‘No,’ Mirabelle admitted.
‘Oh you should. As my father always used to say, “It gives one something to do whilst out for a walk.”’
‘I’ve heard the views are marvellous.’
‘If you get a clear day you can see right across the Downs in one direction and the skyline of Chichester in the other. There’s nothing like it.’ Angela lit her cigarette and breathed in deeply. ‘And, of course, it’s excellent for the health.’
‘I noticed you ladies didn’t use a caddy this morning,’ Mirabelle continued.
‘Well that way there are no witnesses.’ Angela smiled. ‘But the club can arrange one of the boys to caddy if you prefer.’
‘No witnesses,’ Mirabelle repeated, thinking of something else entirely.
McGregor cut in. ‘My game’s not what it used to be. The last boy who caddied for me was terrible. “You’re the worst caddy I ever had,” I told him. “Surely that would be too much of a coincidence,” he came back at me, sharp as a tack.’ Everybody laughed and Mirabelle felt herself relax. It was nice to feel that she and McGregor could do something like this. Drinks as a couple.
An hour later, the Watermans left. McGregor sat back in his seat.
‘The house is only over there—’ he gestured ‘—isn’t it?’
Mirabelle nodded. ‘We better wait until it gets completely dark.’
Dusk was drawing in. People arriving at the inn came in the door, stamped their feet and rubbed their hands before ordering at the bar. The temperature was clearly plummeting. McGregor fetched another gin and tonic and a whisky while, alone at the table, Mirabelle considered telling him about the bits and pieces she had found in Dougie Beaumont’s mattress. She dismissed the possibility – they were in such a good mood, the two of them, and she didn’t want to make the superintendent angry again. Until she knew how the key and the money fitted in, she’d keep it to herself. She’d told him about the parties and the drugs after all. That seemed far more relevant. And besides, there were plenty of other things to figure out.
‘Dutch courage,’ McGregor announced as he returned to the table. ‘Not that you need it.’
Mirabelle clinked her glass against his. ‘There’s something missing, isn’t there?’
McGregor made to look around. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The case.’ Mirabelle’s eyes were still. ‘One man is murdered and the murderer tries to cover his tracks by making it look like suicide. He even starts a fire, presumably to obliterate evidence. Within days, the first victim’s lover is killed and, it seems to me, that is a momentary decision. The man is attacked, his life ended violently and the body is left where it fell. His wallet isn’t rifled and a note that presumably incriminates the murderer is left on his body.’
‘I have considered there might be two murderers,’ McGregor admitted. ‘But it’s entirely possible that Beaumont’s murder was planned, as you say, and Highton’s might have become necessary afterwards. I haven’t settled yet on which scenario is most likely. It’s all down to motive, really.’
Mirabelle’s tone was earnest. ‘Exactly. I feel as if there’s something we don’t know yet.’
‘I’m sure there’s more than one thing we don’t know, Mirabelle.’ McGregor’s eyes danced. ‘Still, the reason they died has to be connected to what the victims have in common, which is each other, a taste for sex with other men – this party scene you’ve come across – their family and social connections and a love of motor racing. I’m glad to see you’re taking my advice to heart. You’re opening up your thought process to scrutiny.’
Mirabelle’s gaze flickered and she smiled. ‘I hadn’t really considered the family. Not as a motive. They seem to be terribly close.’
‘Quite apart from that, Dougie Beaumont was a cash cow. I don’t think anyone in the family would have knocked him off.’
‘What do you mean?’
McGregor beamed. ‘What? Something you don’t know? Dougie revived the family fortunes. After the war the Beaumonts were skint. They were on the verge of having to sell up – that big London house was going to have to go. But Beaumont started racing, won some money and turned out to have quite an eye for the stock market. He bailed them out. Paid off his father’s debts over a couple of years and set up the old man in parliament. Fixed up the house. Covered his mother in pearls. The lot. Hasn’t stopped making money since day one.’
Mirabelle sat back. ‘Really?’ she said. Through the window the light was fading. McGregor finished the last of his whisky and stared pointedly at the door.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s see what we can find out.’
Outside, it seemed too quiet compared to the cosy atmosphere in the public bar. Pulling their coats around them, they set out. This evening the gates were open and a lamp was lit in the gatehouse. Inside, Mirabelle glimpsed a man sitting away from the window. He was reading a magazine with a glossy picture of Roy Salvadori next to a sleek-looking Maserati on the cover. He took no notice of either of them as they stepped on to the driveway, dark shadows in a black night.
‘There was a policeman on duty earlier,’ Mirabelle said.
‘They’ll have finished with the scene by now. If there’s a man there, leave him to me. We just have to figure out how to get inside.’
‘Oh, I know how to do that.’
At the bend in the road they stopped for a moment. The trees were evenly spaced and, with the leaves falling, there wasn’t a huge amount of cover, but then the night Highton died it was very dark.
‘Where do you think the murderer came at him?’ Mirabelle stepped to one side.
McGregor positioned himself on what must have been Highton’s route as he walked back towards the inn, with the house behind him. ‘Here, just past the bend and from the victim’s right side,’ he pronounced. ‘It’d be easier to hide on the right, don’t you think? In that dip. The fellow must have waited for Highton and then assaulted him. It’s very close, isn’t it? Real violence.’
Mirabelle nodded. Ahead of them the house was lit up and, as they rounded the corner, it came fully into view. Several of the downstairs windows were illuminated with buttery light and flickering candle lamps had been hung along the portico. It was going to be more difficult to slip in unnoticed than it had been the night before when the place was all but deserted in the pitch black.
‘We should be in white tie,’ McGregor joked. ‘What’s your plan for entry?’
‘Last night the front door was open,’ Mirabelle admitted.
The superintendent laughed. ‘Well, no one could accuse you of not being logical.’
‘But our best bet if we don’t want to be noticed, is the card-room window. I left it unlocked – that’s how I got out of the place. Hopefully, nobody has noticed and slipped the bolt back over.’
‘Which one is the card room?’
Mirabelle pointed it out. The window was not lit. ‘That’s where Highton was playing backgammon the night he died,’ she said. ‘He said he’d been cleaned out, but that wasn’t true.’
‘Come on.’ McGregor hurried her.
Past the ivy, Mirabelle carefully drew up the window. She took off her coat and slipped it over the sill and then McGregor gave her a leg up before he passed on his coat and hat and pulled himself inside. It was a tight squeeze. Inside, the room looked exactly the same as it had the night before.
‘Where do the doors lead?’ McGregor whispered.
‘The left goes to the hallway, the right one I think opens on to the ballroom, which is now an office. It was locked yesterday.’ She could just make out his eyebrows rising. ‘These old places have got to pay their way these days,’ she said softly. ‘The estate is supported by a sawmill and a turnery. I think there’s even a commercial nursery garden. I had a look around today. Well, as far as I could walk. It’s not all upper-class diversions.’
McGregor cracked the door to the hallway just a fraction. ‘Where do you expect they are?’
He peered as the footman
emerged from the dining room, the soles of the man’s shoes clicking as he entered another room. The hum of conversation briefly floated towards them – the party were enjoying drinks.
‘Well that answers my question.’
‘I expect it’s now or never,’ Mirabelle replied, her heart hammering. ‘They’ll be going in to dinner soon. Come on, we’d best be quick.’
They crept across the hallway. A housemaid appeared at the head of the backstairs and McGregor pushed Mirabelle out of the way, against the banisters. They were rammed together so close she could hear his heart. Then the girl disappeared again and they crept quickly past the room where drinks were underway. Mirabelle tentatively cracked the next door along.
Inside, it was dark. As their eyes got used to the gloom, it became clear that the room was a library. She could feel McGregor behind her as they slipped inside. She waited a moment or two as the shadowy furniture became visible. It struck her that this house was too well built. In some places you would be able to hear voices from one room to another, but here you would hardly dream there was a drinks party in progress next door.
Dodging desks and easy chairs, McGregor took his bearings and crossed to the door that connected the library to the drawing room. ‘Ladies first,’ he said. Resisting the urge to touch him, even if only to hold his hand, Mirabelle peeked through the keyhole, trying to keep her mind on the job. The first thing she caught a glimpse of was Angela Waterman’s red satin dress, the low light playing prettily across its surface. There were a dozen guests. Elrick Beaumont was sitting next to Angela on a sofa. Michael Crowe was standing by the fire, chatting to a man with a serious expression and a pretty woman in frothy green chiffon whose distinctive shoes betrayed her as Henny from the night before. The man, Mirabelle thought, must be Nigel. Silently Mirabelle turned the handle and slowly manoeuvred open the door – only a crack. McGregor squatted next to her on the carpet.
‘The police have no idea, do they?’ Nigel’s voice was familiar. He had a tone that carried. ‘I mean, it’s our taxes that are paying for the investigation and they have no idea who did it.’
‘The chaps on the Brighton force seem keen but I’m not holding out hope. We have to get on with things and let justice take its course,’ Dougie Beaumont’s father replied, ever the MP.
‘If it was my son, Elrick, I’d just be so angry. I’d want to kill the damn murderer myself.’
‘No point in that,’ Mr Beaumont said stoutly, his tone ever practical, no doubt, the same as when he was in committee. ‘My wife is grieving, although she’s trying to get back in the swing of things. Enid’s gone up to London to help. The main thing is that we pull together, get Dougie buried and George too, if it comes to that. We just have to get back to normal. You know what Winston says – when you’re going through hell, just keep going.’
‘Here, here,’ his son-in-law cut in. ‘And talking about it all the time is maudlin.’
‘It’s different for us. I mean, you don’t live in this neck of the woods. Every time I come up the drive I’m going to think about poor George.’ Nigel shuddered. ‘And who’s next? That’s the question. I mean, who’s to say two is the limit of this madman’s ambition? Maybe he wants a bash at all of us.’
Angela Waterman took a sip of her drink. ‘Really,’ she said, ‘I agree with you, Mr Crowe. Let’s not talk about it any more.’
Mirabelle couldn’t help but smile. Angela, after all, had talked about the murders more than anyone. A Dutch ormolu clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour.
‘Dinner is ready to be served.’ The butler leaned in to tell one of the women, and she waved the party through with a brisk, ‘Come along then. Shall we?’
The group stirred and began to make its way to the dining room. Mirabelle noticed Elrick Beaumont catch his son-in-law’s eye as he turned to offer his arm to one of the women. The briefest of nods passed between them and a sly somehow serious-looking smile before Crowe downed the last of his glass and laid it on a silver tray. McGregor’s face was still, his concentration totally focused on the people, but Mirabelle took in the room: the fire crackling in the grate and the gorgeous pictures on the walls – oil paintings of landscapes and long-dead family members. Goodwood was well appointed if a little shabby. Henny lingered beneath the likeness of a far more august-looking woman. She fiddled with the strap of her frothy green dress, waiting for Crowe to accompany her to dinner. She coughed as the last couple left, clearing her throat.
‘I keep thinking that if Dougie had come to the Hunt Ball he might not have been at home that night. I mean, it might never have happened. And if the car hadn’t been arriving, Highton wouldn’t have come down either. It’s all about chance, isn’t it?’
This jolted Crowe from his private thoughts. ‘Sometimes your number’s just up, Hen,’ he said dismissively. ‘That’s how I see it. Dougie knew that. George as well.’
Henny looked wistful. Her fingers moved from the strap to seek out an earring and she played with it momentarily, twisting it. ‘It’s just, Nigel is right, isn’t he? There’s a murderer on the loose.’
‘If anyone ought to be worried about that, it’s me, isn’t it? I mean I was the third partner in the car.’
‘And aren’t you worried?’
‘Certainly not. Everyone thought Dougie would die on the track, but you can’t choose your time or your place. There’ll be no more murders. Two is quite sufficient. Don’t be a goose.’
He offered her his arm and they followed the others out. Mirabelle sat back. McGregor shrugged. ‘Chance,’ Mirabelle said under her breath, because Henny was wrong. It couldn’t really be chance. They were about to get to their feet when the door to the drawing room opened again and two footmen came in to clear the glasses.
‘At least they’re in better spirits than last night,’ one said, keeping his voice low.
‘You can hardly blame them, Johnny. I was the one that saw Mr Highton to the door. That shook me all the next day, I can tell you, and I didn’t even know the gentleman.’
‘He was pretty drunk.’
‘’Course he was. That doesn’t make killing the poor blighter all right, does it?’
The glasses clinked as the men gathered them.
‘Well, they ain’t found the golf club yet and I ain’t surprised. Needle in a haystack round here,’ Johnny observed as the first footman placed a guard in front of the fire.
‘They’ll find who did it. The police aren’t as stupid as everyone thinks,’ he said.
‘Well, that’s a relief.’ McGregor grinned when the men had departed. ‘We’re not as stupid as everyone thinks.’
Mirabelle stood up. Her knee felt as if it might cramp. She shuffled over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel as she stretched her leg.
‘I didn’t know it was Beaumont, Highton and Crowe who were partners in the car.’
‘Yes.’ McGregor clicked the door closed and followed her, sinking into a leather armchair. ‘I can’t quite believe I’m ahead of you for once. At first I wondered if that might be a motive, but, of course, they ideally wanted Beaumont to drive it. He was the ace.’
‘I’m glad we saw him drive. Saw him win.’
‘Me too.’ He reached out to touch her lightly on the curve of her hip.
‘And Highton?’ Mirabelle called him back to work.
‘The second death followed the first. That’s my sense.
Though you’re right, Highton was more disposable.’ McGregor lay his head back and squinted at the ceiling. ‘Will they use this room later do you think?’
Mirabelle shrugged. ‘I don’t know. After dinner the gentlemen stay at the table and the ladies generally return to the drawing room. I suppose if they intended to use it they would have set a fire by now.’
‘You were born to this, weren’t you?’
‘Well, you know what they say – it’s not where you start, it’s where you finish.’ Mirabelle found it impossible to imagine herself getting dressed on a nightly basis for th
is kind of dinner – all lace and diamonds. There had seemed little enough point to it all when she was growing up and, now, none at all. Life was no longer a series of daily occasions.
‘I’ll interview Crowe tomorrow,’ McGregor decided. ‘Just to be on the safe side. I don’t see there is any point in sitting around, hoping to overhear something the ladies might say.’
Mirabelle shrugged. He didn’t see the movement, just got to his feet. In the hall, the butler was organising the delivery of the first course to the dining room when, from the rear, Kamari emerged holding some ironed shirts and a bag of golf clubs. The butler turned his ire on the poor man. He grabbed him by the ear and hauled him back to the servants’ stairs. ‘Back stairs, boy,’ he snarled, as he pushed him through the door. Kamari was still smiling as the baize slammed shut. ‘Niggers,’ the butler sneered. ‘You can’t teach them.’
‘That’s Mr Crowe’s servant, Kamari. His valet, too, by the look of it,’ Mirabelle mouthed. ‘Poor fellow.’
They waited until the butler returned to his duties, order was restored and the line of footmen had disappeared into the dining room.
‘How does Mr Crowe know there won’t be another murder?’ Mirabelle said suddenly under her breath. ‘And what will happen to Beaumont’s and Highton’s share in the car, now they’re gone?’
‘Exactly.’ McGregor took her hand and pulled her across the marble floor. ‘Why do you think I want to speak to him?’
With only a single, quick backward glance, they slipped across the hallway and out on to the drive. Mirabelle looked over her shoulder. Behind them, the dinner party was underway. The scene through the window was almost baroque. McGregor was right – this was the kind of life her parents had foreseen for her. If it were possible would she swap her time in Brighton to have all this again? After the war lots of people simply wanted to go back to how things had been. They wanted to forget the nightly bombing and the terror of waiting for news about their loved ones. They wanted to settle back into domesticity. But she couldn’t. Once you had been part of something worthwhile, it was impossible to imagine going back to just passing your time. A dinner party was one thing, but endless days of golf, cards, horse riding, cars and lunch – nothing that made a scrap of difference. She didn’t understand how they could bear it.
Operation Goodwood Page 17