The Young Widow

by Cassandra Chan

  “No, no,” she said, her voice low and rather strained. “I understand it’s necessary.”

  Carmichael resisted the urge to pat her arm encouragingly. “All the same,” he said, “I’d like to take the books and have a look at them. The vase and flowers as well.”

  “Anything,” she said, waving a hand vaguely. “Anything you like.” She drew a deep breath to steady herself and then said in a clear voice, “Please carry on, Chief Inspector. Take away anything you need. If you’ll excuse me, I—you see, I haven’t been in this room since …” She passed a hand over her forehead, disarranging her hair. “That is, if you don’t need me, I think I’ll go upstairs for just a little while.”

  “Certainly,” said Carmichael. “An excellent idea, Mrs. Berowne. We will be going over to see Mrs. Paul Berowne shortly in any case.”

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector.” She looked up at him gratefully as he held the door for her.

  Carmichael closed the door carefully behind her, looking thoughtful. He caught Bethancourt’s eye as he came back to the center of the room, and raised a bushy eyebrow.

  “A very confounding woman,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Bethancourt levelly, suddenly aware that Carmichael had felt an intense attraction to Mrs. Berowne and was struggling with it. That was most unusual; Bethancourt had never seen Carmichael in the least flustered by any witness before. It made her, in his mind, an even more intriguing suspect. Although she appeared unaware of it, she must know of the effect she created. The great question was whether or not she had been using it deliberately.

  “I can’t make out if she’s clever or merely lucky,” he said.

  Carmichael rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You’d think a clever woman would have come up with a better alibi,” he said.

  “It seems to be working well enough for her, sir,” said Bethancourt dryly.

  “Mmm—yes, so it does. I think we’ll have to have her walk us to the village and time it.” He glanced out the French windows at the fine, steady rain. “Not much chance of it today,” he added.

  “No, sir,” agreed Bethancourt.

  Carmichael frowned. “I wonder what’s keeping Gibbons,” he said.

  Gibbons closed the front door behind him and hung his Burberry over the back of a chair. Looking up, he saw Mrs. Berowne just coming into the hall. She looked very pale and her brown eyes were glistening with unshed tears. She did not see Gibbons for a moment and when she did, she drew a startled breath and then dabbed hastily at her eyes with the tips of her fingers.

  “Mrs. Berowne?” asked Gibbons, coming forward. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes,” she answered. “I just felt a trifle faint was all, and now I can’t seem to find my handkerchief …”

  Gibbons produced his own and handed it to her. “Perhaps you should lie down for a few minutes,” he said, for she still looked very pale to him.

  “Yes,” she said, and managed a small smile. “I was just going upstairs. Thank you so much—I’ll be fine now.”

  “You’re welcome,” replied Gibbons, taking his handkerchief back. He watched as she turned and began to climb the stairs. Then her step faltered and she clutched at the banister. Gibbons dropped the evidence bags as he jumped to steady her.

  “It’s all right,” he said, lowering her to sit on the steps. “Here, put your head down for a moment. That’s right—I’ll just fetch you a bit of brandy.”

  He had seen the drinks cabinet earlier in the drawing room. He seized a whisky glass, splashed a couple of fingers of expensive French cognac into it, and returned to the hall.

  Mrs. Berowne was still sitting as he had left her. He sank down beside her and put an arm about her shoulders.

  “Here we are,” he said gently. “Try sitting up now, and have a bit of this. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

  He brought her up slowly and handed her the brandy. She sipped it obediently and then smiled at him.

  “You’re very kind, Sergeant,” she said.

  “Not at all,” he replied, peering at her face for any sign of returning color. To his relief, he thought he detected a slight improvement. “Is that any better?”

  She nodded. “Yes, a bit.”

  “Have a little more of the cognac before you try standing up,” he said.

  She did as he suggested, and as he watched her drink, he was suddenly aware that his arm was still about her and she was leaning comfortably against his shoulder. It was certainly odd to find himself in such a cozy position with their prime suspect, and it made him a little uneasy. There was no denying that Annette Berowne inspired a protective feeling in him, which was not at all a helpful thing to feel about someone he was trying to prove guilty of murder.

  “There,” she said, handing him the glass and making an effort to smile. The dimples flashed again in her cheeks and then disappeared. “I think I’ll be all right now.”

  “I’ll just see you upstairs,” he said.

  He helped her to rise and then took her elbow to escort her up the stairs.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” she confessed. “I thought I was handling everything beautifully, and then suddenly I felt quite faint. It must,” her voice quivered, “have been that conversation about poisons.”

  “Don’t think of it now,” commanded Gibbons. “I know this is a very difficult time for you, but you must try not to make it any worse than it already is.” He cast about for a safe subject. “Didn’t you say you were fond of roses? Are there many in your garden here?”

  “Oh, yes,” she answered. “One corner of our garden has nothing but roses—all different kinds. You must have a look before you leave, if you’re interested. We have a very fine gardener. The first Mrs. Berowne loved flowers.”

  They reached the top of the staircase and she directed him down the corridor to her room. He opened the door for her.

  “You’ll be all right now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “All I need is to lie down for a little. Thank you so much again, Sergeant—I appreciate your kindness very much.” She smiled and squeezed his arm to take the formality from the words. “I’ll see you before you go?”

  “I expect so,” he answered. “Take care of yourself now.” He let her close the door on him and then turned and ran downstairs to collect his evidence bags. He did not notice that he was whistling as he walked back to the study.

  CHAPTER 4

  “It’s getting late,” said Carmichael, looking at his watch. “I think we’d better run into the village before we see Marion Berowne or we shan’t get any lunch.”

  The two younger men agreed with this sentiment heartily. They had collected the evidence in the study and stowed it carefully in the boot of the Rover. They had gone back to Miss Wellman, who had emphatically denied replacing the lilies of the valley in the study with daisies. She insisted she had not been in the study in weeks.

  Then they had gone out into the rain and eventually run the gardener to ground in a potting shed at the bottom of the garden. If Kitty Whitcomb was something of an anachronism, James McAllister ran truer to form than anyone would have believed possible. He was an ancient, monosyllabic, and curmudgeonly Scotsman. Yes, he had been working in the tulip beds just off the terrace on the morning of the murder. Mr. Berowne had come along quite early and bothered him for some time about a foolish plan to uproot the rhododendrons by Little House. Yes, of course he meant Mr. Paul Berowne, not Mr. Geoffrey. Why should Geoffrey Berowne want to fool with Little House’s rhododendrons? Then later he had seen Mrs. Berowne emerge from the house and go off along the path. No, he didn’t know what time it was—he didn’t wear a watch—other than it was before lunch. He had lunch at one. Asked how he knew when it was time for lunch if he had no watch, he looked scornful and replied that he knew because he was hungry. This statement delighted Bethancourt, who privately resolved to inquire of Kitty at the first opportunity whether or not the old man was really on time for his meal every day.

&n
bsp; McAllister apparently had not the least concern that he might be suspected. He had finished with the tulips just before lunch and had returned to the potting shed to clean his tools and see to the tomato seeds. He had not seen Mrs. Berowne return, nor had he seen anyone else until he had gone in for lunch and been faced with the news of his employer’s death.

  The rain was falling more heavily when they emerged from the potting shed and traced their way back through the gardens and along a path that led to the other side of the estate and the garage. This was the old stable, completely renovated, with a small, attractive apartment in what had once been the hayloft. Here they found Ken Mills, the chauffeur, who was a good-looking young man who looked as if he was no stranger to the weight room at the gym. He had, however, even less to add to the investigation than McAllister. He had seen Mr. Paul leave for work that morning in the BMW, his usual car. Mr. Paul had returned shortly, however, saying that the car seemed to be overheating. On investigation, this turned out to be because the thermostat had gone. It was not a difficult thing to fix, but he had had to go to the dealers in Guildford for the part. He had seen no one else that morning. Mr. Paul had returned shortly after noon to see how the work was coming and was still there when word of the tragedy had come from the house.

  It was now almost two and Bethancourt, who was not usually an early riser and who seldom ate breakfast, was nearly starving, and only his gratitude to Carmichael for having let him come at all had prevented him from skipping the chauffeur interview and going in search of lunch. He fervently applauded the chief inspector’s plan to eat before seeing Marion Berowne.

  They were just starting back to the house when Mills leaned out of his window and called down to them.

  “Chief Inspector!” he said. “Kitty’s just rung up—she’s fair peeved with you. She says your lunch has been ready for close on an hour and if you don’t come and eat it at once, she’ll put it in the bin.”

  Carmichael, considerably surprised, thanked him for the message, and they resumed their walk to the house.

  “No one said anything about giving us lunch,” Carmichael said. “Did they to you, Gibbons?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Those scones were delicious,” said Bethancourt dreamily, lengthening his stride.

  Kitty met them at the kitchen door, her dark eyes snapping with irritation.

  “You’d be Chief Inspector Carmichael,” she said. It was an accusation.

  Carmichael admitted it.

  Her eyes travelled over his figure. “You don’t look like you never eat.”

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Whitcomb,” he said. “We weren’t aware that you had made lunch for us.”

  Kitty was unappeased. “What,” she demanded, “do you think people have cooks for?”

  She did not appear to require an answer. She turned and pointed to the kitchen table, which was set for three. “I’ve put you there,” she said, in a tone that did not bode well for them if they were not seated and eating in the next ten seconds.

  They sat.

  With brisk efficiency, she brought three pint bottles of Bass from the refrigerator, and then removed a steak and kidney pie from the oven. A basket of towering popovers followed, and lastly she placed a thermos on the table.

  “There’s coffee in there,” she said. “Can you serve yourselves?”

  They thanked her and assured her they could.

  “All right then.” She stripped off her apron. “I’ll be in my sitting room if you want anything more—just knock.”

  The pie was wonderful, the popovers crisp and delicate. While they ate, they brought each other up to date and compared their notes to the reports in the case file.

  “What this is missing,” said Carmichael, tapping the file, “is a profile of Berowne himself. That’s understandable—all the Surrey officers knew him.”

  “I think we’re beginning to get a picture, sir,” said Gibbons.

  “Yes.” Carmichael nodded. “Miss Wellman called him deeply religious—I think perhaps it might be wise to pay a visit to the vicar, just to round out the picture.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  Carmichael reached for the thermos. “One more cup of this fine coffee,” he said, “and then we’d best be off to the Little House.”

  Bethancourt knocked on Kitty’s door before they left and was told to come in. She was sitting cross-legged in an armchair, a cookbook open in her lap and a pad and a pencil balanced on the arm.

  “Lunch was luscious,” he said. “We’re uncommonly grateful to you.”

  “I’m glad you liked it,” she answered.

  “We’ve put the dishes in the sink,” he added.

  “Well, thank you, but you really shouldn’t have bothered. Clearing up is part of my job.”

  Bethancourt only smiled. “I wanted to ask you something. About McAllister,” he said, and she looked curious. “I just wondered if he came in to lunch at the same time every day.”

  “One o’clock on the dot,” she said. “Occasionally, if he’s in the middle of something, he’s a bit late. But he’s no trouble—he wants a plain ham sandwich and a packet of crisps every day. Sometimes, if it’s cold, he’ll have a little soup.”

  “That’s fascinating,” said Bethancourt. “There’s Jack calling me—I’d better go. Thanks again.”

  Kitty shook her head as he closed the door. “Daft,” she said, and returned to her book.

  “No flowers in her sitting room either,” Bethancourt reported to the others as he joined them outside.

  “Not now,” said Gibbons.

  The side door of the house opened onto the terrace, from which one could either go down into the garden proper or follow a gravel path that led off at an angle between the trees. They chose the latter course, following the path until they came to Little House, which was little only when compared to the main house. This one was much more attractive and was far older—a small, late Georgian manor house.

  “This must have been the original house,” said Bethancourt, interested. “It’s lucky whoever built that Victorian horror didn’t just pull this down.”

  “Probably just a farmhouse here in the beginning,” agreed Carmichael. “There are McAllister’s rhododendrons,” he added. “I see he hasn’t started digging them up yet.”

  “Did you really get the impression he ever intended to?” asked Gibbons and Carmichael chuckled.

  Marion Berowne answered the door herself. She was about thirty-five, a tall, well-turned-out woman, who had been very handsome before her face had come to look so strained.

  She led them into the drawing room and said, “I must ask you not to speak too loudly—my son is having his nap upstairs.” Her voice was pleasantly husky.

  “Of course, Mrs. Berowne.” Carmichael smiled at her. “Mine are grown now, but I remember how it used to be at nap time.”

  She smiled back and thanked him, but the smile did not reach her eyes.

  “We’d just like to go over the statement you made to Commander Andrews,” said Carmichael, settling himself in an armchair.

  She made a little gesture. “It was really a perfectly ordinary day,” she said. “Paul went over to the main house for breakfast, and Mrs. Simmons came in while I was feeding Edwin in the kitchen. She went up to the schoolroom—she always does that first, so I can have a place to keep Edwin out of her way. When I’d finished in the kitchen, I took Edwin up there, and we were still there when Aunt Maddie rang looking for Paul.”

  “So your husband did not return here during the morning?”

  She flushed. “He came back to call the office, but I didn’t see him—I was already up in the schoolroom. I didn’t realize he hadn’t gone up to Town.” He voice was faintly bitter. “I told Maddie he was at the office, but she said no, he’d had car trouble and was probably at the garage.”

  It struck all her listeners as odd that Paul Berowne should not have told his wife where he was. She was clearly embarrassed by her ignorance, which begged
the question of whether Berowne’s action had been deliberate.

  “Do the schoolroom windows overlook the path to the postern?” asked Carmichael.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. It’s on the other side of the house.” She gestured again. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, but, really, I thought it was a perfectly ordinary day until Aunt Maddie rang up.”

  Carmichael nodded. “We’ve been told,” he said carefully, “that of late there had been some disagreements between your husband and his father over the business. Can you tell us anything about that?”

  “Only that they had them,” she answered. “I don’t really know much about the company itself. Geoffrey still put in an appearance at the office once or twice a week and I know they had a row there once. Paul was quite upset about it—he said the staff would never learn to respect him if Geoffrey was going to tick him off in front of everybody.” She paused. “Geoffrey had a bit of a temper at times,” she added. “Not violent or anything, but he’d just burst out when anything distressed him.”

  “Did he ever make threats—even threats he didn’t mean?”

  “Threats?” She looked puzzled. “I don’t think so. He’d just rant a bit, really.”

  “I see,” said Carmichael. “Did your husband get on well with his father outside of business?”

  “Yes, of course. Paul’s an only child so he and Geoffrey were very close.”

  “I understood there had been some tension over Mr. Berowne’s remarriage.”

  She smiled ruefully. “It was not generally well-received. Geoffrey was rather hurt; he couldn’t understand why the rest of us didn’t take to dear, sweet little Annette.” Her voice was laden with sarcasm.

  “She was unpleasant?” asked Carmichael.

  “Oh, no. Not unpleasant. Just doing her sweet little waif act all over the place and keeping a sharp eye out for number one all the while. It wears very thin, that. She nearly drove Aunt Maddie mad by constantly telling her how Geoffrey would like that, or wouldn’t like this, just as if Maddie hadn’t been living with the man for twelve years. She told Paul she did wish he wouldn’t aggravate his father so. And she told everything to Geoffrey in a way that put us all in the worst possible light. I thought, when she first came, that we might be company for each other—we’re much of an age. But Annette doesn’t care for anyone but Annette. She’ll flirt with men, but women are utterly useless to her.” She shrugged.