Trick of the Mind

by Cassandra Chan

  Although Gibbons had loathed the stuff, he was perversely annoyed by this criticism of it.

  “Of course it’s custard,” he snapped. “Nurse Pipp would hardly have lied to me about that. There would be no point.”

  “There would if she were trying to poison you,” retorted Bethancourt, dropping the spoon. “If they want you to eat custard, I will go and fetch some for you. Hell, I’ll make it myself—it’s not that difficult.”

  Gibbons, with his mouth open to snap back, paused, somehow touched by the idea of Bethancourt actually taking the trouble to cook for him.

  “Can you really make custard?” he asked.

  Bethancourt looked indignant. “Of course I can,” he replied. “I’m not a gourmet chef, but I can do the basics.”

  “Well,” admitted Gibbons, “this stuff isn’t very appetizing. In fact, I don’t feel hungry at all now.”

  “I’ll bring you back some proper custard tonight,” promised Bethancourt.

  “Thanks,” said Gibbons. “So what are you up to today?”

  “Ah, you made me forget with all your talk about custard,” said Bethancourt, slapping his forehead. “I’ve found out where you went after lunch on Tuesday!”

  Gibbons stared at him. “You have?” he demanded. “Phillip, that’s wonderful! How did—I mean, where—oh, bother, I can’t think where to start.”

  Bethancourt beamed at him. “You went up to see the Burdalls,” he announced. “I thought of it last night and rang them this morning to confirm. They couldn’t remember your name right off, but they described you well enough, and said you turned up at about three and spoke to them for about half an hour.”

  “Then these notes here must refer to the conversation I had with them,” said Gibbons excitedly, pushing aside the hated custard and pulling the facsimile sheets back onto his lap. “Here—this bit. ‘Bs’ must mean ‘Burdalls,’ don’t you think?”

  “It would make sense,” agreed Bethancourt. “The previous notes were made after your lunch with James, weren’t they?”

  “That’s right.” Gibbons frowned down at the page. “This, where I’ve written j fake—I thought earlier today that might have meant the jewelry was fake. But that doesn’t make sense.”

  Something he had read came back to Bethancourt as he peered over his friend’s shoulder. “There was some fake jewelry,” he said. “At least, there was at one time.”

  Gibbons looked up at him. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I came across it when James took me to see the Haverford house,” said Bethancourt. “I was looking at some of the old account books from Evony St. Michel’s time, and there was an entry in one of them for a payment made to have replicas made of some of her jewelry. I don’t know why the Burdalls would have brought it up, though. If they even knew.”

  “They might have known,” said Gibbons, considering. “Nicky Burdall was close to Miranda Haverford.”

  “I can ask,” said Bethancourt. “What about the rest of this?”

  “Well, the only thing I’ve come up with this morning is the fact that I normally use ‘NC’ to mean ‘natural causes,’” said Gibbons, “which is certainly what Miranda Haverford died of. It even makes some sense in the context of the rest of the notes—I was clearly trying not to let my mind revert back into the old homicide investigation channels.”

  “It does make sense,” agreed Bethancourt. “But you’ve underscored it rather emphatically. Doesn’t that rather suggest that there was something that made you think of murder?”

  “Well, on this other page—” Gibbons paused, searching it out from the pile. “Yes, here—we took this to mean that I thought the Colemans were here principally for the inheritance, rather than from any family feeling. And if there had been any suspicious circumstances regarding Miranda Haverford’s death, well, they would look a bit fishy, wouldn’t they?”

  “But there weren’t any, correct?” asked Bethancourt. “Suspicious circumstances, I mean.”

  Gibbons shook his head. “No, it was definitely natural causes. A heart attack in her sleep, I believe.”

  “Still,” said Bethancourt thoughtfully, picking up the previous page and studying it, “if the Burdalls had said anything against the Colemans, it might have made you think of how convenient Miranda’s death was for them. Which in turn might have made you write a note like this, to remind yourself in no uncertain terms that they couldn’t have murdered her because she died of old age.”

  He looked up to see how this logic sat with Gibbons, and found his friend nodding his head.

  “You may be right,” he said. “Did the Burdalls say anything to you about the Colemans?”

  Bethancourt thought back. “Nothing very much,” he said. “Only that they weren’t sure if the Colemans had turned up when they did because Miranda wanted to have a look at them or if they had come off their own bat.”

  “Well, there’s something I hadn’t thought of,” said Gibbons. “I was assuming they had come on their own.”

  “They say not,” said Bethancourt. “Rob Coleman claimed Miranda had written to him, asking him to visit. No doubt she was curious as to who her heirs were. I mean, if I had a fortune in jewelry and proposed leaving it to distant relatives I’d never met, well, I’d want to see who it was going to.”

  “Curiosity is only human nature,” agreed Gibbons. “Let me see that page again.”

  Bethancourt handed it over, remarking, “There’s still a bit of it we haven’t figured out yet.”

  “I know,” sighed Gibbons. “WC, for example. Or who I wanted to run a background check on. And I really don’t think it was some man named Wilbur Carson in the States.”

  “I never said his name was Wilbur Carson,” said Bethancourt with dignity.

  Gibbons only grinned at him. Which made Bethancourt grin back, elated that Gibbons was feeling well enough to jest. He had never consciously thought of what life would be like without his friend, but the relief that washed over him now proved that his subconscious at least had dreaded it.

  “I’ll remember that,” he said, “and ask the Burdalls about it. They’re trying to remember exactly what they said to you—I told them I’d be by shortly.”

  “Carmichael’s going to want to talk to them, too,” Gibbons warned him.

  “Oh,” said Bethancourt, who had not thought of this. “Of course he will. Er, you don’t mind if I go along now, do you? No harm in it, really, since I’ve already spoken to them. Or do you think the chief inspector will be cross with me?”

  “He probably will be, but he’ll get over it,” said Gibbons. “You found the Burdalls, after all. Go on—go now before I ring him.”

  “Thanks, Jack,” said Bethancourt, collecting his dog. “I rather want to follow this up. And,” he added as he headed for the door, “I won’t forget the custard. I’ll make some up directly I’ve talked with the Burdalls.”

  It was Bethancourt that deserved the thanks, reflected Gibbons, watching his friend disappear out the door. It was quite a feat, having filled in part of his missing day.

  Nicky and Dylan were just arriving home when Bethancourt arrived at the house in Southgate. They both looked delighted to see him.

  “You’re back,” said Nicky. “I didn’t expect that—you’re the first one that’s come back.”

  “You must like Gran’s tea,” observed Dylan. “You’ve shown up at teatime twice now.”

  “Have I?” said Bethancourt, checking his watch. “So I have. Well, I do like your grandmother’s tea. And not only have I come back, but shortly you’ll be able to add to your collection, Nicky.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “I will? Who’s coming next?”

  “A detective chief inspector from Scotland Yard,” Bethancourt told her, and smiled when her eyes lit up.

  “Oh, that’s a good one,” she said. “The other one was only a sergeant. But,” she added, “he was awfully nice.”

  “I liked him,” put in Dylan firmly. “He wasn’t half as stuffy a
s the regular police.”

  “No,” agreed Bethancourt. “Jack’s not stuffy at all.”

  “Well, come along in,” said Nicky, leading the way toward the front door. “We’ll let Grandma Nicky know you’ve come. She’ll be glad you’ve brought Cerberus again.”

  The elderly lady was indeed pleased. She buried her frail hands in the borzoi’s fur while Bethancourt again took the seat to her left and watched the reenactment of the teatime ritual.

  The Burdalls were excited to learn they were being of actual help in the case, and did their best to remember exactly what had been said in their conversation with Gibbons. Here Nicky and Dylan were of great help, prompting their elders.

  “We might have mentioned the fake jewelry,” said Mrs. Burdall, looking to her son for confirmation.

  “You did, Gran,” said Nicky. “Sergeant Gibbons asked if we had ever seen any of the jewelry.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember now,” said Mrs. Burdall. “And of course, both Neil and I have been to some of the exhibitions, and I even remember Miranda wearing some of it a very long time ago. But we haven’t seen any of the pieces in some time now, although Miranda did occasionally wear some of the faux pearls.”

  “There were other costume pieces as well,” put in Neil. “There was a copy of the amethyst and diamond brooch, and another of an emerald and diamond necklace.”

  “And the earrings,” said Nicky. “Don’t forget the ruby earrings.” She sighed. “Aunt Miranda said I could have those when I grew up.”

  “I’m sorry, Nicky,” said her grandfather.

  Bethancourt was surprised. “She left the ruby earrings to you?” he asked.

  Mrs. Burdall laughed. “Not the real ones—those went with the rest of the collection. But Miranda had promised some of the copy pieces to a few of her friends.”

  “I take it,” said Bethancourt, “that the copies vanished along with the real jewels?”

  “So we were given to understand,” said Neil. “At least, there’s been no sign of them, and the police did search the rest of the house.”

  “I imagine,” said Mrs. Burdall, “that Miranda probably kept all the jewelry together, both the genuine and the copies. A thief wouldn’t bother sorting them out—if he even knew that some of the pieces weren’t real.”

  “You couldn’t tell at a glance,” agreed Neil.

  “Do have another biscuit, Mr. Bethancourt,” said Mrs. Burdall. “Dylan, pass the plate, please.”

  “Thank you,” said Bethancourt, taking another piece of shortbread. “What else did you talk about with Sergeant Gibbons?”

  They had gone into some depth about the events of the past months: the Colemans’ arrival, Rose’s death, followed by Miranda’s passing, and then the burglary.

  “He asked a lot about the Colemans,” offered Dylan.

  “That’s right,” said Nicky. “He didn’t know they hadn’t been here that long.”

  “Of course,” breathed Bethancourt. “Four months—that’s what he meant.”

  The Burdalls looked curious.

  “He had that written in his notebook,” explained Bethancourt, “but we couldn’t make out what it meant. I should have known—Colin James told me the first day that the Colemans had only come to England this past summer. I’d forgotten it, actually.”

  Neil shrugged. “I can’t see why it’s important,” he said. “Miranda didn’t seem to think much of Rob Coleman, but she had no plans to change her will.”

  “It may not be important per se, but since Sergeant Gibbons made a note of it, he must have felt it was significant in some way. This is all,” Bethancourt added, “in aid of trying to map his train of thought that day.”

  “What else was in his notes?” asked Mrs. Burdall.

  Bethancourt consulted his memory. “The initials ‘WC,’” he said. “Not,” he added, as both Nicky and Dylan giggled, “meaning the usual abbreviation. We think—although this isn’t at all certain—that the initials refer to a person.”

  “Coleman begins with a ‘C,’” volunteered Dylan.

  “But their first names don’t begin with a ‘W,’” Nicky corrected him.

  “They could have relatives,” argued Dylan, and that remark turned on the light for his great-grandmother.

  “Oh, I wonder if it could be William Coleman,” she said. “I’m sure I mentioned him to Sergeant Gibbons—he was asking how the Colemans were related to Miranda.”

  “Oh, good Lord,” said Bethancourt, irritated with himself.

  Mrs. Burdall stopped speaking and raised a white brow.

  “Mr. Bethancourt?” she said.

  “Sorry,” apologized Bethancourt. “It’s just that I asked Mr. Grenshaw the same thing yesterday, and he told me all about William Coleman, and how he married one of Evony’s nieces. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”

  “But who was William Coleman?” asked Nicky curiously.

  “He was Rob Coleman’s ancestor,” replied Mrs. Burdall. “He married one of Evony’s nieces, as Mr. Bethancourt said, but William died young and his wife and son returned to the Ukraine. That’s how Rob comes to have an English last name, even though he comes from the Ukrainian side of the family.”

  “But can we think of any other explanation?” asked Neil. “It seems unusual that a police detective would be interested in that kind of genealogy.”

  They all thought for several minutes, but no one could come up with anyone or anything else with the initials “WC” that related to the Haverfords or their jewels.

  “Maybe,” said Dylan after a few moments, “it means Sergeant Gibbons thought Miss Haverford hid her jewelry in the toilet tank.”

  Nicky hooted at this, rolling her eyes, and received a punch in the arm from her brother for this impropriety. Even the two elders smiled.

  “I don’t think,” said Mrs. Burdall gently, “Miss Haverford was quite that eccentric.”

  “Though,” put in Bethancourt, who rather felt for the boy, “odder things have been known, and my police acquaintances have found some very strange things in toilet tanks over the years. But I’m afraid it’s not likely in this case—the police searched the house, you see.”

  Dylan nodded, apparently gratified to have his remark taken seriously.

  From outside the room, the sound of the door chimes rang out clearly, interrupting the conversation. Nicky jumped up at once.

  “I’ll get it,” she said. “It’s probably the chief inspector.”

  “I’m coming, too,” called Dylan, running after his sister, who was already across the room.

  The two older Burdalls looked merely confused.

  “I’m sorry,” said Bethancourt. “I should have said—now you’ve confirmed Sergeant Gibbons was here that day, his superior naturally wants to come and talk to you. I probably should have left it to him altogether,” he added deprecatingly, “but, well, it was my idea and I wanted to follow it up.”

  Mrs. Burdall smiled, apparently finding humor in the situation.

  “The more the merrier,” she said. “Neil, would you tell Molly to put on some more tea? And perhaps bring out another plate of biscuits? I’m afraid the children have pretty well decimated this one.”

  In a few moments, Carmichael appeared with a child on either side. Both youngsters were beaming, and Carmichael wore a genial smile, but Bethancourt detected a distinct bristling of his bushy eyebrows when the chief inspector’s eyes lit on him. Bethancourt rose politely at his entrance, but before he could effect introductions, Dylan burst out, “Look, Grandma Nicky! This Mr. Carmichael—he’s a detective chief inspector from Scotland Yard!”

  “It’s Chief Inspector Carmichael, not Mr.,” corrected his sister, apparently a bit put out that Dylan had beaten her to the announcement of Carmichael’s identity.

  Dylan paid no attention to this criticism, concentrating on guiding Carmichael to his grandmother’s side, where Cerberus, detecting a familiar scent, wagged his tail in greeting.

  Mrs. Burdall smi
led and held out a hand. “I hope you don’t mind the enthusiasm of our welcoming committee,” she said.

  “Quite the contrary,” replied Carmichael, grinning at the children. “I found the welcome charming, which is not always the case with a policeman.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Burdall, “do sit down.”

  This occasioned a flurry of activity in which Nicky and Dylan brought up another chair, Neil arrived back from his errand to Molly, bearing a tray, and Carmichael was got settled with tea and biscuits. The detective at first tried to put off all the fuss by saying he did not care for anything, but gave up his protests almost at once, realizing they would have no effect.

  But once they had fulfilled their responsibilities as hosts, the Burdalls were content to let Carmichael take over the reins and direct the conversation where he would. Bethancourt, sitting silent, was very pleased to find the chief inspector going over much the same ground as he himself had covered. He did it far more efficiently, without letting his witnesses meander off on various digressions, but Bethancourt did not think there was much of import said that he had not already been told. And, he admitted to himself, he had quite enjoyed the digressions.

  Unlike himself, Carmichael could and did demand to speak to the middle generation of Burdalls, and was duly conducted upstairs by Nicky and Dylan to meet their parents. Ordinarily, Bethancourt might have been invited along to observe, but it was clear Carmichael was annoyed with him for going along to the Burdalls without police supervision.

  In view of this, Bethancourt decided it would be prudent to take his leave whilst Carmichael was occupied upstairs. Neil saw him to the door.

  “Do you think,” he asked, “you’ll ever sort it all out?”

  “I hope so,” replied Bethancourt. “There’s been a few new things that’ve come up in the last few days, so at least we haven’t reached a dead end.”

  “Well,” said Neil, “I’d appreciate it—and so would my mother—if you wouldn’t mind stopping by to tell us how it all ends up.”

  Bethancourt felt quite flattered. “Of course I will,” he said. “Although I imagine it will make the papers once the case is solved. But I’ll come along and tell you whatever I know.”