“Oh, yes,” said Bethancourt, intrigued. “And there would be no evidence at all.”
“None.” Miss Loomis smiled at him as if at a bright pupil. Then, having said her piece, she returned her attention to her tea.
“Letitia used to be a nurse herself,” said Mrs. Evans.
“That was a long time ago,” said Miss Loomis placidly.
“She really should have been a doctor,” confided Mrs. Mathews from Bethancourt’s other side.
Miss Loomis shook her head. “Girls didn’t do things like that in those days,” she said, but not as if she minded.
“No, I suppose not,” said Bethancourt, looking at her reflectively.
“I hope,” said Miss Bascomb, “that all this talk of murder won’t put you off Hawkhurst.”
“Oh, no,” answered Bethancourt. “Not at all. I mean, it’s not the sort of thing that happens often.”
They agreed with alacrity that it was not and from there the conversation became more general. Bethancourt was interrogated as to his employment, his wife and children, the flat in London, and his birthplace. He was directed to the estate agents and told about several properties he might like to view. Eventually, the ladies began to check the clock and excuse themselves, leaving Bethancourt to follow suit.
He found Gibbons waiting for him in the Jaguar.
“I saw you in the tea shop,” said his friend with a grin. “It looked as if you were a big hit.”
Bethancourt opened the door and ushered Cerberus into the back seat. “I suppose I was,” he answered, sliding into the driver’s seat. “How was the doctor?”
“Highly indignant,” answered Gibbons. “He gave me a list of all the things that were wrong with William Burton to prove that his death was thoroughly expected.”
“The ladies,” said Bethancourt, switching on the ignition and letting in the clutch, “say that he was recovering when he was struck down.”
“That’s true, to a certain extent,” replied Gibbons. “He had diabetes, which was playing him up pretty rough, and the doctor thought it was about to carry him off. Then, all at once, it went into remission or whatever these things do—I’ve got all the technical terms down in my notes—and Burton started looking a bit better. But, as the doctor carefully explained to me, it was all an enormous strain on a body that wasn’t functioning too well anyway. Therefore, he was not at all surprised when a heart attack carried the old boy off.”
“I see,” said Bethancourt thoughtfully.
“I’ve still got to see the district nurse,” said Gibbons. “She lives a bit out of the village—I’ll show you the turnoff.”
“All right,” answered Bethancourt. “I’d like to see her, too.”
“I also,” continued Gibbons, “interviewed Mrs. Ridge, Burton’s longtime housekeeper, who apparently gave notice five minutes after Burton died.”
“Did she turn up her nose at the idea of murder as well?”
“Not as emphatically as the doctor,” replied Gibbons. “She disliked Annette thoroughly—referred to her as ‘that gold-digger’but says Burton was indeed very ill for a long time and the doctor had prepared her for the idea that he might die at any time. It never occurred to her that anything might be wrong until the rumors started and even now she says that if Annette killed him, she certainly can’t make out how. She definitely didn’t start the rumors.”
“No,” said Bethancourt. “No one seems to really have been told anything. And I would be willing to bet that my ladies weren’t so sure themselves until they heard about Geoffrey Berowne.”
“So you think it’s a mare’s nest, too.”
“Well, I would,” admitted Bethancourt, “except for one astute old lady.” He repeated his conversation with Miss Loomis.
“We’ll ask the nurse about it,” said Gibbons. “Still, it’s only an idea—nothing at all to back it up.”
Bethancourt did not reply.
Miss Donsworth, the district nurse, was a pleasant, efficient woman of about forty. She scoffed at the idea that Annette had murdered William Burton.
“Why should she have?” she demanded. “Mr. Burton was a very ill man and his wife knew it. All she had to do was wait—he couldn’t have lasted more than a year.”
“But she’d already been nursing him for two,” said Bethancourt. “Perhaps she couldn’t bear it any longer.”
Miss Donsworth shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Mrs. Burton was really quite good at nursing—never impatient or anything like that. And, besides, how would she induce a heart attack? It’s not so easy to do, you know.”
Gibbons outlined Miss Loomis’s theory.
“Well!” Miss Donsworth was thoughtful. “Certainly I explained the dangers of injections very carefully to her,” she said. “I always do. So it’s possible. On the other hand, I don’t know if she’d have thought of it. Common sense wasn’t her strong point—she was a decent enough nurse, as I said, but you had to explain everything very precisely to her.”
“Did you like her?” asked Gibbons.
“Like her?” Miss Donsworth seemed surprised by the question. “She was all right, I suppose. We weren’t friends, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did you think she had married Mr. Burton for his money?” asked Bethancourt.
“Oh, yes,” replied the nurse placidly. “She must have, mustn’t she? But that’s nothing out of the ordinary—women do it all the time.”
“Er, yes,” said Gibbons, a bit startled by this pronouncement. He glanced at Bethancourt, whose eyebrows were arched over the rims of his glasses. “Well, thank you very much, Miss Donsworth. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Well,” said Gibbons as they returned to the car, “that should be a warning to you, Phillip. Be sure to marry a rich woman.”
“I suppose I had better,” replied Bethancourt, grinning. “It would certainly please my mother—she’s a terrible snob at heart.”
“What does she think of Marla?” asked Gibbons, settling into his seat and fastening his safety belt.
Bethancourt threw him a look. “She’s never met her,” he answered. “I’m not that big a fool.”
He turned the car in the drive and headed onto the road while Gibbons considered his friend thoughtfully. It had never occurred to him before to wonder how Bethancourt felt about Marla, whether he was at all serious about her. They had been dating for almost a year now, which was as long as Gibbons could remember any other relationship of Bethancourt’s lasting. Now that Gibbons thought of it, Bethancourt had always had a girlfriend in tow. He was undeniably attractive to women, although in Gibbons’s more objective eyes his friend was not really handsome and was definitely on the skinny side. Still, he had a certain charm which he did not hesitate to use and which kept him supplied with steady female companionship.
Bethancourt seemed to regard women and sex as being in the same category as food and shelter. Gibbons himself did not have the capacity to sustain a relationship that was merely entertaining and which had no deeper meaning. He had persuaded himself into the appropriate feelings on several occasions, but had always fallen short on the time and energy these things required. He supposed he was really rather inexperienced.
Rather abruptly, he asked Bethancourt if he ever contemplated settling down with Marla.
Bethancourt was understandably surprised. “I don’t know as I’ve ever contemplated settling down at all,” he replied. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Gibbons. “I was just thinking about relationships.”
Bethancourt raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You’re not trying to tell me you’ve suddenly fallen for my girlfriend, are you?”
“Don’t be daft, Phillip. Marla and I don’t even get on.”
“I thought not,” said Bethancourt, dexterously making a turn while lighting a cigarette. “But one never knows. Then I assume you were thinking about Annette Berowne with her propensity for older men, and you got sidetracked.”
“Not
exactly,” sighed Gibbons, “but I suppose I’d better start thinking about it. At least,” he added, brightening, “the idea that she killed William Burton seems washed out.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Bethancourt, shooting him an impassive glance.
“Well, I do, really,” said Gibbons. “There’s no evidence of it at all.”
“There’s no evidence she killed Geoffrey Berowne, either.”
“Well, no, but we do know that he was murdered, whereas William Burton looks to have died of natural causes.”
For once Bethancourt stared straight ahead at the road, smoking silently for a moment. “There’s a disturbing pattern, though,” he said at last. “One could easily see Berowne’s death as being a case of overconfidence on her part, having pulled the same thing off so easily twice before. Look at the thing this way, Jack: she’s married to Eric Threadgood and getting less and less happy about it. And then, one day on the slopes in Switzerland, she sees a way to get rid of him and keep his money. It’s pure impulse, but it comes off beautifully. No one ever suspects anything but an accident. Then there’s William Burton. She marries him, thinking perhaps that he’ll die quite quickly. But once she sees he’s going to hang on for a bit, well, she gets the idea from the nurse for how to do away with him. Pure serendipity. Geoffrey Berowne is a more difficult case, but she’s sure of herself now and eventually comes up with a plan.”
“Yes, I see the pattern,” said Gibbons. “First, a near accident; next a little more deliberate but still leaving her perfectly safe; and then a more elaborate crime. It’s the kind of pattern I’ve seen in criminals before: starting small, almost inadvertently, and then graduating to full-scale criminal activities, a little bigger with every step they take. But Annette Berowne’s a bit different. For one thing, if she’d solved her marital and monetary problems with Eric Threadgood’s death, why did she marry William Burton?”
“I don’t know,” said Bethancourt. “It would be interesting to know how well-off Threadgood left her.”
“Carmichael’s working on that,” said Gibbons. “You can come round to the Yard when we get back and see what he’s dug up.”
“No time,” answered Bethancourt with a glance at his watch. “Hell, I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.” The Jaguar leaped forward.
“Date with Marla?” asked Gibbons.
“You’ve got Marla on the brain,” retorted Bethancourt. “No, it’s the fencing club’s annual dinner—and I have to dress for it.”
“I didn’t realize you still fenced,” said Gibbons.
“Not in tournaments anymore,” said Bethancourt briefly. “Just at the club to keep my hand in. Look here, Jack, the dinner shouldn’t run late. I’ll drop round your flat afterward and you can tell me what you and Carmichael have deduced.”
“All right,” said Gibbons. “But you’d better ring first and make sure I’m not still at the Yard.”
“Very well,” agreed Bethancourt.
Gibbons was regretting these arrangements when he arrived home at ten o’clock, carrying a stuffed potato and a bottle of beer to augment the canteen sandwich he had had for dinner three hours ago. It had been a long day and he was very tired. He stripped off his working clothes and pulled on a plaid flannel robe and a pair of slippers. He sank into an old, much-worn armchair with a sigh and flicked on the television, turning the station to the sports highlights. He was just starting to eat, balancing the potato in its take-away box on his knees, when the doorbell rang.
“Oh, really,” he said, and rose to answer it.
Bethancourt appeared cheerful and rather tipsy. He tossed his raincoat onto a chair and sprawled comfortably in the second elderly armchair.
“How was your dinner?” asked Gibbons, picking up his potato.
“Excellent,” answered Bethancourt, eyeing the potato with distaste. “Escargot, and cold cream of vegetable soup, and veal medallions with madeira sauce. Raspberry sorbet for pudding. Very nice.”
“There’s some more beer in the refrigerator,” said Gibbons.
Bethancourt put his head on one side. “I don’t think that would be at all wise,” he said. “I’ve already had scotch and a good bit of wine, and a brandy. I think adding beer would be asking for trouble.”
“There’s a bottle of Bells in the cupboard beside the refrigerator,” said Gibbons.
“That will do nicely, thank you,” said Bethancourt, rising to get it.
He returned with the bottle and two glasses. “In case you feel inclined,” he explained, “after you finish your beer and—er—snack.”
“This,” said Gibbons, indicating the half-eaten potato, “is not a snack. It is the second course of a meal begun with a ham sandwich in the canteen. I admit there was rather more time between courses than I would have liked.”
“Well, all I can say is I’m sorry for you,” said Bethancourt, resuming his seat and producing his cigarette case. “If that’s the kind of food you eat, it’s no wonder you’re grumpy at the end of the day.”
“I’m only tired. I didn’t have a nice, relaxing dinner. I was working.”
“Well, have a nice, relaxing drink now and tell me all about it,” said Bethancourt. He poured two drinks, set one beside Gibbons’s chair and leaned back to light his cigarette. He looked, Gibbons thought, abominably comfortable and pleased with life.
Having finished the inside of the potato, Gibbons began tearing off pieces of the skin with his fingers. “Carmichael spent the afternoon talking to Switzerland and looking up Eric Threadgood’s will. Threadgood died in a freak skiing accident at fifty-six years of age. Basically, he fell and broke his neck. There were no witnesses, but it was never considered anything but an accident. Annette was also out on the slopes at the time, but it’s difficult to see how she could have arranged the accident, especially in view of the fact that she’s not a very expert skier and was presumably on the beginner’s slope while Threadgood was on the more dangerous runs.”
“What about the will?”
Gibbons popped another piece of potato skin into his mouth. “Before his marriage, Threadgood had left all his money to his niece and nephew. After he married, he made a new will dividing it up between them and his wife, unless he and Annette had children, in which case everything went to Annette.”
“So she only got a third share?” asked Bethancourt.
“That’s right.” Gibbons washed the potato skin down with the last of his beer, and reached for the scotch. “It was still enough for her to live on, in a very modest way, if she sold the house he’d bought when they married and his boat. I expect she’d have sold the boat in any case since she didn’t like sailing.”
“Still,” said Bethancourt thoughtfully, “it would mean a cutback in her lifestyle.”
“Most definitely,” agreed Gibbons. “Threadgood had been spending pretty freely—just a little bit more than he should have. He had to dip into his capital to pay for that boat. So she might have married Burton for the money.”
“Still, it puts paid to my theory that she killed Threadgood impulsively, or even by accident,” said Bethancourt.
“Well, there’s not really any evidence either way,” said Gibbons. “Your theory could still be true. And even if Threadgood’s death was an accident, his death might have later led her to think how nice it would be if she could get rid of Burton, and from there to how easy it would be. Of course,” he added, “even if she’s innocent of their deaths, that doesn’t mean she didn’t kill Berowne.”
“No,” agreed Bethancourt thoughtfully. But he was now conversely thinking of how it might have been if Annette were innocent. There she would be in Switzerland, having received the shock of her husband’s death, and just beginning to realize how much her own life would change in consequence. Whether she had loved her first husband or not, she must surely have enjoyed the difference marriage made in her life. And now that would all be taken away. If she had been fond of Eric Threadgood, the whole situation would have been that much
more devastating. And then there would be old William Burton, a kindly man, well-off and taken with her as nearly all men were. So easy to encourage him, and there would be no need to start counting the pennies. True, Burton was going to need a lot of time and care from her, but it wouldn’t be for long and she was still young. All in all, Bethancourt decided, it had probably been a hasty decision on her part, but she could not have regretted it too much or she would not have gone through with the wedding.
“She inherited everything from Burton?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” answered Gibbons. “He really hadn’t anyone else to leave it to.” He sighed. “But, as Carmichael pointed out this evening, it really doesn’t matter. He’s planning to spend tomorrow looking into Annette’s contacts in London and getting hold of her credit card records and such. It’s something Surrey CID never did, and it might lead somewhere. Carmichael’s thinking is that she must have had some motive for killing her husband beyond that she was bored with him.” “What about the vase and the poison book?” asked Bethancourt.
“Not back from the lab yet. We should hear next week,” answered Gibbons. “If they’re clean, we’re in real trouble because although it’s well enough to find motive, other people had motives, too, and what we really need is hard evidence that she did it.”
“Cheer up, Jack,” said Bethancourt. “If you get motive, you might well be able to elicit a confession.”
“Here’s to hope,” said Gibbons, tossing off the last of his whisky. He did not, however, sound very hopeful.
CHAPTER 6
Carmichael sighed and picked up his cigar from the ashtray.
“I do wish,” he said, “that Surrey CID would keep their messes to themselves.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons.
They had been working on the case for a week and had turned up nothing. So far as they could determine, Annette’s account of her trips to London agreed exactly with what her credit cards said; there was no large block of time unaccounted for. There were no suspicious calls on her phone records. They had spoken with her friends from before her marriage to Berowne, but none of them had known anything to her discredit. They had gone over the Surrey CID reports minutely, and had spent wearisome hours compiling timetables. But every line of inquiry had simply petered out on them.
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