Operation Goodwood Page 13

  She slipped downstairs and, without attracting attention, went outside again into the cold. The winding B road that led back to Chichester lay silent until a fox darted out of one hedgerow and disappeared through another. As if this called her to action, Mirabelle walked a few yards to the west where she was surprised to find that the inn was almost next door to the gate of Goodwood House. Not much after nine, the stone gatehouse that guarded the entrance was in darkness, the place closed for the night. With a shrug, Mirabelle slipped over a small stone wall to one side and began to walk up the drive. The inn quickly disappeared from view, the thick night shrouding it like a blanket. Fallen leaves crinkled underfoot as Mirabelle followed the driveway, unable to see what lay ahead. To the side, skeletal branches stretched above, visible only because the thin moon’s low light contrasted them against the sky. The chill autumn air nipped her skin and, as her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, the outline of Goodwood House appeared like a looming black shadow ahead. Somewhere on this path, the night before, George Highton had died walking in the opposite direction, returning to the inn a mere twelve hours after she’d seen him in Tangmere. How far had he got down this road?

  As the driveway curved, Mirabelle glanced behind and noticed a moving light a few hundred yards off, approaching unsteadily in her wake. She stepped off the tarmac, secreted herself behind a tree and waited for it to pass, picking out the shape of a policeman who had propped a lamp on his bicycle as he made his way towards the house’s grand front entrance. The portico was dimly illuminated by the lamp and it suddenly seemed as if the whole place was built of insubstantial shadows. Mirabelle picked up her pace as the bobby dismounted. Then two pinpricks of orange – cigarettes in the darkness – betrayed one officer relieving another of his duty. Now well within hearing distance, she stuck close to the façade of the building, keeping one hand on the cold stone to remind her this was real.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ the policeman said.

  ‘It’s perishing.’

  ‘Anything doing?’

  ‘The staff went home after five and not a peep since.’

  ‘You been inside, then?’

  ‘Yeah. Before.’

  ‘My Trisha would love to see it. A bit of the high life and that.’

  ‘Mostly it’s just estate offices – there’s a nice old ballroom, though they’ve carved it up and there’s rows of desks instead of the grand and the good. Shame really. We cordoned off the room where they were gaming.’

  ‘I won’t be relieved until six. It’s a long night.’

  ‘I don’t envy you, mate. It’s bitter.’

  The off-duty policeman walked past Mirabelle, who loitered in the shadows as he headed back down the drive, his cape drawn around him against the chill. She wondered how long it would take the man to get home. Meanwhile the other fellow smoked his cigarette, inhaling deeply as his friend retreated. Careful to make no noise, Mirabelle turned away from the front door and slipped down the side of the house to check the windows one by one. None had been left open – not at this time of year. Then, continuing towards the rear, she crept around some bins and discovered a service door that was locked too. There was something indomitable about Goodwood House. It seemed impenetrable. The goings-on in large houses were always unpredictable but, in her experience, they were usually busy places. This building appeared to have swallowed any sign of life. It was a citadel. There must be people in there, but the old place was so huge and so dark it was impossible to tell.

  At the rear she hit an impasse – a courtyard with high wooden gates that were bolted. She backed up and at last made out a small row of lights, which were visible on the first floor. On tiptoes, in the flat shoes McGregor had sent from Hannington’s, she strained to see the room, which was furnished as a private drawing room. Perhaps only members of the family were at home tonight, recovering from the tragedy. Unable to continue further, Mirabelle made her way back to where she started. The policeman on duty had moved off and, luckily for her, was easy to spot, still smoking a cigarette as he walked along the darkened exterior of the wing that stretched in the other direction. If Mirabelle scrunched her eyes she could just make out the orange dot, a couple of hundred yards away, where the officer was peering through a set of French windows. She dodged out of sight between the pillars.

  Then, just to be sure, she turned the front doorknob. She hadn’t expected it to open, but, to her surprise, the door did just that. Glancing over her shoulder and hardly able to believe her luck, she slipped inside. She couldn’t help smiling. It was so like the English upper classes to make sure the house was locked and shuttered, but not to expect a thief in the night to have the temerity to use the front entrance. This was where George Highton must have been received when he came for dinner.

  Tentatively, Mirabelle moved into the hallway and was glad of her unaccustomed low heels – the entrance was floored in what sounded like marble but in these she could cross it almost silently. The house was as grand inside as it had looked from the exterior. She could just make out the curve of a Georgian cornice and the sweep of the staircase – evidence of the high life the policemen had mentioned. Still, Mirabelle knew that while the darkness might mask the house’s beauty, it would also shield its dilapidation. Places like this had been taken over during the war and had become hospitals and staging posts, development centres and extra billets. In 1945, England’s country houses had been handed back bruised, chipped and worn, and most had not been returned to their former glory. If the family here had had to make their ballroom into offices, that told its own story.

  Mirabelle peered through the window beside the front door and made out the policeman who was now returning to his post. Then, by the dim light the windows afforded, she took her bearings. The officer going off duty had talked about a room that was cordoned off. If policemen were posted at the front door it was probably close to that. And that made sense. A house like this would have its ballroom and dining room on the ground floor, and if there was a room used for post-dinner drinks or gaming it was probably within easy reach of those. Squinting, she scanned the hallway and could just make out a white cordon across a doorway to the right. She made for the tape, dodging underneath it. Inside, the smell of cigar smoke and empty brandy bottles lingered on the air, Mirabelle felt herself sink into thick carpet and she stopped, giving her eyes a moment to pick out the unfamiliar shapes.

  The room was circular, not much more than fifteen feet in diameter: likely cosy compared to most in this house. She was on the corner, she realised, in one of the towers with the copper domes that she’d picked out in the photograph in Fred’s Standard. In the middle of the room, a table covered in thick green baize was set with a rack of mother-of-pearl gambling chips. There were four chairs placed in a square. This had been where George Highton spent his last hours playing backgammon. She touched the back of one of the chairs and tentatively sat down. If four men had played at this table, who were the other three?

  Getting to her feet again, Mirabelle decided to examine the walls where shadowy shelves housed decanters and glasses, a few books, some plates and vases. Her eye stopped momentarily on a clock but on minimal examination, even no expert, she could confidently date it as later than one which would be opened and wound using the key she had retrieved from under Dougie Beaumont’s mattress. ‘What were you up to, George?’ she murmured. What had Highton meant when he said he had come to protect his interests? Perhaps this place was a simply a better choice than drinking himself to oblivion in Soho? Had he found himself too short of company he could bear in town? Enid Crowe and her husband had been familiar, comforting even. Perhaps that was what Highton had really been looking for. Or had he stayed after the arrival of the car for another purpose?

  Mirabelle was considering this when suddenly a sharp line of yellow light appeared beneath the door. Someone had snapped on the electric in the hallway. They turned it off again and there was a high-pitched giggle and a scuffling noise on the marble. Outside the
window, Mirabelle made out a dark movement – the policeman taking in this development, no doubt trying to peer through a window and see what was going on. Mirabelle backed into the centre of the room, thinking that with so little furniture there wasn’t much choice of where to hide. She panicked momentarily, her eyes darting, but there was nothing for it but to slip underneath the table. Just in time she fell to her hands and knees and rolled out of sight.

  ‘Shhh.’ It was a woman’s voice.

  The baize didn’t quite reach the floor and Mirabelle could see the light of a torch directed at the carpet. The fools, she thought, the policeman would spot that immediately. It was far too dark to use a torch. The man was right outside.

  ‘This is positively maudlin, Henny,’ a male voice said. ‘We aren’t supposed to be in here.’

  ‘Well I don’t know why. He didn’t die in the card room, did he?’

  ‘Don’t say that. Poor George.’

  The woman walked over to the table. As the light from the torch continued to dart over the carpet, all Mirabelle could see of her was a pair of expensive green satin evening shoes with elegant heels. She heard the girl pick up some gambling chips and click them together. Then there was a low giggle as the man’s more traditional shoes approached. After that everything went too silent and then Henny said, ‘Well who’s maudlin now, Nigel, kissing me at the scene of the crime?’

  ‘It’s better than just standing here, having the creeps, don’t you think?’

  Henny must have pushed him away. The two pairs of shoes separated.

  ‘Anyway this isn’t a crime scene – George was hale and hearty when he left us, if a little worse for wear.’

  ‘You’re only sore because he beat you.’

  ‘No he didn’t.’

  ‘You don’t have to pretend. The maid told me what they found. The policemen were given tea in the kitchen and one of them told her there was a fortune in poor George’s pocket along with that dreadful letter. One hundred and twenty pounds plus change.’

  ‘Nonsense. I cleaned him out. He said so.’

  ‘Oh, Nige. Don’t you think the police know what they’re doing? It’s a matter of public record. It’ll all come out in court. Georgie Porgie was loaded. You know what he was like. No one could spin a line quite like Dingo. If he said he was out of cash, I’m surprised you didn’t frisk him to check.’

  ‘The sneaky so-and-so. We only packed away the board because he said he was skint. I’ve a mind to write him a bloody letter myself. From beyond the grave.’

  ‘Don’t,’ the girl gasped. ‘You are terrible. Whoever sent him that letter is probably the killer.’

  There was the sound of the front door opening and the policeman’s steps echoing as he walked across the hallway.

  ‘We’re in trouble now,’ Nigel hissed.

  The door of the card room opened and the light snapped on.

  ‘Sir. Miss. I’m sorry, but this room is out of bounds.’

  ‘Really, Officer?’ Henny sounded genuinely apologetic. ‘Well, nobody told us.’

  ‘That’s why there’s a cordon across it. I’m afraid you’ll have to continue your conversation elsewhere. It’s a murder investigation, see.’

  Nigel took charge. ‘Yes. Of course. We wouldn’t want to be obstructive. We were friends of Mr Highton. Have you caught the blighter who killed him yet?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Now, if you don’t mind.’

  Mirabelle lay her head on the carpet and watched as the shoes walked away. From the hallway, with the door open, she heard the policeman say something about ongoing investigations. Then he pulled up a chair just beyond the threshold, and closed the card-room door. ‘Oh bother,’ Mirabelle mumbled under her breath. She could understand why the man had decided to stay inside – even with no heating, it was warmer here and significantly more comfortable than standing at the front door all night. She crawled out, the carpet brushing her knees as she considered what she’d heard. When he died, Highton had been carrying one hundred and twenty pounds and some kind of threatening or unpleasant letter. That cast new light on his trip out of town. Perhaps when he came here he thought he had been running away from danger rather than towards it.

  There was a high-pitched squeak as the policeman shifted and the leg of his chair scraped against the marble. I’d better get out of here, Mirabelle thought. With the door effectively out of action, she didn’t have many options but at least the carpet meant she could move around without being heard. There was only one way out.

  She crossed to the window and unbolted the sash, hoping that it would move smoothly across its casing. Wood on wood could make a harsh noise. So slowly it almost made her ache, she eased the window open. After only eight inches, she felt the movement tighten and stopped it dead before it could squeak. It would be a tight squeeze but she could make it. Mirabelle took off her coat and threw it on to the ground outside and then carefully manoeuvred herself over the sill, falling the last few inches on to the gravel, grabbing her coat and backing into a bank of ivy to get out of the way, just in case. Inside, the door to the card room remained closed and, after a few seconds, she sneaked over to pull down the glass. There was no way to lock the window from the outside, but perhaps no one would notice the bolt had been moved.

  After pulling on her coat, Mirabelle skirted the façade of the house hoping to stay out of sight as long as she could. Then she turned back down the drive. The money in Highton’s possession ruled out robbery as a motive, or even greed on the part of the murderer. The contents of the ‘dreadful letter’ Henny had mentioned were enticing. Had Dougie Beaumont received a threatening letter before he died too? If so, was it reasonable to assume it had been burned in the fire? Had this whole thing simply been a shabby attempt at blackmail made by somebody who’d found the men out? If so, it had gone badly wrong.

  Casting a glance back at Goodwood House, Mirabelle caught a movement in one of the upstairs windows. She wondered if Henny and Nigel had taken themselves to the first floor to continue their flirtation. No matter. From such a distance, no one would be able to recognise her and, anyway, she told herself as she picked up her pace, it wasn’t illegal to take a walk at night down a driveway. That wasn’t illegal at all.

  Chapter 13

  Our life is frittered away by detail

  Breakfast at the coaching inn was limited to bread and eggs with some weak tea and large sugar lumps so irregularly cut that there was a serious risk of making the tea undrinkably sweet. Two men on the table next to Mirabelle ordered beer from a blonde waitress with limpid blue eyes and milky skin. They enthusiastically made a meal of it, abandoning the food on their plates and placing their glasses square in front of them. Listening to their increasingly animated chatter, Mirabelle deduced they were buyers for a chain of furniture shops and had arrived on the estate to conduct business at the sawmill. Tempers already fraying, the men started to debate the durability of different woods. Some people will argue about anything, she thought.

  The London papers were on the sideboard but Mirabelle asked if there was something local and the girl fetched a Chichester Observer from the kitchen as Mirabelle poured herself another cup of tea. The report of George Highton’s death was brief and simply said that the police were investigating. In the Daily Telegraph there was a short obituary and Mirabelle noted that Highton had been an officer in the Loyals – a Lancashire regiment. Older than Dougie Beaumont by two years, he had seen active service in Italy towards the end of the war.

  After making the best of the eggs, Mirabelle decided to take a look at Goodwood House from the other side. She had yet to ascertain exactly where George Highton had died or, for that matter, the details of how he had been killed. If he was an ex-officer in the Loyals, he would have been trained to defend himself, though, she thought, that wouldn’t help him if the poor fellow had been shot. Like all the other papers, the Daily Telegraph had simply said that he had ‘died in suspicious circumstances’ and made no mention of either the money in his pocket
s or the mysterious letter. Mirabelle would be interested to know just how suspicious the circumstances were, if a weapon was used, or if like Dougie Beaumont’s killer, the man who did for George Highton had been hands-on.

  That morning from her window, in the early light, Mirabelle had noticed there was a bunker and a green just beyond the inn. It was part of a golf course laid out around the perimeter of the main house – everything close by – and, as she left the table, she asked the direction of the clubhouse. The waitress pointed out the road to take and Mirabelle figured the course must have views of Goodwood House. The estate was certainly somewhere there was plenty to do, with its aerodrome, golf course and racing track. After checking her watch, she used the telephone at the bar and had the operator put her through to the office on Brills Lane.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Mirabelle! How are you this morning?’ Vesta always sounded delighted on the telephone, no matter the subject of the conversation.

  ‘I’m down in the country,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘I thought I’d take a long weekend.’