The Young Widow

by Cassandra Chan

  “Good heavens,” muttered Bethancourt, hastily checking his watch. “That must be Maria—we’re dining with some fashion people tonight.”

  He leapt to his feet and headed toward the hall, his dog at his heels.

  Marla looked magnificent as usual. Bethancourt gazed at her admiringly as she greeted Cerberus, bending to scratch his ears with one perfectly manicured hand. Straightening, she smiled and said, “We’re late again.”

  Bethancourt ignored this in favor of kissing her hello. The kiss lingered for a moment and then he drew back, smiling into her jade-green eyes, and said, “You’re late.”

  Her eyes went from languid to sparkling.

  “If I’m the only one who’s late,” she said, “then why aren’t you ready to go?”

  “But I am ready,” protested Bethancourt.

  “Oh?” Marla took half a step back and looked eloquently down at his feet, which were clad in slippers.

  “I lost track of time,” admitted Bethancourt.

  “I’m so glad,” cooed Marla, leaning into him again, “that a date with me is such a memorable event for you.”

  Bethancourt laughed. “Nonsense, Marla,” he said firmly, turning to usher her down the hall. “You know perfectly well that a date with you is the epitome of any man’s dreams, myself not excepted. Let me just get a jacket and change my shoes.”

  She smiled back at him and then paused, her face falling, as she caught sight of Gibbons, still sitting with his drink in the living room.

  “Hello, Marla,” he said.

  “Hello, Jack,” she replied, recapturing her smile. “Phillip, do go finish dressing.”

  “I am,” he answered.

  Bethancourt disappeared in the direction of the bedroom and Marla smiled charmingly at Gibbons and inquired what he had been up to that day.

  “Nothing much,” lied Gibbons, who knew Marla was best kept in the dark about murder investigations. “Paperwork,” he added.

  “Really?” she said. “How terribly dull for you.”

  “All part of the job,” said Gibbons uncomfortably, aware that she didn’t believe a word he was saying. “And what were you doing today? Working?”

  “It seems incredible,” she said, ignoring his inquiry, “with all the dreadful things going on in the papers, that they keep you sitting at a desk.”

  “Well, you’ve got to finish one case before you can start another,” explained Gibbons.

  “Of course you do,” she said. “Phillip,” she added, as Bethancourt returned suitably attired, “Jack’s just been telling me all about this enthralling new case.”

  Bethancourt picked up his glass without batting an eye. “Really?” he said. “He told me he’d been working at the office all day.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Marla, suddenly losing patience and glaring at both of them. “Jack never wears a jacket and tie at the office. That’s your best interviewing suspects outfit, and you know it.”

  “Court appearance this morning,” said Gibbons promptly. “Just a small case. It didn’t take long.”

  “I’ll bet it didn’t,” muttered Marla, defeated.

  “We really ought to be going, Marla,” said Bethancourt, draining his drink. “We’re going to be half an hour late as it is.”

  “Are you coming with us, Jack?” asked Marla, flashing him her sweetest smile.

  Gibbons had seen that smile plastered over too many magazine pages to have much faith in its sincerity. “I can’t,” he said. “I have to be up early tomorrow.” Besides, he added silently to himself, I probably can’t afford wherever you’re going.

  They filed out of the flat, Gibbons remaining firm in his refusal to join them, and bade each other good night. Gibbons looked after them for a moment as they made their way down the street in search of a taxi, arms linked, Bethancourt inclining his head to catch what Marla was saying. For a moment, he felt lonely. Then he turned and went off in the opposite direction to wait for the bus.

  CHAPTER 5

  Gibbons leaned back against the leather upholstery of the gray Jaguar and let his mind roam over the events of the morning while Bethancourt guided the car down the A21. They had visited the London offices of Berowne Biscuits that morning and had met their final suspect, Paul Berowne. He was a thin, gray-haired man, quiet and sober in manner, with a thin-lipped mouth that gave nothing away and the same strained look in his eyes that his wife had worn. Gibbons knew he was thirty-eight, but he looked much older.

  Berowne was very correct in his manner. He received them politely and ordered tea from his secretary. It was at this point that Bethancourt abandoned the policemen and went happily off to help the temporary typist fetch the tea. It was a surprisingly long time in coming.

  Nothing Carmichael said during the interview had seemed to disturb Berowne in the least. In a quiet, measured tone, he repeated his original statement: the temperature gauge in his car had come on almost as soon as he had left the estate that morning and he had immediately returned to the garage. Mills had swiftly diagnosed the problem and explained that it would take a little time to put right. Berowne had left him to it and had returned to the house to phone his office.

  “You didn’t think of taking one of the other cars, or perhaps the train?” asked Carmichael.

  “No, I didn’t,” Berowne replied. “There was nothing of particular importance awaiting me here and I really only enjoy driving the BMW.”

  After ringing his secretary, he had gone to find McAllister in the garden to speak to him about replacing some rhododendrons with ornamental trees. That done, he had taken a walk around the estate. It had been a beautiful morning and he hadn’t wanted to spend it inside. He had returned to the house for another cup of coffee, but had used the kitchen door and therefore had not seen either Mrs. Simmons or his wife. About noon or shortly thereafter, he had returned to the garage to see how Mills was getting on. It was there that Maddie Wellman had found him with the news of his father’s death.

  “So your walk took nearly three hours,” said Carmichael.

  Berowne shrugged. “About that, I suppose. I didn’t walk the whole time; I sat down by the pond for a while.”

  “Still, it seems a long time.”

  “I was thinking things over,” replied Berowne, unperturbed. “Ever since I took over from my father here, things have not run smoothly and I’ve been very worried about it. Lately I’ve been wondering just what I could do to get things back on track. The answers have not been obvious.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Carmichael. “I understand that you and your father had had several disagreements recently about the business?”

  “There were bound to be differences.” Berowne sighed and looked tired. “My father had a real flair for business and investments. My grandfather started Berowne Biscuits, but my father made it what it is today. I don’t have that flair. I’m reliable and hard-working, but I don’t have his genius. Father never understood that his gift was special, that I didn’t do things his way because I couldn’t.”

  “Did these disagreements reflect on your relationship at home?”

  “Not at all. And they weren’t precisely disagreements. My father would discover something I had done, or left undone, and then fly off the handle about it. But he was always right and I admitted that.”

  “Naturally, you felt some resentment over this treatment?”

  “I certainly wished he wouldn’t lose his temper so easily,” replied Berowne, “but I’ve been wishing that all my life. If you’re implying that I wanted him to stop interfering, you’re quite wrong, Chief Inspector. I relied very heavily on my father’s advice. In fact,” now he looked harassed, “I don’t really know how I’m going to manage without it.”

  “I’m sure things will work out,” murmured Carmichael. “Now, Mr. Berowne, I’d just like to ask you about your stepmother.”

  A look of distaste came into Berowne’s eyes. “I know nothing against her, other than the fact that she married my father for his money a
nd tried to alienate him from his family. I don’t even know if she was being unfaithful.”

  “But you suspect it?”

  He shrugged in answer and although Carmichael probed, he could draw nothing further from him on the subject.

  They had gone on to interview Berowne’s secretary and the office manager, both of whom were so discreet that they barely admitted to knowing their employers at all. Bethancourt had done better with the temporary typist, who had been working in the office for almost four months. She gleefully divulged that on the days Geoffrey Berowne had come into the office, everything had been turned upside down and that father and son had usually had a row behind the closed door of Mr. Berowne’s office. The last row, however, had taken place in full view of all the secretaries and half the staff and had centered on some investments made by the younger Mr. Berowne. Geoffrey had called his son a fool and had stormed off to lunch. This had occurred the week before the murder. The office as a whole thought Annette Berowne had killed her husband; the temporary typist had never seen Mrs. Berowne herself, but everyone assured her that the woman was a real man-trap and quite horrid.

  Gibbons was roused from his thoughts by the realization that the car had slowed almost to a crawl and was edging its way toward the verge.

  “Phillip!” he said sharply.

  “What? Oh, dear.” Bethancourt guided the car back onto the road and accelerated. “I was just looking at the hop fields.”

  Gibbons sighed and wished, not for the first time, that they could have taken the motorway. Bethancourt was actually a very good driver when he was paying attention. Unfortunately, he was easily distracted and spent a good part of any trip gazing about him at almost anything but the road ahead, slowing as he drew near some interesting feature and then racing on at top speed until something else drew his attention. There were far fewer distractions on the motorways.

  Gibbons glanced at the ordinance map in his hands and resigned himself to the fact that they would shortly have to turn off onto a secondary road for some miles. He had better, he decided, give up thinking about the case and turn his attention to Bethancourt’s driving.

  “I think the turnoff’s coming up,” he said.

  “I see it.” Bethancourt shifted down smoothly. “I don’t think I’ve ever taken this road before. Look at that church over there, Jack.”

  “Splendid,” agreed Gibbons, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “I’m glad it cleared up,” said Bethancourt. “It’s nice to get out of London on a day like this.”

  Gibbons had to admit this was true.

  They drove into Hawkhurst without further incident and found the doctor’s surgery in a narrow side street. Bethancourt parked the Jaguar at the curb and affixed a lead to Cerberus’s collar, but then declined to go in with Gibbons.

  “I want some tea,” he said. “I’m sure I saw a tea shop back there on the High Street.”

  Gibbons regarded him good-humoredly. “You want to see if you can find anyone to gossip with,” he said.

  “That too,” agreed Bethancourt with grin. “I’ll meet you back here.”

  Bethancourt chose his tea shop carefully. Hawkhurst boasted two of these establishments, one toward the end of the High Street, next door to a small antique shop, and one more centrally located, close by the post office. He inspected both through the windows. The one by the antique store was carefully countrified, with chintz curtains drawn back from the windows, solid pine tables and chairs, and china teapots. The second was larger and less meticulous in its decor: the tables were formica, the floor linoleum, and tea was served in stainless-steel jugs. The first was patronized by a smattering of people, generally well-off looking, while the second was fairly crammed with the ladies of the village. There were two young mothers seated in the back with their children, shopping parcels on the floor beside them. The front was taken up by middle-aged to elderly women seated at tables in twos and threes.

  Bethancourt entered the second shop and selected a table near the older women, all of whom looked him and his dog over carefully without ceasing their conversations. Cerberus stretched out on the floor by his master’s feet, yawning and closing his eyes. Bethancourt ordered tea and muffins and settled down to listen to his neighbors’ conversation.

  The pair on his right were two of the older ladies and were discussing their grandchildren. The three in front of him were apparently avid gardeners. Bethancourt, who had grown up in the country, knew something about gardening, but not enough to enter into the esoteric discussion about peas. He turned back to the grandmothers just as one of them was detailing a near-accident involving a grandchild and a passing car, and how she had told her daughter-in-law several times that the yard ought to be fenced.

  “Excuse me,” said Bethancourt politely. “I couldn’t help overhearing you—is there a lot of traffic around here? Because our oldest is just two.”

  “Oh, no,” said the lady who had spoken. “My son’s family lives on a particularly nasty curve, and the house is far too close to the road. It’s not a general problem at all.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” said Bethancourt.

  “Have you taken a house in Hawkhurst, Mr., er …”

  “Bethancourt. Phillip Bethancourt. No, actually, I’m just starting to look in this area. I haven’t even been to the estate agents yet—I thought I’d drive around a bit and get the feel of the place first. It’s very lovely around here.”

  Both ladies agreed that it was lovely and proceeded to point out in detail just what made it so. The gardening club, seeing that contact had been made with the unknown man, abandoned their discussion of peas and joined in. Introductions were made, including the two women on the farther side of the grandmothers.

  Bethancourt vouchsafed the information that he and his wife had just had their second child and wished to move out of London. They had been looking in Surrey, which was where his wife was from, but had failed to find just what they wanted. But they had run into a very nice lady there, who had suggested they try Kent. She was from Hawkhurst herself and had mentioned the village.

  “Really? I wonder if that could have been Dottie Langston?”

  “No,” answered Bethancourt. “No, I don’t think that was the name.”

  “Or perhaps Julie Hoving?” suggested someone else.

  “No, dear, that was Buckinghamshire she moved to.”

  “Brown, I think,” said Bethancourt tentatively. “Was it Ann Brown? That’s not quite right, I know …”

  Dead silence greeted this suggestion.

  “Surely,” said the grandmother on his right, “surely you can’t mean Annette Berowne?”

  Bethancourt beamed at her. “That was it,” he said. “I knew Ann Brown wasn’t right. Do you know her?”

  A chorus of voices broke out all around him. Didn’t he know who Annette Berowne was? Didn’t he read the papers or listen to the news? Why it was just last week …

  “Last week?” echoed Bethancourt, looking bewildered. “But what happened?”

  “She killed her husband,” said Mrs. Evans flatly.

  “No!” Bethancourt managed to look appropriately shocked. “Are you sure it’s the same woman? She was rather small, brown eyes and light brown hair, almost blond?”

  “That’s her,” said Mrs. Mathews.

  “It made all the papers,” put in Miss Bascomb. “However did you miss it?”

  “Well,” Bethancourt smiled deprecatingly, “you know how it is with a new baby in the house …”

  They did know, but before they could get sidetracked on a subject they knew far more about than he, he asked them if they had really known Annette Berowne. A babel of assents came at him from all sides. What they could tell him about Annette Berowne, or Annette Burton as she was.

  “She killed her last husband, too, you know,” confided Mrs. Alden.

  “No!” exclaimed Bethancourt. “How horrible. Was that here in Hawkhurst?”

  They were eager to tell him all about it. Th
ey had never liked Annette—from the moment she set foot in Hawkhurst, they had their suspicions. Poor old William Burton had brought her back from that health spa he had gone to in Switzerland. And she actually lived in the house with him for two months before they were finally married, although why they had bothered at that point was beyond the ladies. Bethancourt, to whom marrying a woman he had not already slept with was unthinkable, tsked-tsked and shook his head.

  “It was after that she began to give herself airs.”

  “Lady of leisure, that’s how she fancied herself.”

  “We heard she was just a secretary before she married.”

  “Poor William Burton had his head turned by her, that’s a fact.”

  “Any fool could see she married him for his money.”

  “Of course she did! When a woman in her twenties marries a man of seventy, there’s always a reason—and it isn’t the usual one.”

  “But what happened to Mr. Burton?” asked Bethancourt.

  About this the ladies were vaguer. They reluctantly admitted that he had been in poor health and that Annette had helped to nurse him. Then, just as he was getting better, he had suddenly died. The majority of those gathered seemed of the opinion that Annette had poisoned him, but there was one notable dissension. Miss Loomis, a thin, elderly woman with bright, birdlike eyes, said very firmly, “Bosh. Annette didn’t have enough brains to poison the cat.”

  Since Miss Loomis had thus far said hardly anything, merely listening and occasionally raising an eyebrow, Bethancourt was interested.

  “So you think she’s innocent, Miss Loomis?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what do you think happened?” pursued Bethancourt.

  Miss Loomis set her teacup down carefully in the center of the saucer. “What no one’s told you,” she said, “is that William Burton was a diabetic. The district nurse taught Annette to give him his shots. Naturally she explained how important it was to make sure there was no air in the syringe. It wouldn’t take much for even Annette to realize that if there were nothing but air in the syringe and she injected it into a vein … Well, I’m sure you see.”