Eddie hadn’t said it, but the implication was that he also knew a good deal about his boss too. Somehow he managed to straddle two worlds – one respectable and the other one very far from it. He truly didn’t care what people thought. Few were that lucky.
Mirabelle struggled. ‘This isn’t a witch-hunt and it doesn’t have to become one. I’m only trying to understand what happened.’ She stuck to her guns. ‘I was rescued from my flat in the middle of the night. The place is a wreck because of the fire and I didn’t even know Dougie Beaumont had moved in. If I’m going to go back and live there, I want to know why he did it. And that involves George Highton and whatever he took from the scene.’
Reuben stared at her. ‘There are no ghosts, Miss Bevan,’ he said. ‘That’s something I know from personal experience. You can search for them as much as you like, you can try to reason things through for weeks and months and years, but there are no ghosts. There’s only the here and the now. That’s what we have to get on with. If you truly believe in live and let live you’ll go back to Brighton and leave George to deal with his grief.’
Reuben didn’t pause for more than a second before he swept inside the office. ‘Goodbye,’ he said over his shoulder and the door clicked closed.
Mirabelle looked around as if he might have dropped a clue on the damp paving stones. At least she felt closer to understanding. Dougie Beaumont, shining star of the racing circuit, had a secret and one that would not be welcome in his family home or his father’s London club or the back rooms at the palace of Westminster where political careers were made and broken. Things were often more complicated than they first appeared and this was no exception. She doubted if Beaumont’s mother was even aware that homosexual acts were commonplace, let alone that her son had indulged in them. If the boy had always tried to please his family, he would have kept his predilections secret, but might Elrick Beaumont be more worldly wise than his wife, Mirabelle wondered. Did he know? A homosexual son was a heavy burden for a man in his position.
On the other hand, Reuben said everyone in the office had commiserated with George Highton so maybe among the staff, the men’s shameful secret was simply accepted. And if the staff at the Daily Telegraph knew, who else was in on it? Was the affair between Beaumont and Highton accepted in the laissez-faire world of the French Riviera? There was a pleasing camaraderie in that. Perhaps the men had constructed a life where they could be honest and then, somehow, the real world had intruded and Beaumont hadn’t been able to take the shame.
At least in the light of what she had uncovered, the tragedy in the flat upstairs made more sense. And Reuben had a point – George Highton might have removed photographs or a notebook or private letters, something day-to-day that was incriminating. Over the years Mirabelle had known several men who had been put in prison for the crime of gross indecency. Dougie Beaumont might be dead but George Highton at least had the foresight to protect his lover’s memory, the Beaumont family and, for that matter, his own reputation. It might be a good thing he had removed whatever Dougie Beaumont kept in his top drawer.
Mirabelle set off westwards. The revelation had left her feeling quite cheery. Madame Vergisson’s salon was in Fitzrovia and, checking her watch, she calculated that she had time to walk there. It had been years since she’d had lingerie made to order, but when she had telephoned, Madame Vergisson remembered her immediately. In fact, she had sounded delighted. In her heyday, Mirabelle had regularly bought silk undergarments – brassieres, slips and smooth French knickers that buttoned at the waist. When clothes rationing ended that summer it had crossed her mind to come up to the salon but the trip had seemed too frivolous somehow. Well, she was here now and today she would buy a set in peach silk from the ready-to-wear rail, just to tide her over. Then she’d order some replacements for her ruined wardrobe and perhaps pick up something nice for Vesta, as a thank you.
Before Mirabelle turned off Fleet Street she cast a glance back at the Daily Telegraph. All in all, she thought, this was tidier than the mysteries she generally got caught up in. The revelation about Dougie Beaumont’s sexuality tied things up nicely. She decided that she’d tell McGregor about the boy’s proclivities when she got back to Brighton. She wouldn’t divulge any names but she was sure the superintendent would be pleased that she could so easily explain the open drawer in Beaumont’s bedroom and, for that matter, provide a potential reason for the suicide.
Two minutes from Fleet Street she passed a bombsite, now overgrown with weeds. She paused, struggling to recall what it used to be. The old London was fading from her memory. She no longer expected to see the shops that had been bombed when she passed familiar streets. In many places the sites were being redeveloped. That’s what seemed real now – the new buildings and the flats above them. As she hit her stride, Mirabelle smiled. It felt good to be in the big city again and on her way.
Chapter 7
There are no secrets that time does not reveal
Bill Turpin was about to grab his jacket and head home at half past five when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Seconds later there was a businesslike rap and Superintendent McGregor appeared in the doorway.
‘How do?’ Bill smiled. He hadn’t known McGregor when he was on the force. Bill’s job had been to look after the sniffer dogs and McGregor had only just arrived in Brighton around the time he was being dismissed. Besides, the superintendent had gone straight into criminal investigation at Bartholomew Square whereas Bill had always been based at the station on Wellington Road. Still there was always a bond between coppers past and present, and the men rubbed along.
‘She’s not in then?’ McGregor put out his hand and Bill shook it.
‘No, sir. Vesta said she’d gone up to London. Shopping.’ Bill raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘There’ll be a lot of shopping to be done, I expect.’
‘The building is in a hell of a state. I was down there today.’
‘It’s a crying shame. Dougie Beaumont was a great driver.’
‘I didn’t know you were a man for the racing circuit, Bill. Did you see him drive?’
Bill nodded. ‘Yeah, once or twice, just at club meetings. I heard Jaguar wanted him on the team. He had a hell of a season in France this summer, drove for them a couple of times and then he turned them down flat for next year’s club meetings. He had an idea of his own, I heard. But how could you do that – cool as a cucumber? Turn down the chance of driving for Jaguar, eh? The D-type is a proper masterpiece. He’d have ended up taking it – he’d have had to.’
McGregor removed his hat, withdrew a flask from his pocket and waved it in Bill’s direction.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Bill said, holding out a teacup.
McGregor poured a generous measure. ‘Busy?’ He nodded towards the papers on the other side of the desk.
‘It’s always busy in here.’
‘Do you miss the force?’
‘You’ve got to go forwards, don’t you? And I’ve landed on my feet. It’s a smashing place to work, this. Isn’t it, boy?’ Bill leaned over to pat Panther who was snoozing at his feet.
‘Well I’m glad. I like to think there’s someone with proper experience in here. I mean, I worry sometimes – two women on their own. Debt collection isn’t a natural business for the fairer sex . . .’
‘Well, I gotta say, Miss Bevan and Mrs Lewis aren’t your regular wallflowers. I’ve seen them both on the doorstep and they’re the match of any fella.’
‘But knowing there is an officer here, I mean, an ex-officer, it gives me confidence.’
‘Cheers.’ Bill lifted his cup and the men took a meditative sip in tandem. ‘The nights are closing in.’ He nodded in the direction of the window.
‘We’ve got a few weeks yet. I don’t mind it so much down here. At home it gets dark so early in the winter. I always feel the south coast’s got it easy.’
‘It’s Edinburgh you’re from, isn’t it?’
McGregor nodded. ‘I probably won’t go back.’
‘Northern Lights. Well, I’m sure Miss Bevan will be pleased to hear that.’ Bill had a twinkle in his eye. ‘Especially now. She’d never say, but she had a helluva shock. I mean, she needs you, doesn’t she?’
McGregor wasn’t so sure. It had shaken him to find Mirabelle in such a fragile state when he turned up at the scene of the fire. Over the years, he’d seen her in a myriad of difficult situations and her nerve had always held. When he’d realised the address of the emergency he’d been surprised at the effect it had had on him. His heart had raced. When he saw her lying on the pavement he felt overwhelming relief that the firemen had got her out of the building. As he put his hand on hers, her fingers had fluttered, trembling beneath his own. Then, afterwards, when he bundled her into the car to take her home she’d clearly been suffering from shock and he had found himself feeling surprisingly protective. At the Arundel, he’d helped her up the stairs and into bed and she’d fallen asleep immediately, like a child. ‘Sleep’s the best cure,’ Miss Brownlee had said when he’d told her that Mirabelle would be staying. Still, the idea that Mirabelle might need him remained an alien one.
‘We’ll see,’ he managed.
There was an awkward hiatus during which Bill finished his whisky. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m sad to see Dougie Beaumont go. It must be tough on the family.’
‘The mother was in hysterics,’ McGregor admitted. ‘It’s hardly surprising. Sometimes I think it’s like watching someone slipping over the edge of a cliff. They’re just hanging on by their fingernails when they get news like that. And we haven’t even told them the worst yet.’
‘Told them what?’
McGregor stood up and laid the cup back on the desktop. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have said. There have been developments and with you being an officer . . . It was a slip of the tongue.’
‘It’s all right, mate. You don’t have to tell me.’
McGregor was about to reply, but then the office door opened and Mirabelle swept in. Fresh-faced after a brisk walk down Queen’s Road from the railway station, she was carrying a couple of boxes wrapped in brown paper, which she laid on her desk.
‘You don’t have to tell Bill what?’ She smiled.
McGregor shifted. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said. ‘How was London? Did you get everything you needed?’
‘The rest will be sent on.’ Mirabelle removed her gloves and glanced at the mail on her desk. It appeared no one had had time to open the afternoon delivery. ‘Were you looking for me?’
‘Yes. I thought I’d walk you home. That is, if you’re finished for the day.’
Bill reached for his hat and coat. ‘Well, I’ll be off,’ he said, shaking McGregor’s hand.
‘I’ll lock up,’ Mirabelle offered and Bill disappeared out of the door, with Panther padding behind him. ‘What were you two talking about?’ Mirabelle turned back to McGregor. Men always made her curious. Even in the days when Big Ben McGuigan had run the firm, she knew the conversations that went on when she left the room were different from the ones that went on when she was in it.
‘I think Bill would like to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘About us.’
Mirabelle fumbled in her handbag. ‘That’s none of his business.’
McGregor stared at her frankly. ‘I’ll admit, I’m curious myself. Belle, last night I hardly slept. I mean with you in the house . . . the thought . . .’
‘I don’t want to make things awkward.’
‘No. That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to end up . . . behaving badly.’
Mirabelle’s glance did not waver. ‘Behaving badly doesn’t sound like you and it certainly doesn’t sound like me, Alan. I’m perfectly comfortable with the things we do. I wouldn’t do them otherwise.’
McGregor shifted on his feet. Mirabelle’s candour had disarmed him. Business as usual, he thought. As she met his gaze, he felt his heart quicken. He’d thought about her most of the night and all day. When he was working, he kept coming back to the danger she’d been in. He couldn’t help thinking that if the fire brigade had arrived only a few minutes later or if she hadn’t opened that window, Mirabelle might have died. The sum of it all was that he had decided that he wanted to propose. The truth was, he’d wanted to for a long time, but the moment never seemed right and Mirabelle was impossible to read. He had no idea what she might say. Somehow, given the way his day had turned, a proposal hardly seemed appropriate. But here he was, the steady gaze of her hazel eyes unequivocal.
‘The thing is, if this wasn’t a murder inquiry . . .’ he started.
‘When did it become a murder inquiry?’
McGregor’s expression froze. ‘Damn it,’ he cursed, and then immediately apologised for his ungentlemanly language. ‘Mirabelle. I’m sorry.’
‘Do you mean Dougie Beaumont was murdered?’
McGregor nodded. He noticed that by contrast it was easier to talk to Mirabelle about Dougie Beaumont’s death than it was to declare his feelings for her. Her gaze didn’t falter as she waited for him to explain. ‘The post-mortem turned it up,’ he said, giving in. ‘Actually I should have noticed at the scene, but I was so worried about you that I didn’t pay proper attention to the body. It was the mark around the neck.’
‘The welt?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was quite wide, wasn’t it?’ Mirabelle had been trying not to think about Dougie Beaumont’s body, his head to one side, eyes too still, as the medic stood over him, but now she pictured it again, it was obvious that the wide red mark on him was wrong somehow.
McGregor nodded. ‘The thing is, he’d been strangled first. Before he was strung up. He probably wasn’t quite dead when he was hung. The marks, well, when you’re hung the rope cuts into the skin high up and at an angle.’ McGregor demonstrated, pulling his finger across his throat and then upwards behind his ear. ‘But in this case, the earlier strangling left a straighter mark lower down. He was hung after that so the two marks joined together at the front of the body and diverged towards the back.’
Mirabelle sighed.
‘It was probably quick after he was on the rope. There was no smoke in his lungs. He was gone by the time the fire got going.’
‘But that turns up another question,’ Mirabelle reasoned. ‘If there was somebody else in the room when Beaumont was hung, he didn’t just kick over a stool that caught fire. Someone must have set the blaze deliberately. It was arson.’
McGregor cursed inwardly. She came to conclusions so quickly. He wished his officers were half as bright. ‘Mirabelle, I shouldn’t have said anything to you. Or to Bill – I seem to have my foot in my mouth this evening. We haven’t told the family yet. I’m going to speak to them tomorrow.’
‘So who do you think would have wanted to kill Dougie Beaumont?’
‘I don’t know. So far, he seems to have been a golden boy. He was rich and talented – his driving appears to have been in demand. We’re working on who he had beaten at the track over the summer. If there had been any bad feeling. There was a big pile-up at Le Mans – a lot of deaths – you must have read about it. But he wasn’t involved in that, apart from simply driving on the same track. We’re looking into a number of possibilities. I wondered if there may have been a vendetta of some kind. Car racing is highly competitive. Ruling things out, he doesn’t seem to have owed anyone money, in fact he was pretty flush by all accounts. The racing world is more upmarket than the gees, that’s for sure,’ McGregor said with a smile. In the past, both he and Mirabelle had undertaken investigations at Brighton’s racetrack where the seamy underside of the city found its stride. ‘Beaumont rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous – aristocracy and film stars. More than that, they seemed to have admired him. He was a talented young man with the world at his feet. Maybe someone took exception to that. Anyway, it’s a proper investigation now. His flat is a murder scene and, obviously, I’m keen to find out the contents of that drawer. It’s possible that whatever was i
n there may be the reason Beaumont was killed.’
Mirabelle paused, considering whether to be generous with her information. McGregor, after all, had only told her what he knew by mistake. She decided to relent. ‘Actually, I might be able to help you with that. I’m afraid Dougie Beaumont was . . .’ she picked her words carefully ‘. . . a homosexual.’
‘What do you mean?’
Mirabelle shrugged awkwardly. ‘What do you think I mean?’ She’d felt worldly wise in London talking to Reuben Vinestock about his friends’ sexual preferences, but things felt a lot more difficult with McGregor. This made no sense. Over the years McGregor had seen her in more than a few tricky situations. They’d risked a great deal for each other, and still it was tough to get this out. ‘You know. He was unusual. Sexually.’ She felt herself blush at the word, as if even saying it was going too far.
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ McGregor recovered himself. ‘Well, that puts a completely different complexion on the matter.’ His eyes were still as he thought it through.
‘I only found out about his . . . predilection today but I think that the material in Beaumont’s bedside cabinet was removed by one of his friends. A lover, I mean. A man. To protect Beaumont’s reputation, or his own reputation, or even the family. I don’t know what it was, but my guess is that the contents of the drawer were incriminating. Letters. Photos. Something of that nature. I don’t imagine that whatever it was was necessarily connected to the murder. It was removed the day afterwards.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘Actually, I do. I know who it was. I saw him there. In the flat. After the fire, on Sunday morning. He was grieving and he’d come to see where it had happened. At the time I thought he was just a friend, but it’s turned out to be more than that.’
McGregor eyed her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me last night?’
Operation Goodwood Page 7