It was said quite casually and Gibbons felt a pang of doubt assail him. The footpath here ran quite straight with the meadows stretching out on either side and the trees rising beyond them. He could not see how any part of it was distinguishable from any other and somehow he felt she had picked the spot at random.
He was distracted in the next moment, however, by the first big raindrops.
“Oh, dear,” said Annette. “I’m afraid you were right.”
Gibbons stopped and opened the umbrella, holding it mostly over Annette. They continued on, but as the rain pounded down and the footpath began to turn to mud beneath their feet, it became clear that they needed shelter. Gibbons, wiping the water from his eyes, looked around without much hope. He was just deciding that the nearer trees would be the best they could do when he spotted a cattle shelter off to the left.
“Look,” he said, pointing. “Do you think you can make it across the meadow?”
She nodded, clearly relieved. “I think there’s a stile just ahead,” she said.
He helped her over it and they began to run toward the shelter. It stood back against the trees, putting the width of the meadow between it and them. The ground was very uneven, and their progress was not swift as they stumbled along, Gibbons trying to support Annette and keep the umbrella over her simultaneously.
At last they made it, collapsing against the back of the shelter and laughing, exhilarated by their effort and filled with a sense of the ludicrous at their bedraggled appearance.
“Oh, dear,” gasped Annette, pushing at her hair which, despite Gibbons’s best efforts with the umbrella, had become rather wet. “I must look frightful.”
“Not at all,” said Gibbons, who was brushing his own hair with his hand in the hopes that he could deflect the water from running down his collar. But he glanced at her and the sight made him smile. “Only a little damp,” he said.
Having got her hair out of her face, Annette began dabbing at her eyes. “Has my mascara run?” she asked and raised her face to his.
He looked down at her and with a wet finger gently wiped away a brown smudge from beneath one brown eye.
“There,” he said. “That’s fine, now.”
He had leaned close to her and from out of nowhere an impulse rose in him to close the gap and kiss her. Appalled at himself, he stepped back abruptly and began to shake the rain out of the umbrella vigorously. Thus occupied, he did not hear her little sigh of disappointment.
Damn, he thought to himself, stealing another glance at her as she attempted to wring the water out of her hair. The first woman he had felt drawn to in some time, and she would have to be a suspect in a murder case he was investigating. They got on so well together that if she had been anyone else he would be suggesting they have dinner some night at this very moment. As it was, he would have to watch his step and hope that they would still be on speaking terms once the case was over. Very often even the innocent were only too happy to see the back of the police as soon as they could. Gibbons grimaced at his fate.
Annette leaned back against the shelter and stuck out one foot, surveying her shoe sadly.
“I think it’s done for,” she said.
“Mine, too,” said Gibbons, leaning back beside her. “We should have worn galoshes.”
“Yes. Oh my, look at it come down.”
The cattle shelter was not very deep, but they were lucky in having the wind at the back of it. They stood companionably, watching the rain fall, pointing out some feature to each from time to time, but otherwise keeping silent.
At last the first torrent passed away, leaving a steady but much lighter rainfall. Both of them were becoming increasingly uncomfortable in their damp clothes and wet shoes, and they agreed that they had better start back. They picked their way across the meadow, soaking the hem of Annette’s skirt and Gibbons’s trousers to the knees. A sense of the ludicrous again overwhelmed them as they regained the footpath, now a mixture of mud and stones, and they began to giggle as they stumbled along. Annette had taken Gibbons’s arm again, nestled up against his right side so that they could both crowd under the umbrella. It was a pleasant sensation. As he walked through the rain and mud, putting the final touches on the ruin of his nearly new shoes, with all thoughts of detective worked banished from his mind by the absurdity of the situation, Gibbons was very happy indeed.
Bethancourt was happy, too. Kitty had made omelets for lunch: creamy, wonderful omelets with sliced almonds, still-firm mushrooms, and little bits of bacon. She had added white wine and cream to the eggs and the slightest hint of tarragon. They were delicious and were accompanied by a green salad, buttery popovers, and a dry white wine.
Bethancourt ate with his bare feet stretched toward the fireplace, where his shoes and socks were drying, with Kitty seated opposite him. She watched him with an amused smile, having finished her own meal.
“You’re very fond of food, aren’t you?” she asked.
Bethancourt nodded and swallowed a mouthful of omelet. “I’m fond of this kind of food,” he said.
Kitty’s smile broadened. “And can you cook, yourself?” she asked.
“Some things,” answered Bethancourt.
They were interrupted by Miss Wellman returning with her tray. She and Bethancourt had been introduced earlier when she had come in for her lunch, and Bethancourt had taken to her immediately. Now she cast a sharp look at him and said, “I didn’t know the police were still here. Eating us out of house and home, aren’t you?”
Bethancourt grinned as he finished off the last of his omelet. “It’s the reason we came back,” he said. “So that we could have another of Kitty’s meals.”
Miss Wellman smiled unexpectedly. “She is a wonderful cook, isn’t she?” she said. “You’re a treasure, Kitty. I don’t know how I’ll bear it if I have to move to that horrible lodge.”
“Do you think you will?” asked Kitty, clearing the dishes off the tray.
“I don’t know.” Miss Wellman’s sharp gray eyes glanced at Bethancourt. “If the police don’t shake a leg and arrest Annette, I may have to. Being a thorn in her side has its moments, but I’m not sure I’d fancy it down through the years. Good Lord,” she added, “what an uncommonly beautiful dog!”
Cerberus, hearing Kitty moving about, had come out from his place beneath the table. This room was simply crammed with good smells and thus far he had not benefited from any of them.
“His name’s Cerberus,” said Bethancourt as Miss Wellman held out her hands and Cerberus sniffed politely.
“Now that’s an idea,” said Miss Wellman, burying her hand in the fur behind Cerberus’s ears. The dog’s tail waved gently. “I’ll get a dog. Annette ought to hate that—she’s very timid with animals. I’ll get an Irish wolfhound. A big one,” she added, as if they came in smaller sizes. Kitty giggled, apparently at the thought of Annette Berowne facing a dog as large as a small pony.
“Have you ever had a dog?” asked Bethancourt, who could not help but be concerned over the welfare of an animal purchased solely for its annoyance value.
“Not since I came here to live,” answered Miss Wellman. “Geoffrey was allergic, you see. When Gwenda married him, she had a nice little beagle, but she soon had to turn him over to me. There’s no reason not to get one now, however. I’d rather like to have a dog again.”
“There’s certainly plenty of room on the estate for a big dog to run,” said Bethancourt.
“You’d better be sure he doesn’t get into the garden,” warned Kitty. “McAllister would have your head.”
“That’s true,” agreed Miss Wellman. “I’d have to watch him.”
“Once he was trained,” said Bethancourt, “it would probably be easy enough to keep him out.”
The conversation turned to the merits of various methods of dog training. They were just discussing the books of Barbara Woodhouse and the indignity of screeching “walkies!” in a high-pitched voice, when Gibbons and Annette made their appearance.
/> They came in dripping and grinning rather foolishly like people who know they are a mess, but have given up trying to do anything about it.
“I’m very sorry, Kitty,” began Annette in placating tones, “but we—oh!” This last was in the nature of a shriek and was directed at Cerberus, who had roused himself from leaning against Miss Wellman’s side and turned round to view the newcomers.
“It’s all right, Annette,” said Miss Wellman sharply. “It’s only a dog.”
“Yes, of course,” said Annette weakly.
“He’s very gentle,” said Gibbons.
“He won’t bother you,” said Bethancourt quickly. “Cerberus, come. Down, lad.”
“Anyway,” said Annette, eyeing the dog, but addressing herself to Kitty, “we stopped to wait out the worst of the storm and I’m afraid it’s made us rather late. I am sorry, Kitty.”
“That’s all right,” said Kitty. “I’ll do the omelets while you change.”
Gibbons, having shed his dripping coat, had sat down in a chair and was stripping off his shoes and socks.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Gibbons,” said Annette. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything you could change into.”
“He could have one of Geoffrey’s dressing gowns,” said Miss Wellman. There was a hint of malice in her tone and Bethancourt glanced at her sharply.
“Yes, of course,” said Annette, with only the faintest hesitation. “I should have thought of that. Do come up with me, Mr. Gibbons, and I’ll show you.”
“Well, perhaps I’d better,” said Gibbons cheerfully. “I’m afraid my trousers are soaked through.”
They started out, but Annette hesitated, and then turned back. “Kitty,” she said firmly, “Mr. Gibbons will eat with me in the dining room.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Berowne,” answered Kitty, but her eyebrows had risen.
Miss Wellman snorted.
Annette ignored this and turned and led Gibbons out.
Miss Wellman rose. “I’d better be getting back upstairs,” she said. “Good-bye, Mr. Bethancourt.”
Bethancourt nodded and murmured good-bye, but she paused at the door. “Good-bye to you, too, Cerberus,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Yes, I think an Irish wolfhound will be just the thing.”
“Well,” said Bethancourt after she had gone, “I suppose I should go and collect Denis.” He glancing out the window and sighed. “His feet will get soaked and Margaret will kill me.”
“You can drive over, you know,” said Kitty from the stove. “You just take the road to the garage and go round from there.”
Bethancourt brightened. “I hadn’t realized that,” he said. “Very well, I’m off to face the elements. Thank you again for the lovely lunch, Kitty.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Oh, and I forgot to ask you—which pub is it that Paul Berowne’s so fond of?”
She smiled at him. “Thinking of getting a drink?” she asked.
“Well, perhaps,” he replied, smiling back. “Not today, because I have to get Denis back, but I was thinking of coming round tomorrow or the day after.”
“Make it the day after,” she said, “and I’ll take you. I have Sunday evenings off.”
Bethancourt was a little surprised, but not displeased. “Sunday, then,” he said. He hesitated. “Perhaps I could take you to dinner? I don’t know if there’s any place here you’d like to go?”
“There’s the Brittany,” she said. “I think you’d enjoy that.”
“I’m sure I shall,” answered Bethancourt. “Sunday at eight? I’ll see you then. Come, Cerberus.”
Bethancourt was worried. When he had wondered about Annette Berowne’s designs the night before, it had never occurred to him to wonder whether or not Gibbons was succumbing to them. He wondered now. The expression on his friend’s face when he had come in from the rain, and the length of time he had spent over lunch spoke of far more than the liking Gibbons had confessed to. The temptation to eavesdrop on the conversation in the dining room had been severe, and Bethancourt privately admitted that only the presence of Kitty had prevented him from giving in.
He lit a cigarette as he guided the Jaguar down the drive, and cast a sidelong glance at Gibbons, who was frowning down at his still-wet shoes.
“I think they’re done for,” observed Bethancourt heartlessly.
“Yes,” said Gibbons sadly, struggling to kick the shoes off, “I expect they are.”
“Annette seemed very pleased to see you this morning,” said Bethancourt conversationally.
“Did she? Well, she was eager to time that walk.”
“She kept you a long time over lunch, too,” said Bethancourt. “Did you learn anything interesting?”
“Not really.” Gibbons sighed. “It was just ordinary chitchat. She spoke a bit about Geoffrey, but nothing that helped the case any.”
“I think she likes you.”
Gibbons looked a little startled, as if this was not something he had considered before. “Do you?” he said slowly. “Well, I guess I like her, too.” He reddened as he remembered the moment in the rain when he had wanted to kiss her. Would have, too, had she been anyone but who she was. He cursed his luck again.
Bethancourt had seen the flush, and it worried him more than ever. To his eye, Gibbons appeared to be developing an infatuation for his prime suspect. That he did not seem to realize it only made things worse.
They were silent for a moment. Bethancourt turned out of the gates onto the narrow road, and then suggested diffidently, “You don’t suppose she’s deliberately trying to make you like her, do you? If she’s guilty, I mean.”
Gibbons was surprised. “Good God, no,” he replied sharply. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, I really don’t think so. She hasn’t been at all forward or anything like that. We just happen to get on together.”
It might, thought Bethancourt, be perfectly true. But he was still uneasy. Gibbons had given the idea less than a minute’s thought.
“Well—” Bethancourt broke off and stamped on the brake as a rabbit sprang into their path. The short stop threw the back seat into chaos as Cerberus half-slid onto the floor, Denis fell on top of him, and toy soldiers and rubber stamps spread themselves liberally over the carpet. The toy lorry sped under the passenger seat and shot out between Gibbons’s feet.
“Everyone all right?” asked Bethancourt.
“Yes, Uncle Phillip,” said Denis, pushing himself off the dog and back onto the seat.
“Here,” said Gibbons, handing him the lorry. “Oh, dear—I’ll help you pick them up, Denis.”
“I’d better stop,” said Bethancourt, pulling over.
“No, it’s all right,” said Gibbons, who had assumed a sort of contortionist’s position and was now wedged firmly between the two front seats. “You can’t help anyway unless you want to crouch out in the rain. Here, Denis, I’ll hand you the stamps and you put them back in their case. That’s right.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gibbons.”
“If you’re sure, Jack,” said Bethancourt, letting the car idle and trying to glance into the back, his view of which was effectively blocked by Gibbons’s shoulders.
“Oh, yes,” said Gibbons in a muffled voice. “We’re managing splendidly.”
Bethancourt acquiesced and eased the car forward gently. He took the next curve slowly, careful not to upset Gibbons’s precarious balance, and continued on toward the A-road back to Town. The rain fell steadily, drumming against the car’s top, running in tiny rivers where the wipers pushed it to the edges of the windscreen. For once Bethancourt’s driving was stable as he mulled over what had been said. The sound of Gibbons and Denis counting toy soldiers came from the back seat.
“There,” said Gibbons at last. “You’d better close the bag now, Denis. Umph.” He grunted as he wriggled his shoulders out from between the seats and twisted around back to a sitting position.
“Travelling with children is exhausting,” he murmur
ed. “I’d better rethink the three kids I was going to have.”
“At least you found out while there was still time,” responded Bethancourt automatically.
Gibbons was silent for a moment. Then he asked in a different tone, “Have you ever thought about having children, Phillip?”
Bethancourt glanced at his friend, jerked out of his own thoughts by the seriousness of the question. “I always thought,” he said dryly, “that I would get married first.”
“Well, yes,” said Gibbons impatiently. “But have you ever thought about whether or not you’d like a family someday?”
Bethancourt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Not really,” he said. “I suppose I assumed I’d have a family at some point—I mean, nearly everyone does.”
Gibbons sighed. “I haven’t really given it much thought myself,” he said. “But … I think I would like a family. I mean, I think I’m the sort of person that would be happiest with a family.”
Since Gibbons had previously always viewed himself as the sort of person who would be happiest if he made chief inspector before thirty-five, Bethancourt was understandably startled.
“What’s brought this on?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gibbons vaguely.
Bethancourt thought he knew, but he firmly repressed the urge to say anything. He had already tried to put Gibbons on his guard and failed. Instead, he announced, “I’ve got a date on Sunday. Kitty’s going to take me to the pub where Paul Berowne regularly drowns his sorrows.”
“I knew you fancied her,” replied Gibbons genially.
“Not at all,” said Bethancourt. “This is strictly detective work. Have you got a date?”
“A date?” Gibbons looked confused.
“To try your walk again,” explained Bethancourt.
“Oh! I said I’d ring and perhaps we could try tomorrow, weather permitting. I’ve got to check with Carmichael first, anyway, and see how he wants to schedule it in. What sorrows in particular does Paul Berowne want to drown?”
The Young Widow Page 12
