A tang of vinegar hung in the air as she mounted the stairs so it was no surprise when she opened the office door to find Vesta at her desk, a packet of chips wrapped in newspaper in front of her. Sitting at Bill’s desk, Vesta’s husband, Charlie, was similarly supplied. He grinned as he licked his fingers and got to his feet.
‘Mirabelle!’
‘See, Vesta, she’s fine.’
Mirabelle turned to Vesta. ‘What does he mean? Is anything the matter? I thought you would have gone home by now.’
‘I was worried about you,’ Vesta retorted.
Charlie moved to leave. ‘I’ll be in the pub,’ he said, gathering his packet of chips into a manageable bundle with one hand and reaching for his hat with the other. Mirabelle watched him go as Vesta pushed the packet in front of her to one side.
‘You didn’t turn up,’ she said. ‘I thought something awful must have happened.’
‘Didn’t turn up?’
‘At the hotel in Bognor. Superintendent McGregor rang and left a message. I thought you would want it, so I rang ahead. Where on earth have you been, Mirabelle?’
It occurred to Mirabelle that of late she seemed to be making many of the people around her angry or suspicious. Upsetting Vesta, however, was worse than upsetting anybody else. ‘I’m sorry,’ Mirabelle said. ‘It’s Dougie Beaumont.’
Vesta bit her lip and crossed her arms. ‘I figured,’ she replied. ‘I know you and an unsolved murder. I just don’t understand why you’re being so secretive.’
‘I don’t think . . .’
Vesta cast her eyes to the ceiling at the very murmur of denial. ‘Mirabelle, you can’t just disappear like that. You gave me the fright of my life.’
Mirabelle sank into the seat opposite her friend. ‘I think I am in shock. I know I do this all the time. McGregor said the same. But I’m not quite recovered from the fire. I keep thinking about it. At night I can’t sleep until I’ve figured out an escape route. In case it happens again.’
Vesta relented. She squeezed Mirabelle’s hand and then offered her chips. They smelled delicious. Mirabelle removed a glove, picked a plump one from the packet and popped it into her mouth. ‘Wow,’ said Vesta. ‘You don’t normally eat anything on the hoof.’
‘I moved out of McGregor’s place into a B&B just off the front,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘I don’t expect the landlady there cooks much. Breakfast was dreadful.’
‘Ah.’ Vesta’s eyes twinkled. ‘Well that makes sense of the message.’
‘Message?’
‘From McGregor.’ She scrambled for her notepad. ‘He says he would like to meet you for dinner. He said Miss Brownlee makes the best kidney pie he’s ever tasted and he invites you to join his table if you wouldn’t mind coming home. Home,’ the girl repeated with an expectant look.
Mirabelle gazed at the chips. They seemed far less complicated than kidney pie at the Arundel. Her gaze shifted to a sheaf of coloured papers beside her in-tray. Vesta was easily distracted.
‘Oh. White for the kitchen with new tiles in pale turquoise.’ The enthusiasm was evident in her voice. ‘Dove grey for your bedroom and I thought light blue for the drawing room. And something like this pale stone colour in the hallway. Oh, and the bathroom – peach, I thought. We still need to pick fabrics, but it’s a start.’
‘Thank you. This is just what I’d like, Vesta.’
Vesta grinned and returned to attacking her chips with gusto. Mirabelle joined in less enthusiastically, picking another one from the newspaper and sitting back to savour it. Vesta knew her well, from her likely choices of what to eat to her preference for pared-down simplicity at home. In the house that Vesta and Charlie had bought, the girl had chosen pillar-box red wallpaper and a primrose bedroom in which Mirabelle could not imagine settling down to sleep. At the house-warming, the young couple’s friends had filled the place with music and Vesta’s parents had come down from London. The family had managed an uneasy rapprochement after almost falling out over Vesta’s insistence on an unconventional wedding but the house-warming party had set matters right. Immediately afterwards, Vesta had adopted two cats – a ginger kitten called Frisky and a tabby that Charlie had christened Mr Cool. Everything about Vesta was lavish, generous and welcoming. By contrast Mirabelle knew her flat would feel austere.
‘At least you’re in time for dinner,’ Vesta pointed out, checking the office clock above Mirabelle’s head. ‘Kidney pie, eh?’
Mirabelle thought of Miss Brownlee’s mushroom soup. She certainly had an appetite – the only thing she’d eaten today was the paste sandwich at Dr Coughlan’s. ‘We’ll see,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if McGregor didn’t intend, you know . . .’
‘Intend what?’
Vesta gestured towards her ring finger. ‘You know. He’s been smitten with you since you first met him. He’s always sniffing about. I see how he looks at you. You must have noticed.’
Mirabelle felt her lips purse. ‘I don’t think so. The last time I spoke to Superintendent McGregor he was anything but smitten, believe me.’
‘Lovers’ tiff,’ Vesta pronounced like the old married lady she now considered herself to be. ‘Charlie and I used to have tiffs all the time. Promise me you won’t go off like that again.’
Mirabelle nodded.
‘And you have to fess up. Where did you get to?’
‘Chichester. Dougie Beaumont is going to be buried there. At the cathedral. It’s lovely, actually.’
‘Did you track down the murderer?’
‘No. I met Beaumont’s sister though. His car was being flown in from France and she went down to pick it up.’
‘Flown in? How glamorous!’
‘I expect, quite apart from anything else, they want to settle the estate.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, death duties. People like to get those things over and done with – burial, probate . . . I wonder if he left a will.’
‘I can find that out tomorrow. And that reminds me.’ Vesta held out her hand as if she was waiting for something. ‘What?’
‘Bognor, of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll need the paperwork if Bill’s going to try to get the money out of that hotel.’
Mirabelle took the sheet from her bag and handed it over. Vesta was a marvel – she never forgot anything.
*
Loitering on the pavement outside the Arundel, Mirabelle could see that the guests hadn’t gone in to dinner yet. They would be having sherry in the sitting room. She checked her wristwatch. It was two or three minutes before seven and it was nice to feel that somewhere things were running to a regular rhythm. Perhaps that was what having a home felt like. It had been some day. Slowly, Mirabelle let herself in. A low hum of conversation floated into the hallway, punctuated by a woman’s high-pitched laughter. Suddenly, she felt quite exhausted and considered turning tail but then Miss Brownlee appeared from the kitchen with the stick she used to beat the dinner gong.
‘Oh hello, Miss Bevan,’ she said. ‘May I take your coat?’
Mirabelle allowed herself to be fussed over. She slipped her arms out of the sleeves and handed it over. Miss Brownlee did not mention her absence from the Arundel the night before, but then, Mirabelle thought, she must be accustomed to people coming and going. Betty sounded the gong smartly and retreated before the door of the sitting room opened and the guests began to file through. The mother and daughter were still in residence, Mirabelle noted. Today the girl was talking enthusiastically about the South Downs. They nodded their hellos and Mirabelle fell into step and took her seat in the dining room at the table by the window. She felt her temper rise as the last of the guests took their seats. If Superintendent McGregor couldn’t turn up on time when he had invited her to dinner, then she might as well go back to the other place. This line of thought ceased abruptly as Miss Brownlee served the first course – a rough pâté with a dollop of onion marmalade and a hot bread roll. It smelled divine and, giving in to her hunger,
Mirabelle picked up her cutlery just as Alan McGregor dived into place.
‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I got held up. It’s delicious, that, isn’t it?’
Mirabelle nodded as she let the first piece melt in her mouth. McGregor tore a patch of bread from his roll and slathered it in pâté. The silence was awkward. It was the superintendent who finally broke it. ‘It’s difficult to pick a favourite day of the week to have dinner at the Arundel, but this is definitely a contender,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Betty does a wonderful job.’
‘Is the menu always the same week in, week out?’
‘More or less. Now and then there’s a substitution.’
‘Miss Brownlee said she was a lady’s maid.’
‘Yes. Somewhere quite fancy – a country house in Derbyshire, I think. But Alfie got her involved in one of his schemes and she was fired. She became a kitchen maid after that, somewhere more downmarket in Brighton. It must have been quite a comedown but it has left her with a certain set of skills. Occasionally, she makes scones. Only now and then. High days and holidays, but they are delicious.’
‘I expect that now rationing is over she’ll be able to get any ingredients she wants.’
McGregor grinned. ‘She’s always got whatever she wanted and I just turn a blind eye to where it comes from. Many of the women in my life appear to require the same. Mirabelle, I’m sorry. You were right. I tried to bully you. I was wrong.’
Mirabelle pushed her plate to one side. ‘Thanks. I don’t think it’s you, to be honest. I haven’t been myself the last couple of days.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The fire was a terrible shock. I was unwell today. I fainted, actually.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I mean, I got myself home.’
‘Where did you stay last night?’
‘I booked into a bed and breakfast place not far from the Lawns.’
McGregor looked over his shoulder. ‘Don’t let Miss Brownlee hear you say that!’
Mirabelle couldn’t help but smile.
‘I was up half the night worrying,’ he admitted. ‘I was going to try to find you but I decided against it. I thought it might seem even more high-handed. I hoped you would come home. Here, I mean.’
‘Did you get any further with the Beaumont case?’
McGregor wagged his finger across the table. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to talk about that. I’ve learned my lesson.’
Miss Brownlee cleared the plates silently and the kidney pie was served. It was just as delicious as McGregor had promised. After, she produced baked apples stuffed with moist plump raisins and served with a generous dollop of thick vanilla custard.
‘It’s like being a kid again, isn’t it?’ McGregor enthused.
Mirabelle recalled the food of her childhood. The cook her parents employed in their London house would never have served baked apples or meat pie for dinner. She recalled a variety of pâtés and terrines, thin soup and a good deal of roasted fowl with over-boiled vegetables. Perhaps she might be keener on food in general if Betty Brownlee had been employed by the Bevans.
‘You can’t beat home cooking.’ McGregor sat back in his seat. ‘Do you fancy a stroll? It’s a nice evening.’
‘I’m tired, I’m afraid. I expect a proper night’s sleep would do me no end of good.’
McGregor nodded. ‘Of course.’
Mirabelle got up from the table and he followed her through to the hallway. She loitered at the foot of the stairs.
‘Well, good night,’ he said.
‘Good night.’
Mirabelle caught Betty Brownlee’s attention. ‘My coat, please. That was an absolutely delicious meal, Miss Brownlee.’
McGregor looked taken aback as Betty helped Mirabelle slip into the green tweed. ‘But . . .’ he managed to get out. Mirabelle pulled on a glove and he caught her by the arm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going back to the other place. I’m booked in.’
McGregor’s expression darkened. ‘You’re trying to teach me a lesson. That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve apologised, Mirabelle. Can’t we go back to normal? Please.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Mirabelle noticed the girl who had been excited about the scenery of the South Downs hovering in the doorway to the sitting room, pretending not to notice the unfolding drama. McGregor saw her too. He pulled Mirabelle towards the threshold of the dining room where they couldn’t be seen.
‘It was a delicious dinner,’ Mirabelle said, keeping her voice low, ‘and I’m grateful for your help. But I can’t stay here, Alan. It’s far better than the place I’ve chosen in every way. It’s nothing to do with that. It’s only . . .’
‘It’s only me. Is that what you’re trying to say?’
Mirabelle suddenly realised that she couldn’t breathe very deeply. ‘I don’t want to lead you on. I know we’ve spent a lot of time together. I enjoy your company but . . .’
McGregor’s eyes were limpid and trusting. She didn’t want to hurt him. After all, there were times she had relied on him for her life. There were times when she’d kissed him and the rest of the world had disappeared. But he just wasn’t Jack. He never would be. And, unlike Vesta, Mirabelle couldn’t see herself living with McGregor. Not in a bed and breakfast or anywhere else.
‘It’s just not appropriate,’ she managed to get out, trying not to sound snobbish. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Would you like me to walk you back? See you home, I mean?’
‘No. I’ll be fine. You go up and read George Orwell.’
He stared blankly.
‘Go on,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll see you soon, I promise. You need to get this Beaumont case out of the way.’
Chapter 11
Truth is the torch that gleams through the fog
The renovations at the Lawns were well underway and Mirabelle walked along the front the next morning to inspect them. The cleaning company Mr Timpson commissioned had arrived promptly the day after his visit. Three operatives – all grey-haired men wearing overalls the colour of brown paper – worked silently, so accustomed to scenes of personal disaster that they seemed to simply know what to do without any instruction. At first, Vesta had fussed over them like a tiny, frantic bird tapping repeatedly at a window, but as it became apparent that slow and steady they could not be either diverted or aided, she finally relented and let them get on.
Over the two days the men had been in Mirabelle’s flat, the cupboards had been emptied, the furniture sent for specialist attention and the contents of the wardrobe dispatched to a laundry in London that was renowned for its ability to remove the smell of smoke from almost any fabric. It was yet to be established whether some items of clothing could be renovated at all. As to the rest, Vesta had made a list of the pieces it was impossible to clean. These included three shelves of Penguin paperbacks that lined the hallway and the thin silk lampshades that Mirabelle had chosen for the side lamps when she first moved in. It had been agreed that most of the soft furnishings would need to be re-covered. Some of the damaged plasterwork had been chipped away and between the water from the fire engine and the grit that was now trodden into them, the carpets were declared ruined.
Outside, a team of workmen was constructing scaffolding across the façade so that the smoke damage to the stucco could be cleaned and repainted. The electrician had submitted his report about the state of the wiring, some of which would need to be replaced. All in all, the house no longer felt abandoned though, if anything, it probably looked worse than it had directly after the fire. The rooms were stripped, wires hung from the walls and tea chests and cardboard boxes were piled haphazardly, waiting to be loaded into the van.
Mirabelle knew it would be weeks before the flat could be inhabited again but, despite Vesta’s efficiency, she still felt drawn to see for herself. She tried to visualise how the old place would look when it was cleaned up. Even if it was pristine, would the memory of the fire make it impossible
for her to settle down? If she’d learned anything the day before it was that it wasn’t only the house that needed to recover. Now she loitered in the main hallway unsure if there was anything useful that she could do. It would appear that the Beaumont family hadn’t thought to start work on Dougie’s flat. The lock upstairs had not even been repaired, and while the two lower floors were at least started on the process of recovery, the upper one remained blackened and deserted, pressing down heavily on the rest of the building like a thick, filthy London fog. The sound of scaffolding being bolted together outside punctuated the morning air as Mirabelle stared upwards, hesitating only a second or two before deciding to have another look at the scene of the crime.
The door creaked as she pushed it open and she worried that someone might notice, but there was no change in the rhythm of the house below. In the rest of the building the burning smell was starting to air, but here it still hung heavily. Now the flat had been designated a murder scene, there were some chalk marks in the drawing room where the fire brigade and police had tried to reconstruct what had happened. The overturned side tables had been moved and the chandelier had been lowered from the ceiling so it could be examined. Passing by, Mirabelle shuddered and crossed the hallway again into the kitchen. There was almost nothing in the cupboards. Two bottles of champagne and a jar of mustard stood forlornly on the shelf like awkward guests at a cocktail party. Evidently Dougie Beaumont didn’t cook at home. Bachelors generally ate out, she supposed, and in that he had made a good choice in Brighton – there were plenty of hotels and restaurants close by. Mirabelle carefully closed the cupboard door so as not to make a noise that would attract attention downstairs. Then, keeping the most intriguing for last, she crossed the living room once more to enter the bedroom.
The wardrobe was open but it only revealed a few clothes. Even for a man who travelled light in life, as Mrs Beaumont had described her son, it seemed too little to leave behind. Wooden coat hangers with balls of cedar hanging from them looked as if they had been abandoned. There was only one suit of clothes and two starched cotton shirts, which must have been white originally though now, of course, the material had been daubed in grey smoke. Mirabelle opened the drawers on both sides of the bed, discovering two pairs of socks and two sets of underwear, a packet of Du Maurier cigarettes and another of Dunhill, a box of Swan matches, a pair of braces and a leather travelling wallet which contained Beaumont’s passport and some ticket stubs. She stared at the small black and white photo on the main page of the passport. Then, flicking through, Mirabelle realised that Beaumont was not only good-looking but also well travelled. She’d known he’d got around, but the pages were crammed with exotic stamps that read like some kind of biography. Nairobi appeared near the front and it reappeared often, long after Beaumont had demobbed, always around Christmas as Mrs Beaumont had said, and then again, occasionally, over the summer. This year Beaumont had visited Italy, France and Holland. Late in August, he had gone to Kenya for a trip that barely lasted a week. The final stamp testified that Beaumont had left France only three days before he died. It must have been an extraordinarily busy summer and not all easy. McGregor had confirmed Dougie Beaumont was on the track the day of the big crash at Le Mans. The bust-up had made all the papers. Over eighty people had died when a car ploughed into the viewing stand and horrifyingly the race had not been stopped to let the ambulances through. Driving, it seemed, was an obsession for those who were involved – more important than life or the saving of it. In such a world, Dougie Beaumont must have been completely focused on success. The passport was testament to that as he trailed around Europe from one track to another. With so much to live for, who had he fallen foul of? she wondered. It made his murder seem all the more senseless.
Operation Goodwood Page 11