Trick of the Mind

by Cassandra Chan

  Gibbons was silent for several moments. “Probably,” he admitted in a low tone, “I would have wasted a few minutes being jealous.”

  “Very natural,” said Bethancourt, though he was startled by the admission. It was not the kind of thing Gibbons would normally divulge.

  “And,” added Gibbons more practically, “I would likely have thought about what I was going to do—what I might pick up to eat, what tube station would be nearby, that kind of thing.”

  “Yes, you would want your dinner, wouldn’t you?” agreed Bethancourt.

  “Of course, Chris doesn’t know how long I stayed after he’d gone,” continued Gibbons. “If I had just a drop or two left, I would likely have sat on for a couple of minutes deciding where I wanted to eat and then been on my way.”

  “And if you had more than a mouthful or two in your glass?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Then I probably would have begun mulling over the Haverford case again,” said Gibbons. “But it’s no good, Phillip. Look here, haven’t you ever wrestled with a problem and then had to put it aside in order to keep a date, or answer a phone call, or something? And then when you come back to it, suddenly you see a solution?”

  “Certainly,” answered Bethancourt. “I should think everyone’s had that experience at one time or another.”

  “That’s why this is so futile,” said Gibbons. “I don’t know what I was thinking about the case before I went to have a pint, so there’s really hardly any chance I’m going to guess what my subconscious came up with while I was chatting with Chris.”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” said Bethancourt. “Still, you did ring me afterward to say you had an interesting one on.”

  “But that wasn’t necessarily a result of something Chris told me,” pointed out Gibbons. “I might have had that thought earlier, and just not have had time to ring you.”

  “You mean you’d forgotten about me,” said Bethancourt accusingly.

  “Well, you were out of town,” protested Gibbons. “And you’re only interested in murder cases in any case.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” answered Bethancourt. “It’s just that all your more interesting cases have happened to be homicides.”

  Gibbons considered this. “They have, haven’t they?” he said. “One loses track over the years, and—oh, bloody hell.”

  “What?” asked Bethancourt, arrested in the motion of reaching for his glasses on the nightstand.

  “It’s my gorgon of a nurse,” said Gibbons glumly. “She’s going to poke at my stomach again.”

  In the background Bethancourt heard a female voice but could not make out what it said.

  “She is no respecter of persons,” grumbled Gibbons. “She says I have to go.”

  “Then you had better,” said Bethancourt. “I’ll speak to you later.”

  Gibbons rang off and Bethancourt closed his mobile, half smiling.

  “I take it the news is good?” asked Marla from the doorway.

  “It’s good,” replied Bethancourt. “He’s recovering nicely, and wanted to talk about the case.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Marla. “Do they know who shot him yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Bethancourt, careful to give no indication that he himself was engaged in the investigation. Marla normally detested his involvement in police work; he reckoned he had some leeway in this particular instance, but he was not eager to use it up too quickly.

  “Well, I’m glad he’s going to be all right,” she said, and turned away.

  Bethancourt reached to set the phone down on the nightstand and picked up his glasses. He polished them absently on the sheets before settling them on his nose and glancing at the clock.

  “Good Lord, is that the time?” he exclaimed, and was out of bed in an instant, muttering to himself while he hunted for his underwear amidst the bedclothes.

  “Have you got somewhere to go?” asked Marla, wandering back in from the bathroom.

  Bethancourt grinned up at her. “Got to see a man about a dog,” he said.

  “Oh, really,” she said, and turned away again.

  12

  A Relative Complication

  There was only a glimmer of light left in the western sky when Bethancourt reached Hampstead Heath. Nonetheless, there was no lack of dog owners, home from the day’s work and out to exercise their pets, though hardly anybody else had ventured out. Bethancourt, with Cerberus loping at his side, walked briskly, his eyes searching for a tall man with a bulldog. It was perfectly possible, of course, that Colin James exercised his dog on some other portion of the Heath, but Bethancourt was betting that on a chilly November night, he would keep to the area nearest his house.

  Though he kept his mind on his mission, Bethancourt was enjoying himself. He liked dogs and he loved to people-watch, and there was more opportunity for both on this rather dreary winter evening than he would have thought. He was stopped more than once by people admiring Cerberus, which the great dog took as his due, and had a very pleasant conversation with a young man who owned—of all things—a papillon and a Great Dane.

  He had been on the Heath for nearly forty-five minutes before he sighted James striding into the park with Churchill on a lead. Bethancourt smiled and angled his path to intersect theirs, whistling to summon Cerberus. His quarry in sight, he avoided meeting the eyes of the other dog-walkers as he passed, though he could not help but notice one woman with an Afghan hound whose long, straight hair exactly mimicked that of her pet.

  “Good Lord,” came James’s voice at that moment. “Is that you, Phillip?”

  Bethancourt turned to find Churchill, now off his lead, making a beeline for Cerberus, while his master strolled along behind, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a camel hair’s overcoat.

  Bethancourt grinned. “There you are,” he said. “I did just think I might meet you here.”

  James’s gray eyes twinkled. “And here I thought you were going to claim it was all coincidence,” he said.

  “I might have,” said Bethancourt, “if I had thought you would believe it.”

  James laughed. “Very flattering to my perspicacity,” he said. “In fact,” he added, running his eye down Bethancourt’s figure, “very flattering for me altogether.”

  Bethancourt, untroubled by this admiration, merely laughed at him, and James shook his head dolefully.

  “But I doubt,” he said, “that it’s my personal charms have brought you out this evening. Here, we’d best move on—the dogs are getting away from us.”

  Indeed, Cerberus and Churchill, having inspected each other thoroughly and decided on amiability rather than belligerence, were now chasing each other about the lawn, dodging in and out amongst the trees. Bethancourt and James turned in that direction, quickening their pace in order to catch up to the dogs.

  “Who was that?” asked James, and Bethancourt, turning, just caught sight of a figure without a dog hurrying away.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I didn’t notice him. Why?”

  James shrugged. “I thought I knew him for a moment there,” he said. “It’s the dim light, no doubt. I often thank God at this time of year that Churchill has that nice, big white patch. I’d have lost him twenty times over otherwise.”

  “Yes, I’ve often thought the same about Cerberus,” agreed Bethancourt. “Churchill’s quite a lovely bulldog, by the way. Very good form.”

  “His previous owner was a breeder,” said James, a bit of pride in his voice. “One of his dogs won the breed at Crufts one year.”

  “But Churchill wasn’t shown?” asked Bethancourt.

  “No—hadn’t the temperament, or so I understand,” replied James. “I don’t know a great deal about dog shows, myself.”

  “Nor do I,” said Bethancourt. “I like to watch, though.”

  “Me, too.”

  They walked on amiably together.

  “How’s Sergeant Gibbons getting on?” asked James.

  “Slow but steady
progress,” answered Bethancourt. “He still feels quite dreadful at the moment, but they say he’s making a good recovery.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” James frowned a little. “This is a funny business sometimes,” he said reflectively. “I’m not saying I’ve never encountered any violence in it, mind you. But seldom so unexpectedly. I really didn’t think the Haverford robbery would be much to trouble over, frankly.”

  “But Jack’s getting shot may have nothing to do with that,” Bethancourt reminded him.

  “True, true—oh, dear, they’ve really taken off this time, haven’t they? And I so didn’t want to have to chase after Churchill tonight.”

  “Let’s see if he’ll come back with Cerberus,” suggested Bethancourt, halting James’s sprint forward.

  He put two fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle that immediately brought the borzoi bounding back in his direction. Churchill, finding he had lost his playmate, hesitated for a long, confused moment and then began to gallop after Cerberus.

  “Well, look at that,” said James. “You’ve got him trained a treat, haven’t you?”

  “It’s not much use running after a dog that size,” said Bethancourt.

  “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be,” agreed James. “Here, Churchill! Here, boy!”

  Having gathered their pets, they turned back by mutual consent.

  “Thanks for sending round the pamphlet on the Haverford jewelry,” said Bethancourt. “I quite enjoyed it—fascinating stuff, really.”

  “I thought so myself,” said James. “But then, I’m interested in that sort of thing, obviously.”

  “I haven’t made a study of it,” admitted Bethancourt. “In fact, I didn’t realize the history of particular jewels could be so engrossing.”

  “It has always amazed me,” said James, “the things men will do for gems. And it’s not just their monetary value—it’s their beauty as well. I would have liked,” he added, a little wistfully, “to have seen the Haverford necklace before someone made off with it.”

  “I take it you don’t see much chance of viewing it in the future, then?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Not a great fat lot, no,” replied James with a shrug. “I haven’t got so much as a whiff of the jewels, and neither has Davies. Whoever’s got them is sitting on them like a mother hen on an egg.”

  “Is that unusual?” asked Bethancourt. “It would seem to me that with such a well-known collection, a cooling-off period would be a logical precaution.”

  James grinned. “You’d think it was obvious, wouldn’t you?” he said. “But most thieves don’t plan that far ahead, not even the smart ones. They like to get the goods off their hands.”

  “I suppose,” mused Bethancourt, “it would be rather nervewracking having a million pounds’ worth of jewels in the hall closet.”

  James laughed. “I think I could come up with a hiding place a little better than that, myself,” he said. “The thing is,” he added in a more serious tone, “you have to remember that the criminal element is talking about the robbery, just like we are. They’re all wondering who did it, where the jewels are now, where they’re likely to end up, and whether or not they can get in on the action. It’s the kind of atmosphere where rumors flourish, some more solidly based than others.”

  “Just like all rumors,” murmured Bethancourt.

  “Just so.” James smiled.

  “And if one knows the right people,” continued Bethancourt, “I should imagine one could hear these rumors and judge their veracity for oneself.”

  “Exactly. But in this case, there are no rumors—only speculation.”

  Bethancourt raised an eyebrow. “And in your experience, that means what?” he asked.

  “It’s hard to know.” James’s sharp gray eyes lost their focus as he considered the problem. “When I first heard about the robbery,” he said slowly, “my immediate thought was that this was a case of some petty thieves getting lucky. Easy enough to track down some panicky thieves. Mind you, that’s not my bailiwick, but I have great faith in the metropolitan police.”

  “So do I,” said Bethancourt. “But they don’t seem to be having an easy time of it.”

  “Which would seem to indicate that my first instincts were wrong,” said James. “But none of the other avenues seem to be panning out either. And that makes no sense.”

  They turned out of the Heath and paused on the sidewalk, turning their backs to a sudden gust of wind.

  “So,” said Bethancourt, “the fate of the Haverford jewels remains a mystery.”

  James gave a short bark of laughter. “You’ve got a dramatic turn of phrase, haven’t you? It’s a mystery for the moment, my lad, but I’ve never yet failed to nail down the merchandise. Of course,” he added, “it’s sometimes taken quite a while. Several years on occasion.”

  Bethancourt sighed.

  “I know,” said James sympathetically, “none of it does us any good as far as poor Gibbons is concerned. And in the end, the Haverford investigation may have nothing to do with what happened to him. But it has to be cleared up before we can know that for sure.”

  “There seems to be quite a lot that needs clearing up,” complained Bethancourt. “Every time I turn around, there’s another angle to be looked into.”

  James cocked his head in question. “Such as?”

  “This murder down in Walworth,” said Bethancourt. “I only found out about it this morning, but apparently a colleague had been talking to Jack about it earlier on Tuesday evening. Carmichael’s looking into the possibility that it was that conversation that prompted Jack to go down there that night.”

  “Who got murdered?” asked James.

  “A man named Alfred Pennycook,” answered Bethancourt. “He was an old-time fence, I understand.”

  “Good Lord,” said James. “Old Pennycook is dead? Well, well. I hadn’t heard.”

  “You knew him, then?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Knew of him,” corrected James. “His active days were a bit before my time. He’s been out of the picture for donkey’s years now, but it’s still a name known in certain circles. What happened to him?”

  “Well,” began Bethancourt, just as another gust of wind assaulted their backs. “Look here,” he said, “isn’t there a pub or something we could step into?”

  “Yes, of course,” said James. “I was just thinking the same thing myself. This way.”

  James led the way down East Heath Road, turning off at Well Walk and ending at a large pub, while Bethancourt gave him the details of the Pennycook murder as far as he knew them. He broke off while they settled themselves and their dogs in the cozy warmth of a corner table and fetched their drinks from the bar.

  James took a mouthful of his cognac, sighed in pleasure, and then asked, “Well, where were we? Poor old Pennycook was having his skull bashed in for him, I believe.”

  “So he was,” said Bethancourt. “There’s not a lot more to tell, really. Nothing from the shop was stolen—not that there was anything there worth very much—and the police are trying to discover who it was he had the appointment with that night.”

  “It just goes to show,” said James with a doleful shake of the head, “that one’s sins catch up with one in the end. But I can’t see how it ties in with our business. Pennycook had been out of circulation for some years and even if he hadn’t, he was already dead when the Haverford jewels were stolen.”

  “No,” Bethancourt admitted ruefully, “I couldn’t see much connection either. I suppose it’s possible Jack had an idea about the case and went running down there to look into it, but it’s difficult to see how he could have got himself into trouble, even if that were true.”

  “More likely a random act of violence,” agreed James. “It’s not unknown in that neighborhood. Still, all coincidences are suspect in my philosophy, and old Pennycook did at one time involve himself in some very high-end jewel thefts. It bears keeping in mind.”

  “I was thinking,” said Bethan
court, “of looking into the other beneficiaries of Miranda Haverford’s will.”

  “What other beneficiaries?” demanded James. “You surely can’t mean that ancient relic and the dead housekeeper.”

  Bethancourt smiled. “I did, in fact—if by ‘ancient relic’ you mean Ned Winterbottom.”

  James waved a hand. “I believe that was the name,” he said. “But why on earth should you want to talk to him?”

  “Well, there are only limited avenues for me to explore,” explained Bethancourt. “I thought if Ned Winterbottom—or someone else like him—had thought they would inherit the jewelry, they might have taken steps to see that they received it in the end.”

  “It’s not a bad theory,” said James thoughtfully. “Only I can’t see why they would have thought such a thing. By all accounts, Miranda Haverford spoke her mind and was a shrewd old biddy into the bargain. But have at it by all means.”

  “I might as well,” said Bethancourt modestly. “I’m trying to get in touch with the solicitor now.”

  “Good Lord, why didn’t you say so?” demanded James. “I can get you in to see old Grendel what’s-his-name. I’ll tell him you’re my colleague with whom I am consulting. Vivian will set it up for you tomorrow.”

  “That’s awfully good of you,” said Bethancourt, truly grateful. “I do appreciate it.”

  “It’s nothing,” said James, dismissing the thanks with a gesture. “The very least I can do, seeing as how I’ve failed to come up with any answer to the Haverford case. But ever onward.” He raised his glass and drank off the last of his cognac. “There,” he said, setting the glass down and shooting back his cuff to check his watch. “I’m afraid I must be off. I’ll be late for dinner if I don’t get home and into the bath at once.”

  Bethancourt finished his own drink with alacrity. “Thanks for taking the time to speak with me,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m becoming something of a nuisance.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” said James, pulling on his gloves and rousing his dog, who appeared to have fallen asleep in the warmth of the pub. “We must keep each other up-to-date on this thing. Have I got your card? Splendid. I’ll have Vivian ring you tomorrow.”