“Yes,” he said. “I do want a family someday. But of course I need to get a little further in my career before I can afford to support one.” He smiled sheepishly. “One always thinks of getting married and having children as something that comes naturally, something that will just happen. I’ve only recently realized that nothing happens unless you work at it.”
She laughed. “No, we’re both perfect examples of that, aren’t we? If having children were inevitable, I ought to have half a dozen by now.”
Gibbon started to reply when his eye was caught by the clock.
“Good Lord,” he said. “We’ve been sitting here for over half an hour.” He smiled at her. “It’s been very pleasant, but I’m sure Chief Inspector Carmichael is wondering what’s happened to me. Are you ready to start back?”
“Oh, of course.” She rose with a little flurry. “I should have thought.”
“Just let me pay for the tea,” said Gibbons.
Outside, as she took his arm, she reached up and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s the best half-hour I’ve spent since this horrible business started. It was very kind of you.”
Gibbons had long since forgotten his resolve to keep up his guard. He smiled back at her and squeezed her hand where it lay on his arm. “I enjoyed it, too,” he said.
Maddie Wellman was not at all pleased with any part of the investigation which did not focus on Annette Berowne, and she said so with considerable force. Carmichael eyed her meditatively. She was not knitting today and from time to time would rub fretfully at her knees and hands; obviously, her arthritis was troubling her. He wished he could have come at a better time, but there was no help for it.
“Think of this, Miss Wellman,” he said. “Suppose we did arrest Mrs. Berowne and it came to trial. Would you like her to be acquitted just because I hadn’t discovered that Kitty Whitcomb was desperate for money and that Geoffrey Berowne had refused to advance her any?”
“Bosh,” said Maddie, but rather feebly. She sighed deeply. “Well, I expect you’ll do what you like anyway, so we may as well get this over with. Kitty Whitcomb doesn’t need any money because she’s paid a handsome salary and does not gamble or collect expensive knickknacks. Her one and only interest is cooking, aside from an obsession with her health.”
“She’s a hypochondriac?” asked Carmichael, considerably surprised.
“No, no.” Maddie waved an impatient hand. “She’s up before dawn every morning to go jogging and she’s got a panoply of exercise equipment in her room that she’s always fooling with.” A gleam appeared in her gray eyes. “I drive her mad by telling her that it’s all in the genes and that her mother was fat and so was her aunt.”
Carmichael smiled. “What about boyfriends?”
“There’s Ken Mills. There was another one for a few months—I don’t remember his name—but that broke up and I rather think she and Ken have taken up again.” Maddie frowned. “I’m not entirely certain whether it’s just for convenience sake now. I’m inclined to think so. They seem very friendly, but not lover-like the way they once were. And I did hear that Ken was seen in the local with another girl some little while ago.”
“And what about Mr. Mills?” asked Carmichael. “Aside from his affair with Kitty, that is.”
“He wants his own garage,” she answered promptly. “That’s why he took the job here. It’s a good salary and gives him an opportunity to save up. He makes a bit extra down at the local garage when they’re busy and he’s not wanted here. It was really rather silly to keep him on after Geoffrey retired and didn’t need a driver fulltime anymore, but Geoffrey didn’t like to let him go. He said that in a few more years Ken would have saved up enough to start his business and he’d leave then in any case. Geoffrey was like that; he liked to help people.”
“And what do you know about this new girlfriend?”
“Nothing. I just overheard Mira telling Kitty about it. I assume she’s some local girl.”
“Who is Mira?” asked Carmichael.
“Mira Fellows. She runs the local pub. She and Kitty are great friends.”
Carmichael made a note of that. “I asked you the other day,” he said, “about close friends of Mrs. Berowne.”
“And I told you she didn’t have any. If you’re going to dredge up a bosom friend now, I shan’t believe you.”
“No.” Carmichael smiled. “Not that. But what about your own friends?”
Maddie laughed. “Checking up on me now, too, are you? Very well.”
She rattled off a list of names and addresses, which Carmichael duly took down, though her amused reaction to his question did not lead him to expect much to come of it.
“Let’s go on with the servants then,” he said when she was done. “Take Mrs. Simmons next.”
Maddie’s eyebrows rose. “But surely she’s accounted for,” she protested. “She was at Little House listening to Marion and Edwin play the piano.”
“In a different room,” said Carmichael. “That’s not a very strong alibi and you know it. Besides, I like to be impartial.”
“Oh, very well. Far be it from me to impugn your impartiality.” She rubbed at her knuckles. “Mary Simmons is a rather sad creature,” she said. “Her husband beat her and nothing Gwenda nor I could ever say would make her leave the brute. I think, really, that’s why she took the job here to start with—Gwenda wanted someone who would stay until after dinner and that meant Mrs. Simmons wouldn’t have to face her husband until late in the evening. Not,” she added blackly, “that that seemed to matter to him. In any case, he died seven or eight years back and she couldn’t wait to get out of that house, even though it was hers now. Too many bad memories, I suppose. Geoffrey suggested that she could live in the old servant’s quarters upstairs and had a couple of the rooms done up for her. She was very happy with the arrangement; she felt secure on the estate. He also saw to the selling of her house in the village. If you think she would have poisoned him, you’re mad.”
“I didn’t say I thought so,” said Carmichael mildly. “Does she have any children?”
“Three, I believe, but they all live elsewhere.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Doing well, as Mrs. Simmons tells it. And if they hadn’t been, Geoffrey would have helped them if she’d asked.”
Carmichael grinned at her. “I understand the point,” he said. “That just leaves McAllister.”
Maddie hooted. “He’s an old crank,” she said. “I can’t tell you much about him—McAllister keeps himself to himself. Gwenda found him someplace when they first bought Hurtwood and had the gardener’s cottage fixed up for him.”
“Really? I didn’t realize he lived on the estate.”
“Oh, yes. It’s away on the west side of the grounds, built up against the wall. But I can’t tell you what he does there. For all I know, he has homosexual orgies every night.”
“Is he homosexual?”
“I haven’t the least idea. He was single when Gwenda hired him and he’s stayed single ever since, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t married earlier in life.”
“I see. I’ll speak to him later. One more thing: it’s been suggested that Annette Berowne might have been having an affair. Is that true?”
Maddie considered this for several moments before reluctantly shaking her head. “No,” she said. “I’m sure it’s not. I would love to believe it, but I can’t see how she would have managed it. She didn’t leave the estate regularly, not even on the days when Geoffrey went in to the office. And I think I would have known if something like that had been going on. She may be a gold digger, but she was a faithful one.”
“Well, thank you very much for your help,” said Carmichael, rising. “I think that’s it—unless you’d care to tell me what the trouble was between Geoffrey Berowne and his son?”
He’d caught her off-guard, as he’d meant to, and she dropped her eyes, rubbing again at her hands.
“I’ve already told you,” she muttered.
“Geoffrey thought Paul wasn’t running the business right.”
“Yes, but there was something else.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea,” she replied spiritedly, recovering herself. “It’s true that they weren’t as close as they had been before Annette came traipsing into our lives, but that was hardly Paul’s fault.”
“It was perfectly clear when I spoke to Mr. Berowne that he resented his father,” said Carmichael, “and not just because he was a better businessman.” He softened his tone. “I’ll find out in the end,” he said. “And if it truly didn’t have anything to do with this business, it would be better to tell me now.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” she replied stubbornly.
Carmichael sighed. “Very well,” he said. “You know where to reach me if you change your mind.”
She stopped him at the door.
“By the way,” she asked, “have you brought the blond with you?”
“Bethancourt?” asked Carmichael, surprised. “No, he’s not with us today. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason. I liked him, was all. I liked the way he looked at Annette.”
“The way he looked at her?” echoed Carmichael, mystified.
“Yes,” she said. “One can see it in his eyes. He’s not taken with her at all, and that’s very rare in a man.”
Bethancourt lay in bed, staring wakefully into the darkness, with Marla nestled against his side, her long legs tangled with his. He had had a pleasant day. It is always pleasing to the male ego, in this day and age, when a man can demonstrate to a woman his indisputable superiority in an endeavour, no matter how trivial. The day had started with Bethancourt cantering the gelding around the ring and taking him over a few jumps, so as to disperse with his initial friskiness before putting Marla up on him. The look in Marla’s eyes as he returned to her was, Bethancourt imagined, much like the look Guinevere must have given Lancelot after he had finished jousting for her honor. And the lesson that followed had gone well. Marla had not, of course, learned to ride, but she had picked up the basic concepts and he had taught her a few tricks which, if they did nothing else, served to boost her confidence. That, Bethancourt judged, was what she truly needed, and the news that stallions kept for stud were not typical of the equine race in general further served to calm her fears.
After the riding lesson, there had been long, hot baths, dinner at a favorite restaurant, and a friend’s lavish birthday party. All in all, Bethancourt had not given more than a passing thought to the Berowne case all day. But he was thinking about it now. A message from Gibbons had been waiting for him when he came home, detailing the results of his walk with Annette in a tone of voice which alarmed his friend very much.
“Annette Berowne may be out of it,” Gibbons had announced in joyful tones. “The timing of the walk works out perfectly with her story. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
Now Bethancourt lay in the dark, thinking of Annette Berowne. He had initially applauded Carmichael’s determination to investigate other suspects, but it now occurred to him that the moving force behind this decision must have been Gibbons’s reports. He had been responsible for most of the interviews with Annette, and while he would never deliberately suppress evidence, might not his feelings have influenced him? It was possible that he had taken her word where Carmichael might have challenged it. If that were true, and if it ever came to light, Gibbons’s career would be over.
Bethancourt shifted slightly. Perhaps, he thought, he was overreacting. Perhaps Annette was indeed innocent and everything would be all right. He didn’t much like the idea of her as Gibbons’s girlfriend, or—God forbid—his wife, but so long as she was innocent, he could accept it. Except that even if she were innocent, he could still not believe she was seriously interested in Gibbons. He simply could not imagine Annette putting up with the kind of neglect Gibbons’s career would require. Far more likely that she was merely using Gibbons to keep close to the investigation.
And what, thought Bethancourt in alarm, if no one were ever arrested for the murder? He had known cases before where the police were virtually certain of a criminal’s identity, and yet were unable to make an arrest. If that attitude were to prevail about Annette Berowne, Gibbons’s attachment to her would not go down at all well at New Scotland Yard. There might even be suspicions that Gibbons had prevented an arrest from being made. Bethancourt almost groaned aloud.
“Maria,” he whispered, “are you asleep?”
He felt her stir down the length of his side.
“No,” she answered, although she almost had been. “What is it?”
“Would you fall for a man who had no men friends?”
“No,” she answered promptly. “There’s always something wrong with people like that.”
“Women as well as men?” asked Bethancourt, not very clearly, but she seemed to understand him. She nodded.
“Of course. What brought this to mind?”
“Well, I’m rather worried about Jack.”
“Jack?” She lifted her head from his chest. She might have known murder was involved. She was well aware how obsessive Bethancourt could become about his mystery cases, but heretofore they had not intruded into time spent in the bedroom. This seemed to mark a new stage and she definitely did not like it.
“I think he’s found someone he fancies,” confided Bethancourt.
“Oh.” Marla was appeased. “A woman with no women friends?”
“That’s right. And I think she’s rather calculating, too. She’s very charming—”
Marla’s head came back off his chest. “Is she beautiful?”
“No,” answered Bethancourt without hesitation and this seemed to reassure her. “She’s not beautiful at all, but I doubt Jack’s noticed that. And it doesn’t matter, because she has this—allure, I suppose is the best way to describe it.”
“Like Abbie,” said Marla.
“Who?”
“Abbie Waite—you’ve met her. She’s not even pretty, really, but you never notice, her personality comes through so strongly. Even in photographs.”
“Rather like that,” Bethancourt admitted. “Only in this case, the personality is geared to pander to the male ego, rather than being admirable in itself.”
Marla stirred languidly. “I shouldn’t have thought that would be Jack’s thing,” she said.
“I suppose all men are somewhat susceptible,” said Bethancourt, remembering his own feelings earlier in the day while looking down at Marla from horseback.
“Nobody’s immune,” agreed Marla, “but I still would have expected Jack to fall for a more modern type. A career woman, who would have something interesting to tell him at the end of the day.”
“I think you’re right,” said Bethancourt, rather impressed with her accurate summing up of the tastes of a man she had never paid much attention to. “But I also think that somewhere deep down, Jack has a fantasy of a nice little woman waiting at home like his mother did.”
“With six children, she didn’t have much choice.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Bethancourt.
“Well,” said Marla, settling herself more comfortably, “there’s nothing you can do. It’s no good telling people the light of their lives are perfectly dreadful and all wrong for them. It just puts their backs up. They have to find out for themselves.”
“All too true,” agreed Bethancourt. But, he added to himself, what if Annette’s a murderess as well as the wrong person?
Marla shifted against him again, sliding her hand down the length of his belly while she drew herself up until her lips could reach his. Bethancourt turned to her and forgot his worries for the moment.
“I don’t think she did it, Phillip,” said Gibbons on the phone the next morning. “I timed the walk and there’s twenty minutes unaccounted for. That tallies exactly with the time it took her to start back for her library card, and then turn round again once she realized she had it—I timed that, too. And twenty minutes i
s rather long for slipping some poisoned water into a coffeepot.”
Things always looked bleakest at night. This morning Bethancourt had reminded himself that Gibbons was no fool and that, if he thought Annette was innocent, she very likely was. He still thought his friend was heading for a broken heart, but that, after all, was not disastrous. It happened to nearly everyone sooner or later.
Nevertheless, the absolution of Annette on such flimsy evidence made him uneasy. “It could have taken twenty minutes,” he said. “We know she left the house and she might have waited to make sure McAllister was out of the way before she went back in again.”
“She wouldn’t even have seen him down there where the tulips are,” argued Gibbons. “No, I know there’s no proof as yet, but I really believe we can cross her off.”
Bethancourt forbore to mention that if McAllister could see her, she could certainly see him if she looked in the right direction.
“Well, that’s good then,” he said lamely. “Are you going back down there again today?”
“No,” answered Gibbons. “I’m off to interview Mrs. Simmons’s children. It’s rather pointless, really, but Carmichael wants everyone eliminated. I rang to see if you wanted to come.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bethancourt. “I’ve got things to take care of here and then I’m running down to see Kitty this evening.”
“All right then,” said Gibbons cheerfully. “I’ll let you know if I turn anything up. God, but it’s good to have at least one suspect cleared.”
“What did Carmichael say when you told him?”
“Not much really. He did say he’d ruled out the idea of her having an affair, but he didn’t find out anything more about Paul Berowne. I think he was disappointed with that—he’s certain there’s something there. He’s going to start digging for it in earnest on Monday, starting with the office staff and going round to the vicar.”
“He’s very likely right,” said Bethancourt. “Well, I’ll ring you tomorrow and tell you what I find out at the pub tonight.”
The Young Widow Page 14
