worthington hissed to her elder daughter—and Lucinda and Blue left the church smiling with such patent joy it made even Mr. Worthington smile back; Blue was carrying Molly Rose who by now had fallen so thoroughly into the spirit of the thing that she performed her latest trick, which was waving to all and sundry, greatly encouraged by all and sundry waving back.
Mr. Worthington found himself actually rather enjoying having Mrs. Horton on his arm; she was a pretty woman anyway, and dressed entirely in varying shades of pink, the skirt of her dress being short enough to reveal some very good legs; she put Mrs. Worthington, in her rather weary wedding navy, distinctly in the shade. Mrs. Worthington took Mr. Horton’s arm rather gingerly, as if it might suddenly sting her, but when he told her in a stage whisper that he thought Lucinda was a dead ringer for her mum (“May God forgive me,” he said, r
ecounting this later to Mrs. Horton), she inclined her head to him graciously and started smiling almost as broadly as Molly Rose.
The reception was at the Hortons’ new home, a large and impressive mansion in St. George’s Hill, Surrey; Lucinda had managed to steer Blue away from Chislehurst, but she could see that unless she made some concessions, she was going to find herself unmarried again, and that she should bid farewell to any ideas of Georgian or even Victorian houses in London.
The mansion, called Hedges on account of some splendidly tall and thick beech hedges which surrounded it, was one of St. George’s finest, boasting not only a swimming pool, a three-acre garden, and six bedrooms all with en suite bathrooms, but what the estate agents described as “a small ballroom.” This, extended by a large marquee, formed the reception area; where the bridal party stood in line to receive their guests. Of which there were two hundred and twenty.
Flora, accompanied by Colin, was greatly enjoying herself. She was wearing a silk dress in darkest blue, with an embroidered red silk coat over it, a red hat with a display of osprey feathers that would not have disgraced the Queen Mother, and some very high-heeled red boots.
Colin was wearing a morning suit that was not as new as he would have liked; he was all set to have one specially made for the wedding, but Flora had managed to persuade him against it.
“That one is so nice,” she said, pointing to the one hanging in his dressing room, to which he had summoned her, the better to discuss the matter. “Why do you want to get a new one?”
Colin said the old one was at least ten years old, and he really thought the occasion demanded something a bit more special, as he put it; he’d been to a wedding recently where one of the guests had had the lapels of his coat piped in a much lighter grey, to match his trousers.
Flora hoped he hadn’t noticed her shudder and told him that she really thought his old one was fine and that he should leave such refinements to the bridal party. Colin rather reluctantly agreed, but said that at least he would get a new top hat—which sounded perfectly safe except that he had had a dark red band put round it, to match his waistcoat.
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