‘Go on. He might help you feel better.’ Bill pulled the lead from his pocket and Panther’s tail picked up its pace. He dashed back to Bill’s desk to present himself for tethering. ‘He’ll be disappointed if you don’t.’
Mirabelle relented. Perhaps it would be comforting to have Panther at her heel. Just for today.
‘Thanks Bill,’ she said, reaching out to take the lead. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be long.’
Chapter 3
The true mystery of the world lies in what’s visible
Mirabelle had lived in her flat on the Lawns for almost eight years. Today, as she approached it, the sight of the building was horrifying. Panther sat at her heel patiently as she halted on the pavement outside. Vesta’s bike was leaning against the railings and Mirabelle laid a hand on it to steady herself. She took a moment to try to gather her thoughts. Ahead of her the white stucco was smeared with charcoal as if a modernist had sketched abstract shapes around the windows. Her bedroom window remained open and below it, a particularly thick shadow stained the plaster – a ghostly reminder of the smoke that had almost killed her. On the floors above, a couple of the windows were smashed as if the building had been punched in the face. It didn’t look or feel like home any more. Slowly, Mirabelle’s eyes fell to the water that pooled at the front door in a shallow grey puddle. Beyond it, the door was ajar, the lock hanging useless just as Bill had said. Feeling surprisingly apprehensive, she pushed it open. As she stepped into the hallway, the air smelled heavily of burnt wood peppered with a hint of dampness. Inside, the house was dark and cavernous as if the fire had hollowed it. She heard the slow drip of water falling from high above on to the flagstone paving of the hallway. Glancing upwards, she could see patches of charring on the handrail on the second floor where the flames had flickered as she had been carried to safety. That must be where the fire had come from, she thought. Somewhere up there and only yesterday. It seemed out of time now. Less than twenty-four hours before she had lived here but today this was an abandoned place.
Mirabelle gripped Panther’s lead and took the stairs upwards. The door to her flat was open too – the fireman had had to break it in in order to save her and now the lock hung useless from the splintered frame.
‘Hello,’ she called gently.
Picking up on Mirabelle’s nervousness, Panther let out a gruff bark. There was a squeal from inside and Vesta appeared in the hallway with a clipboard in her hand. Her nails were painted a bright cerise that shone in the gloom and she was wearing all black with a fashionable pink feather hat perched on her head. Mirabelle judged this outfit must have been laid out the night before in readiness for church.
‘Mirabelle!’ Vesta sounded concerned. ‘Are you sure you want to come in? The place is a bit of a mess.’
That was an understatement. As Mirabelle walked into the drawing room, the extent of the damage became apparent. Sodden newspapers had swollen into thick bricks over the floor and the walls were smeared with grit. In places, the soot obscured the window so thoroughly it was almost black and instead of the pure, bright light off the ocean that usually made the flat sparkle, strange, dim shadows cast over the furniture. Mirabelle peered into the bedroom. It had not fared any better than the drawing room. An eerie atmosphere leeched from the soot-damaged walls. It was as if the house had died, and yet she felt she belonged here. It was as if the old place wanted to claim her from beyond its grave. She ventured into her bedroom and opened the creaky wardrobe door. Her clothes were thick with the smell of burning. Everything felt soiled.
‘Don’t worry,’ Vesta fussed protectively. ‘The Prudential will have the whole place cleaned and redecorated inside and out. I’ll get on to them first thing tomorrow. It looks bad but it’s only smoke damage and clearing up the mess the firemen made. I don’t think the fire got into the roof.’
Utterly shocked, Mirabelle sank on to the end of the bed. Her lip quivered and she found she couldn’t control the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking and Panther’s lead dropped to the floor.
‘Now, now.’ Vesta put an arm around her. The girl smelled of amber, fragrant in contrast to the musty smell of burning that pervaded everything else. ‘You’ll see. It’ll be a new start.’
Mirabelle nodded but she didn’t stop crying. She felt terribly ashamed. These were only bits and pieces, after all. Foolish things – kitchen cupboards and old clothes. Upstairs, a man had died: that was far more important. Still, this was her life – the dresses she had bought in London before the war, the shoes and stockings she’d picked up after it, eking out her rations. The copies of the Argus that she’d never managed to fling out were destroyed, among them the one she’d read the day Jack died. She remembered sinking down then, just like this, and crying – realising that no one must ever know about the decade of their affair. She didn’t want a flat that was better than new. She wanted the old one, with all its memories.
‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to gasp. ‘It’s silly I know.’
Vesta hugged her. ‘It’s just the shock, I expect. Shall I make a cup of tea?’ She glanced doubtfully in the direction of the kitchen, where a filthy packet of Vim that had survived the fire was sitting ironically on the worktop.
‘Tea?’ Mirabelle laughed at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. This would be her third cup this morning and she hadn’t so much as taken a sip. ‘I’m not sure tea will really help.’ She sniffed. ‘I tell you what . . .’
Beside the sofa there was a decanter of whisky and she wasn’t shaking so much that she couldn’t pour herself a glass. She held up the musty cut crystal to offer Vesta a dram. Vesta shook her head. ‘It’s the only thing in the house that’s meant to taste smoky.’ Mirabelle knocked back the shot and felt the complex flavour expand over her palette in a comforting wave. ‘A new start,’ she said, as if she was trying out the idea.
Vesta nodded hopefully ‘Yes. I thought the walls might suit a pale blue patterned paper. And we can probably have the chairs and the sofa recovered. Hannington’s has some wonderful fabrics these days. It’ll clean up all right – you’ll see. And for the kitchen I wondered about daffodil yellow – it’s very fashionable. I’ll pop into the newsagent and pick up a copy of House Beautiful. Maybe we’ll get some ideas.’
Mirabelle squinted, trying to imagine the flat being clean again, never mind redecorated. Above the fireplace there was the snow scene Jack had bought in a gallery on Bond Street as a Christmas present for her in 1949. He’d loved snow scenes. Now the pristine landscape looked as if the thaw had set in and a sea of mud was reasserting itself. You couldn’t clean snow. Mirabelle shrugged sadly.
‘I don’t care if it smells of smoke, I just have to have my hat,’ she said, setting off for the hallway where she had left her navy pillbox the night before.
Vesta regarded the list she’d started. ‘I wondered about that headscarf,’ the girl said absent-mindedly as Panther woofed at Mirabelle’s back.
‘Shush,’ Mirabelle soothed the dog. But Panther would not be quietened and woofed again. He took a step towards the hall and stared plaintively at Mirabelle who was pinning the hat into place and gingerly sniffing her clutch handbag before deciding that it would have to do. Panther gave another gruff bark.
‘What is it?’ Mirabelle’s tone was offhand.
‘It must smell very odd to him,’ Vesta called out.
Mirabelle pushed the door of the flat open further. They often joked in the office that Panther should have been named Parker – Nosey Parker. When he was a tiny puppy the name had been suggested but Bill had said it was cruel. Still, it would have suited him. Mirabelle picked up the dog’s trailing lead and Panther brightened as he began to climb the stairs. Mirabelle lingered on the landing and he looked down at her as if to say, Can’t you see I’m trying to tell you something? With a shrug, she followed him upwards. The runner squelched beneath her feet. The fireman had drenched everything to douse the flames. Upstairs, the door to the flat lay open just as hers ha
d. Mirabelle hesitated. She hadn’t even known Mr Beaumont had moved into the building and it seemed disrespectful now to simply wander into the poor man’s home where he’d died, after all, only a few hours before. The dog strained on the lead.
‘No,’ said Mirabelle, pulling him back. Panther let out another airy bark and kept straining. ‘Well really.’
She was just about to turn and drag Panther back downstairs when she heard a movement inside. The dog looked up and kept pulling. Mirabelle relented. Curious, she knocked on the door but no one answered. The flat fell still again as if it was waiting for something. The places where people died often felt that way. Mirabelle had noticed it before.
‘Hello,’ she called.
Anyone could be in there. The doors had lain wide open all night. She advanced inside. Dougie Beaumont’s flat was laid out in the same way as her own but the ceilings were lower on this upper floor and the place had been decorated quite differently. Now, more burnt-out black than anything else, Mirabelle could just make out that the walls had been painted dark green in the hallway, opening on to a burgundy drawing room with what was left of two dark, leather sofas and a forest-green smoking chair upholstered in velvet. A couple of mahogany side tables had been toppled where the firemen had done their job and a silver cigarette box had fallen, scattering its contents across the floor where two dozen sodden Dunhills lay ruined by the water. Up here, the fabric of the place was more damaged. The fire had burned into the walls. One chair had been entirely charred and part of one sofa had been eaten away, as if the fire had torn it in a lopsided, ragged rage. The floorboards in the middle of the room were black and uneven where the flames had burned longest. This was where it had started, she realised. She walked in, recreating the scene. Dougie Beaumont stringing himself up, here in this room. Looking up, she shuddered to see a scrap of rope still fixed to the chandelier. That was where he must have done it. He’d kicked away a stool beneath him and it had fallen into the fire, embers spilling over the grate, setting the place alight.
Jerked out of this grisly realisation, Mirabelle jumped, hearing a footfall in the bedroom, and stepped back as a tall man emerged. She reckoned he was thirty perhaps, and well dressed in a grey coat and a homburg that he had not taken the trouble to remove. There was nothing immediately remarkable about the fellow – he looked like a hundred other men of his age, except his skin was pale and his eyes were ringed by heavy bags as if he hadn’t slept. Where they protruded from his coat cuffs, his hands looked very white and now and then his fingers twitched. He hovered on the threshold and wouldn’t meet her gaze.
‘I’m sorry,’ she started. ‘I heard movement. The dog.’
‘What are you doing here?’ the man snapped.
‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan. I live downstairs.’
‘Were you here last night?’
Mirabelle nodded.
‘Did you see anything?’
She shook her head. ‘Only outside. Afterwards. I saw him then. I’m sorry. Are you . . . an investigator?’ She held out her hand. A moment passed as the man decided whether to introduce himself. ‘Are you a relation?’ she encouraged him.
‘George Highton.’ His grip was firmer than she expected as he shook her hand. ‘Dougie and I weren’t family. Not really.’
‘But you knew Mr Beaumont?’ Mirabelle checked.
‘Didn’t you?’ Highton batted back.
‘No. I didn’t even know he had moved in,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I saw him win a race once. That’s all.’
Highton seemed to relent. ‘I came down as soon as I heard what happened. I’ve known Dougie since we were kids. I cover racing events for the Daily Telegraph, you see. I just wanted to see where it had happened. I can’t quite believe it – him gone like this and the place is nothing but a wreck.’
Mirabelle pulled back. ‘Mr Highton, I’m not sure you should be here.’
George Highton’s expression didn’t waver. ‘He was a wonderful driver. Lots of them are reckless – some to the point where it’s a death wish. There are plenty of ex-fighter pilots who can’t live without the adrenalin rush. But Dougie had just enough wildness coupled with control. He had a talent for driving in wet weather – I’ve never seen anyone able to hug the bends in the rain like he could. Racing cars is fun, Miss Bevan. We had a good time. I always thought if he went early it would be a crash . . . An accident.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘I’m sorry. When did you see him last?’
‘Ten days ago.’ Highton shifted on his feet as if he was suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I’ll miss him. He wasn’t the type. You know. To kill himself.’
‘I’m not sure there is a type.’
He met her eyes properly for the first time. ‘I best get on,’ he said and pushed past.
Mirabelle listened as his footsteps retreated down the stairs. She went to the window and squinted past the shards of smashed glass, watching as George Highton emerged, turned left along the front and disappeared round the corner. Perhaps he had parked on one of the streets that led up to the main road. It was strange he’d come, she thought – all the way from London too, and so soon after Beaumont had died. But then Mirabelle knew that pull. During the war, acquaintances and friends had been killed on a daily basis. The dead had a kind of glamour. You wanted to remind yourself of them. You wanted to make a connection to prove that their lives meant something and that, by association, your life meant something too. She’d visited the site of a bomb on more than one occasion – just to feel close to a friend who’d died there. She decided George Highton wasn’t just rubbernecking or, for that matter, on the prowl for a story, although the suicide would probably make the papers. Still, there was a gravity about the man that bespoke a real connection. If Highton seemed uncomfortable it was no wonder – the poor fellow was in shock.
Mirabelle turned back into the flat, thinking how lucky she had been. How lucky she was. Downstairs, Vesta was busy reassembling her life. Bill had come in especially and McGregor had been immensely kind. On the floor above, it seemed Dougie Beaumont had only a colleague to mourn him. Where was his mother – the woman in the pink dress? Several silver picture frames had toppled off the wrought-iron mantelpiece and Mirabelle leaned down to pick them up. Damaged by the flames, the glass smeared with soot, she could still make out three: two that contained the long dark motor car with the number twenty-six on its side – the one Beaumont had driven at Goodwood – and in the other frame, behind smashed glass, was what must be a family portrait, taken some years ago judging by the clothes, perhaps in the early days of the war. Mirabelle squinted. Dougie Beaumont looked incredibly young – a schoolboy in fact – and behind him there was the same woman – his mother – smiling, and, beside her, a man in naval uniform whose face seemed oddly familiar, but, for the life of her, Mirabelle couldn’t quite place him.
‘Beaumont . . .’ she murmured. And then it came to her. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she whispered. ‘Of course.’ The man was none other than the Member of Parliament: Elrick Beaumont. She’d heard him speak at the hustings during the general election earlier that year. He’d been impressive – singing the praises of Eden’s leadership – a fresh start for the country under the Conservative party. In the photograph, Elrick Beaumont looked far younger than he had at the debate. His hair was slicked back and he wore a thin moustache that no longer graced his upper lip. But he was recognisable. He squared up to the camera just like he had squared up to the crowd. She felt a sudden wave of sympathy. Losing a son must be terrible under any circumstances, but losing a son like this was especially dreadful. They must be beside themselves. She laid the photograph carefully on the mantelpiece and made a sound, which she imagined might bring Panther to heel. ‘Come on, boy,’ she said as she led him back into the hallway.
In the first-floor flat, Vesta was pulling on her coat amid the chaos. Mirabelle smiled. Since she had married Charlie the previous year, Mirabelle had noticed small changes in her frie
nd. Little by little, Vesta was growing up. She had acquired a bicycle to take her in and out from the new house and as a result she had slimmed down. At the same time, though she had always had an air of efficiency, Vesta’s style had changed. Today she sported patent leather heels that set off her well-formed calves and her skirt was well fitted. Mirabelle thought that would be troublesome on the bike but there was no denying that it looked marvellous. In the past the girl’s outfits had often seemed flung together but marriage had brought with it a measure of sartorial maturity. These days Vesta closed her coat properly and checked her hat was in place. Mirabelle eyed the clipboard – the paper attached to it was covered in Vesta’s untidy scribbles – a long list that wavered this way and that like a shaky tower that might tumble. She hadn’t become tidier in all things. ‘I hope Bill found a locksmith,’ Vesta said. ‘That’s the first thing.’
Mirabelle glanced around the gritty, grey walls as Vesta took her by the arm and guided her downstairs.
‘I just don’t understand why.’ The girl’s eyes followed Mirabelle’s up to the second floor in a kind of salute as they left the building. ‘Why would somebody do that? Someone with so much going for them?’
Mirabelle didn’t reply. Outside, a blustery autumn breeze seemed to breathe life into the wide blue sky. Brighton felt alive, the white stucco buildings reaching upwards as if they were fitness fanatics. It was difficult to believe that this burnt-out shell would ever rejoin them. Panther fell into step as Vesta wheeled her bike along the pavement and they made their way back towards town.
Chapter 4
It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see
That evening the boarding house was almost full. Before dinner, the guests took sherry in a sitting room overlooking the small back garden. The room was decorated in a mass of shady greens as if it might be part of the planting outside. With the autumn chill setting in, Miss Brownlee had laid a fire in the grate. The dancing flames were reflected in the glass of the French doors. Outside Mirabelle could make out a sturdy wooden table and chairs where drinks were no doubt served before dinner during the summer months.
Operation Goodwood Page 3