Death Knocks Twice

by Robert Thorogood

  ‘And I tasted it as well – strictly in the line of duty of course – and it’s some seriously bad stuff, I can tell you. The Commissioner’s right. It’ll be giving the island a bad name.’

  Before Richard could decide what to do next, Camille’s computer ‘chimed’. She went over to her desk and saw that an email had just arrived.

  ‘Sir?’ she said. ‘The autopsy report on Freddie Beaumont has just come through.’

  ‘It has?’ Richard asked, all thoughts of the illegal rum seller vanishing as he went over to join Camille at her desk.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Camille said as she scrolled through the document, trying to pick out the salient details. ‘And it’s saying the victim was shot with two 9mm bullets that were fired by the same gun.’

  ‘The gun we found at the scene?’

  ‘That’s what it says here. The striation and firing pin marks on the bullets they removed from the victim’s body match the marks they were able to observe on the test rounds they fired from the Glock 19 we found at the scene.’

  ‘So it really was Lucy’s gun that was used to kill Freddie?’

  ‘It was. One of the bullets penetrated the victim’s wrist, causing severe fracturing to both the ulna and radius. The other bullet penetrated the victim’s chest in the left fourth intercostal space close to the sternum bone, penetrating the right ventricle of the heart.’

  ‘Which is pretty much the definition of a killing shot.’

  ‘But there’s something else you should see, because the report is also saying that the victim was suffering from Hepatocellular carcinoma, whatever that is.’

  ‘It’s cancer of the liver.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘So Freddie Beaumont had cancer of the liver when he died?’

  ‘The coroner writes that it was at quite an advanced stage.’

  Richard called over to Dwayne.

  ‘Dwayne, find out who Freddie’s doctor is, would you? It’s probably someone practising in Greenwich in London, but speak to the warden of the almshouse where he stayed, he should know who looked after Freddie.’

  ‘On it, Chief.’

  Richard’s desk phone started ringing, and he went over to answer it. To his surprise, he recognised the voice at once. It belonged to his nemesis, the Head of Airport Security. And to Richard’s surprise, the man told Richard that he’d finally managed to check through the immigration ledger, and he’d found a record of a ‘Freddie Beaumont’ clearing customs at the airport on the fifth of the month, nearly four weeks before. Even better than that, now that the Head of Security knew the day and the flight number for Freddie’s arrival, he’d been able to dig out the Immigration Landing Card that Freddie had filled in before he’d been allowed through customs.

  ‘You’ve got Freddie Beaumont’s Landing Card?’ Richard asked, excitedly.

  ‘It’s in front of me right now,’ the Head of Security said.

  Richard had always felt that the Saint-Marie Customs’ insistence that every visitor fill in a form declaring that they weren’t transporting any illegal plants, gold bullion, prohibited cheese, and so on, was a complete waste of time. After all, if someone really were illegally transporting any of the items on the prohibited list, they’d hardly be tricked into revealing their secret by a piece of paper.

  But, for once, the island’s somewhat old-fashioned approach to admin worked in Richard’s favour. Freddie had filled in his Landing Card perfectly – including the address of the hotel he was staying at while he was on Saint-Marie.

  Richard didn’t immediately recognise the hotel’s name, but he knew who would. So, thanking the Head of Security for finally coming through for him, Richard ended the call and excitedly showed the address to Dwayne and Camille.

  ‘This is apparently where Freddie Beaumont was staying,’ he said. ‘Do you know it?’

  Dwayne and Camille said that they knew the hotel well. It was a low-rent bed and breakfast at the other end of town. So Richard and Camille took the jeep over to the guest house and, once they’d woken the owner up, they were shown into a box room at the back of the dilapidated building.

  It was swelteringly hot in the tiny room, the paint on the walls was mouldy in places, and there was only one bare lightbulb in an old pendant hanging from the ceiling.

  As to why the owner hadn’t yet reported Freddie missing, he explained that Freddie had paid for his room in cash, in advance, so he didn’t much care whether the room was used or not. In fact, he said with a leering grin, as far as he was concerned, it was better that the room wasn’t used.

  Richard sent the owner back downstairs, and he and Camille started to search the room.

  They soon found an old green canvas bag that had a few changes of clothes in it. And in the rickety bedside table, Richard found two crisp fifty Euro notes, a scattering of loose change – including British coins – and Freddie’s passport. There was also a load of old grocery packaging in the plastic bin in the corner of the room. Maybe Freddie had spent each night at the hotel, and each day up at the plantation, Richard thought to himself.

  Camille was making a cursory search of the single bed when her hand felt something underneath the pillow. Lifting the pillow up, she revealed a small bundle of envelopes tied up with string.

  ‘Okay, sir, I think I’ve found something,’ she said, picking up the package and untying the string. Looking at the first envelope, she could see that the date stamp on the front was too faded to see, so she passed it to Richard while she looked at the contents of the other envelopes.

  Richard could tell from how dry the paper was that it was old, and the letter inside seemed to confirm this fact.

  The letter was dated 15th June 2011. It was written in a faded blue ink, and from the handwriting, Richard guessed that it had been written by a child.

  It started ‘Dear Freddie’.

  Scanning the letter, Richard could see that it was written by a young boy on the occasion of his fourteenth birthday at the end of his first year at Eton College. As Richard read about Oppidans and Collegers – of Dames and Beaks – he could feel this young person’s sense of abandonment burning through every line. Richard turned the page to see who’d written the letter and saw that it was signed ‘Matthew’, and in brackets it said ‘14 today!!!’.

  Richard did the maths in his head. Seeing as Matthew had only just left school that summer, that meant that he was eighteen years old now. And this letter suggested that he’d been in touch with Freddie five years ago.

  ‘Sir,’ Camille said, ‘there are five letters in total.’

  ‘One for each year Matthew was at Eton,’ Richard said, already understanding.

  ‘And they’re always sent on the same date, sir. The 15th of June.’

  ‘Matthew’s birthday. He wrote to his biological father on his birthday every year he was at secondary school.’

  ‘And Freddie kept every letter, sir. And brought them out to the Caribbean with him.’

  ‘Show me the most recent letter,’ Richard said. ‘What does it say?’

  Camille opened the envelope at the bottom of the pile, and Richard saw that it had been printed out on a laser printer.

  Manor House

  Eton School

  Windsor

  SL4 6DX

  Freddie Beaumont

  St. Alfege Almshouse

  Greenwich

  London SE10 9XE

  15th June

  Dear Freddie

  I’m writing this to you from my study as I head into my last week at Eton. And I know you don’t want to read this, but I thought I’d write to you anyway and let you know how my last year at school has gone.

  And the truth is that it seems to have passed like all the other years. Not to be too down on it. I mean, it’s still ‘the best school in the world’, and it’s not like I’m actively unhappy, but I still don’t get this place. The beaks keep telling us to be exceptional. To change the world. To use our privilege ‘for good’ (whatever that means). But what if y
ou’re not exceptional in any way? What if you’re not bright? Or not rich? Or not well-connected, or part of any of the smart sets? Where does it leave someone who’s just… average? Anyway, I’m sure I’ll work it out. All I know is, I can’t wait to get this tie off from around my neck. And then let the future begin!

  I’ll sign off the same way I do every year – although I feel I can do it with proper authority now that I’m actually eighteen years old. I still don’t know what ‘crimes’ you committed in the past, and, after all this time, I’m not sure I care. But if you ever want to get in touch, I’ll always be here.

  Always.

  Your son,

  Matthew

  Richard looked up from the letter.

  ‘He wrote this only two months ago.’

  ‘And in it,’ Camille said, pointing to the last paragraph on the page, ‘he asks Freddie to get in touch with him.’

  ‘And he never told us. Matthew never told us that he’s been in touch with his biological father for years.’

  ‘So why’s he kept that a secret?’

  ‘Indeed. And if he’s been lying to us about that, what else has he been lying to us about?’

  ‘I suggest we find out, sir.’

  ‘I agree. But let’s see precisely what’s in these letters first.’

  Richard turned back to the first letter and started reading it again. And as he did so, the church clock on the far side of the town marked the hour, striking its heavy bell three times.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Richard and Camille found Matthew sitting on the house’s veranda reading a travel guide to India.

  ‘Oh hello,’ Matthew said, looking up from his book.

  ‘Could we have a word?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Of course. How can I help?’

  Richard reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bundle of cellophane evidence bags that he handed to Matthew. Each see-through bag contained one of Matthew’s letters.

  ‘Where the hell did you get these?’ he asked.

  ‘Your biological father brought them to the Caribbean with him,’ Richard said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We found those letters in Freddie’s room. Under his pillow.’

  ‘He kept them?’ Matthew said in wonder.

  ‘He didn’t just keep them, he brought them with him to the island.’

  Matthew was briefly speechless.

  ‘Sorry,’ he eventually said, refocusing his attention on the Police. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock. Knowing that they meant something to him after all.’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Matthew said quietly, and then Richard saw the young man mentally pull himself together.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Can you confirm that you wrote these letters to Freddie Beaumont?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘And you wrote to him every year on your birthday?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘Well,’ Matthew said, considering how best to start his story. ‘When I arrived as a thirteen-year old at Eton, we were told we always had to do the “right thing”. So, at the end of that first year, I got it into my head that I should write to my biological father. You know, that while the rest of the family had written him off, the honourable thing to do would be to open up a line of communication with him. After all, he was my biological father.’

  ‘You felt it was your duty?’

  ‘That’s it exactly. So, every time Freddie ignored one of my letters, or sent back a cursory reply that just fobbed me off, I knew that a good Etonian would just stiffen his resolve and keep on plugging away. You don’t give up. You persevere.’

  ‘I see,’ Richard said. ‘So why did you lie to us?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t tell us you’d been in touch with Freddie over the last five years.’

  ‘I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you.’

  ‘But why not? You must have realised we’d want to know.’

  ‘I didn’t. I mean, I wrote to Freddie once a year on the occasion of my birthday. But that was it. I never met him. Or had any other contact with him. It was just those five letters. So when you told me that the person who’d died in our shower room was Freddie…? I was saddened, don’t get me wrong – I realised there’d never be any kind of reconciliation with him now – but I didn’t for one minute see what my letters to him could have to do with his death.’

  ‘Did you invite Freddie Beaumont to Saint-Marie?’

  ‘No. You can see for yourself. Seeing as you’ve got the letters I wrote to him. I never once asked him to come to the Caribbean.’

  ‘And why exactly should we believe you?’

  Matthew was nonplussed.

  ‘Because I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘But what’s to say you didn’t make any other contact with him? For example, did you ever phone him?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t have dared make any other contact with him. Not with how he replied to my letters.’

  ‘Why? How did he reply to you?’

  ‘I’ll show you his replies if you like. I’ve got them in my room upstairs.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Camille said. ‘We’d very much like to see whatever letters Freddie wrote to you.’

  As Matthew led Richard and Camille into the gloom of the main hall, Richard saw all of the family portraits and remembered how Lucy had said that she believed Freddie’s dangerous behaviour was inherited from one of the family’s badly-behaved ancestors. He also remembered that Tom had said that Matthew was the family historian who was trying to write a definitive history of the Beaumonts.

  ‘Just one moment,’ Richard said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Do you mind me asking? Lucy told us that Freddie was cut from the same genetic cloth as one of your ancestors.’

  Matthew looked at Richard, surprised. But then, Richard noticed, so did Camille.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Lucy said that there was some old relative… that’s it, he was called “Mad Jack”, I think. But she said that whatever madness drove him had also been inherited by your biological father.’

  ‘You want to know about “Mad Jack”?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘I do,’ Richard said.

  ‘And you want to know about him now?’ Camille asked her boss.

  Richard ignored his subordinate. As far as he was concerned, he had to try to understand every single aspect of the case, no matter how trivial it might seem. You could never pre-judge what was important or what wasn’t. Everything was important. Until proven otherwise, of course.

  ‘I do, Camille,’ Richard said before turning to face Matthew. ‘What can you tell us about him?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why did Lucy think that “Mad Jack” was like Freddie?’

  ‘Well, by all accounts he wasn’t interested in working or getting stuck in. He just wanted to drink and fight. I suppose that’s what Lucy means when she says Freddie was like him. Although, by all accounts, Jack was so much worse.’

  ‘He was?’

  Richard could see that Matthew was reluctant to tell the story. It clearly offended his sense of honour. The same honour, Richard thought to himself, that had perhaps made Matthew write to his biological father once a year for the past five years.

  ‘Alright,’ Matthew said with a sigh, realising that Richard wasn’t going to drop the subject. ‘Way back in the eighteenth century, when this place was first built, the plantation slaves lived in wooden dormitories further down the mountain. Jack was a frequent visitor, I’m ashamed to say, because he felt he had droit du seigneur over the women. Apparently, he’d get steaming drunk, go down to the dormitories, steal a woman, rape her, and then throw her back into the dormitory. He was a disgusting and depraved monster. But all this is as nothing compared to what he did on the fifth of February 1798.

  ‘According to the cour
t records we’ve got in the family archives, Jack was particularly drunk that night, and he went into a dormitory and tried to rape a young girl. She was only twelve years old. That’s the sort of person he was. He was pure evil. Unhinged. But the girl’s father – a man called Arnauld D’Or – attacked Jack. They got into a fight and Jack shot Arnauld dead. Just murdered him there and then. Jack then told the other slaves in the dormitory that if they spoke a word of what they’d just seen to anyone else, he’d make sure they all hanged. And then he staggered back up the mountain to this house.

  ‘But later on, Jack realised that there were now multiple witnesses who’d seen him kill Arnauld in cold blood. And, as far as we can tell, he returned to the dormitory in the middle of the night and set fire to it. The dormitory was dry as tinder, it went up in seconds, and everyone inside was burnt to death. He murdered them all. Just so they wouldn’t ever testify against him.’

  ‘That actually happened?’ Richard asked, amazed.

  Matthew had the good grace to favour Camille as he replied.

  ‘To our family’s eternal shame,’ he said. ‘It did.’

  ‘But if everyone died,’ Richard said, unable to stop his policeman’s mind from spotting a logical hole in a person’s testimony, ‘how do you know any of this?’

  ‘One man got away,’ Matthew said. ‘An old guy named Gabriel. And the next morning he walked all the way to the Governor’s House on foot, and told him that Jack Beaumont had shot Arnauld dead and then set fire to the dormitory, killing twenty-three others. When the authorities investigated, they found that one of the corpses in the burnt dormitory did indeed have a pistol bullet inside him. There was a sensation on the island. Jack was tried for the death of twenty-four people.’

  ‘And that’s why Lucy thinks that Freddie is like “Mad Jack”?’ Camille asked. ‘She thinks he’s a murderer?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Matthew said. ‘But Freddie’s unhinged. And unstable. I’m sure that’s all she means.’

  ‘I see,’ Richard said. ‘So what happened to “Mad Jack” when he was brought to trial?’

  ‘Just before the trial was due to start, Jack made sure that the pistol that he’d used to kill Arnauld was found in a wooden chest that belonged to his accuser, Gabriel. Jack also bribed other witnesses to say that they’d seen Gabriel shoot Arnauld dead with the pistol, and that it was Gabriel who later set fire to the dormitory. And before too long it was Gabriel who was hanging from a gibbet, killed by the Crown for a multiple murder he didn’t commit, while Jack remained scot-free. So yes. No matter what Freddie did in his lifetime, Lucy’s wrong when she says that he’s anything like Jack. The man was a murderer. Now, can we get on?’