“I see,” said Carmichael, thinking it out. “So there are tulips other than those around the terrace. You started with this other bed that morning?”
“That’s right.”
“And about how long would that have taken you?”
“Don’t know.”
Carmichael sighed. “Perhaps you’d better show me where they are.”
McAllister glared. “And if I do,” he said, “who’s going to tend to these lettuces, eh?”
“I imagine you could continue with that later,” said Carmichael, losing patience. “This is a case of murder, Mr. McAllister, and my investigation takes precedence over gardening concerns. If you find them too distracting, we can always continue this discussion down at the nick.”
This threat had less impact than Carmichael had hoped. McAllister merely snorted and said, “And if we do, it’ll be damned difficult to see the bloody fountain from there.”
But he rose and led the way out of the kitchen garden, making his way at a good pace along the winding paths of the garden proper until they reached a small rectangular plot surrounded by hedges. A large fountain stood in the center, solidly covered with cherubic angels and dolphins. There was a seat in an alcove of the hedge from which one could admire this monstrosity and gravel paths led from the bench to the fountain. Splashed in the angles were the tulips, but the beds were nowhere near as large as the long one that ran around the terrace. Mentally, Carmichael calculated that McAllister must have worked for less than half the time he had spent on the larger bed.
“So you started here first thing that morning?” he asked.
“Not first thing,” admitted McAllister. “I just saw to a few things in the potting shed first.”
“How long had you been here when Mr. Berowne came by?”
McAllister considered. “Not long,” he answered.
It was like pulling teeth, thought Carmichael. “Where exactly were you?”
“I was mulching this one here.”
“And had you done any of the others yet?”
“No.”
“So it would have been about nine o’clock.”
“If you say so.” McAllister shrugged.
“And you went from here to the terrace?”
McAllister grunted an affirmative.
“Very well, let’s go along there then.”
The gardener sighed in an exaggerated manner and started off for the terrace. When they arrived, he indicated the end of the terrace farthest from the side door as the place he had started.
“Did you bring all the mulch up with you to begin with?” asked Carmichael. “Or did you have to go back for it?”
“I used what was left from the fountain beds. Then I got some more.
“And that lasted you until you finished?”
“No. I had to fetch more.”
Gradually, Carmichael began to make a tentative timeline from McAllister’s grudging replies. He had come up to the terrace probably about nine-thirty or a bit after and had run out of mulch perhaps an hour later. In any case, he had been halfway done when he had left to replenish his stock, and he had seen Mrs. Berowne leaving the house shortly after his return, probably not more than fifteen minutes later.
Carmichael stood in the spot McAllister had estimated as being near the place where he had stopped work and gazed up at the door. It was still far enough away from this point that people might have passed without McAllister noticing.
“How sure are you that no one used that door after Mrs. Berowne left?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” said McAllister. “I’ve told you all that before. I was working, not following the comings and goings of everybody else. They’ve got a right to use their own back door, haven’t they? I’d not have noticed unless they made a lot of noise.”
“But you did notice Mrs. Berowne,” said Carmichael. “Why was that? Was she making a noise?”
“Not her.”
“So why did you notice her?”
McAllister relented. “I expect I just happened to look up as she came out. I think I’d just finished a bag of mulch and was looking round for another one.”
“So if one of the others—say Ken Mills—said he had entered the house this way, you wouldn’t say he was lying?”
“No,” said McAllister, exasperatedly. “I wouldn’t, because I wouldn’t know if he had or not.”
“All right,” said Carmichael. “Thank you very much, Mr. McAllister. You can get back to your lettuces now.”
McAllister snorted and headed off at once.
“It’s shaping up nicely, lad,” said Carmichael, setting aside the notes Gibbons had made of his interview with Amy Sullivan. “God knows it’s a whacking great motive.”
“It is that,” agreed Gibbons. “Do you want to bring Berowne in for questioning now?”
Carmichael glanced at the clock and considered. It had taken him longer than he had planned on down at Peaslake and it was now late afternoon. “He might be tired now and easier to break,” said Carmichael. “It’s a psychological edge, grabbing a man just as he thinks he’s done for the day and can go home. But, no. I won’t be any fresher than he is and this is important. I don’t want to cock it up because I’ve already had a long day and have missed my supper. We’ll wait until morning.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, relieved that he was not going to be kept at his post until all hours of the night, but careful not to show it. Showing one’s superiors that you were eager to go home was not the way to advance in the police.
“In fact,” said Carmichael, “you can have a nice lie-in tomorrow.”
“I can?” said Gibbons, startled.
“Yes. I’ll ring you in the morning once I’ve brought Berowne in and you can run down to Hurtwood Hall and talk to Maddie Wellman and Marion Berowne. Check out one of the cars tonight when you leave, and you can start straight from your place in the morning.”
“I’ll do that,” said Gibbons. “Anything special you’re hoping to get from the women, sir?”
Carmichael rubbed his chin. “It’s too much to hope for any confirmation from either of them,” he said, “but get what you can. In particular, find out if either of them suspected he was sleeping with Mira Fellows. I’d also like to be sure that this is what Maddie Wellman was keeping back from me. I’d rather like to tackle her myself, but there’s no help for it. If I went down to talk to her, she’d be on the phone to her nephew before I was well out the door.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will, Sergeant. Come straight back here when you’re done and you can give me the high sign if you’ve anything urgent to report. I doubt you will have,” he added. “It’s a long shot that they’ll tell you anything at all, but it’s got to be tried.”
CHAPTER 11
The King’s Head and Eight Bells was Bethancourt’s local pub and Gibbons found him there that evening, ensconced in a corner with the Guardian and a pint of bitter, his dog stretched out beside his feet. He looked, from the doorway, abominably comfortable and at ease, but his face was worried when he raised his eyes from the paper and saw Gibbons approaching.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Is there a fly in the ointment?”
“No, no,” Gibbons hastened to reassure him. “Everything’s ticking along like clockwork.”
Bethancourt let out a long-drawn breath and reached for a cigarette.
“You really shouldn’t do that to me, Jack,” he said. “I thought for sure you’d found out Paul Berowne had an ironclad alibi when you said you hadn’t brought him in for questioning.”
“The wheels of justice grind slowly,” said Gibbons, bending to pet Cerberus. “Carmichael wanted to come at him fresh, and it was late this afternoon when he got back from talking to Mira Fellows. We’re bringing Berowne in first thing in the morning. Just let me get a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Gibbons returned shortly and settled himself opposite his friend, taking a
long draft of his beer and leaning back with a sigh.
“It’s looking very good, Phillip,” he said, “and it’s all due to you. Carmichael said to pass along his thanks.”
“I was lucky,” answered Bethancourt. “If Kitty hadn’t taken to me, I never would have found it out. So it’s all standing up?”
“Perfectly,” Gibbons assured him. “I talked to Amy Sullivan today—that’s the lady Berowne had the affair with—and she bears out everything Kitty told you. Mira came through with the chief and confirmed that Berowne left the pub that morning no later than ten-forty, giving him plenty of time to poison his father and get to the garage by noon. The only thing that’s not ideal is that Carmichael couldn’t get McAllister to place Berowne at the scene. On the other hand, McAllister is rock-solid on the fact that anybody could have come or gone and he wouldn’t necessarily have noticed them. And anyway, I’ve high hopes Carmichael will wrangle a confession out of Berowne tomorrow. Berowne doesn’t strike me as a hardened man; I’m sure he must bear a terrible burden of guilt for what he’s done.”
“And it is a bloody strong motive,” sighed Bethancourt.
“It is that.” Gibbons paused, considering his friend. “What would you have done, Phillip?”
“Done?” asked Bethancourt, puzzled.
“You’re a rich man. What would you have done if your father threatened to cut you off?”
“It would be an idle threat at this point,” mused Bethancourt. “The money from my portfolio is mine absolutely. But imagining, for the moment, that it was not …” He smoked thoughtfully and then shook his head. “It’s silly to speculate. My father is not Geof frey Berowne, and surely the relationship between father and son had just as much to do with the outcome as the threat itself. And even if that were not so, with Paul Berowne’s example staring me in the face, I could hardly say I would choose as he did.”
“No, of course not. It’s just, well, my father has never had anything to give me besides his good opinion. I’d do a lot to keep that, but if I lost it, I wouldn’t be out on the street.”
“Oh, I imagine it was more than just the money,” said Bethancourt. “Remember, Paul Berowne was living entirely in his father’s world—his home was his father’s home, his job was his father’s job. A man defines himself, in a sense, by where he lives and what he does for a living. When Paul left, it was more than just money he left behind.”
Amy Sullivan had said much the same thing, and Gibbons nodded. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m to go down to Hurtwood Hall in the morning to talk with Maddie Wellman and Marion Berowne. Did you want to come? I can’t imagine Carmichael would make any objections if you did.”
“I’ll come,” said Bethancourt. “I take it there are no other leads at the moment? You never did tell me how the interviews with Mrs. Simmons’s children went.”
Gibbons waved a hand. “Nothing there. I admit, Phillip, that I was beginning to wonder where to look next when you rang this morning.”
“And what about Mrs. Berowne?” asked Bethancourt. “What were you up to at Hurtwood Hall last night?”
Gibbons froze and his shocked silence told Bethancourt all he needed to know. His heart sank.
“Nothing,” said Gibbons. “Just a bit of hand-holding.”
“I see,” said Bethancourt as neutrally as he could, knowing it was a mistake to have asked. The atmosphere between them was suddenly charged with tension.
“And what do you mean by that?” demanded Gibbons.
“Nothing at all,” said Bethancourt, striving for an even tone. “Your hand-holding is none of my business.”
But Gibbons’s own guilt over what had so nearly occurred the night before had already put him on the defensive.
“For God’s sake, Phillip,” he burst out, “I don’t know what you’re implying. Surely you don’t think I would be mad enough to start an affair with Annette.”
“What does that matter?” retorted Bethancourt. “Do you think if lust was at the bottom of this I would be so concerned? Having sex doesn’t mean you’re in love and abstinence most assuredly doesn’t mean you’re not.”
“Sex matters to most people,” said Gibbons hotly. “It would certainly matter to the prosecuting attorney.”
“I don’t give a damn about the prosecuting attorney,” said Bethancourt. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
“I see,” said Gibbons coldly. “You still think she did it, even with what you uncovered about Berowne last night.”
“I don’t know if she did or not,” answered Bethancourt. “But her motive remains just as strong as Paul Berowne’s and there’s no proof either way. And I have to say her actions strike me as suspicious.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but it was too late.
“What actions?” demanded Gibbons incredulously.
“Never mind,” muttered Bethancourt.
But Gibbons was too intelligent not to work it out for himself. His blue eyes were frigid pools as he glared at his friend.
“So you think she’s deliberately set out to ensnare me in order to make certain she’s not arrested for murder. God, how ludicrous! Is it so impossible for you to believe that a pretty woman might be attracted to me?”
“Of course not,” said Bethancourt. He had gone too far and knew it. “Look, Jack, I didn’t mean to say that. I just think getting involved with a suspect is a bad idea, that’s all.”
“I’m not involved with her,” Gibbons fairly shouted. “How often do I have to tell you? Yes, I’m attracted to her, but that means nothing and it is certainly not affecting my view of this case.”
“All right,” said Bethancourt wearily. “I don’t want to be having this conversation. All I did was ask what you were doing there last night—it was you who flew off the handle.”
“Only after you implied you believed I was sleeping with her.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
Gibbons relapsed into silent fuming while Bethancourt drank off the rest of his beer and silently rose to fetch another from the bar. Gibbons’s outburst had merely served to convince him that his friend was indeed deeply involved with Annette Berowne. The fact that he refused to admit it only made it worse, and far more dangerous. And his angry denial that he might have slept with Annette assured Bethancourt that he had thought of doing so, and not in some abstract fantasy. At some point, Bethancourt was sure, Gibbons had nearly taken the step that would lead to his downfall.
He brought two pints back to the table and said, “Look, Jack, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that there was anything wrong with Annette, or that your mind wasn’t on the case.”
Gibbons rubbed his face. “I know you think I’m inexperienced with women,” he said, “and maybe I am, at least compared with you. But I’m not stupid enough not to know when I’m being made use of. Annette and I get on together, that’s all.”
“You know I don’t think you’re stupid, not in any way at all,” said Bethancourt.
There was an awkward silence. Gibbons broke it by sighing and saying, “In any case, it may all be over after Carmichael has a go at Berowne tomorrow. I’ve seen him crack tougher nuts than he.”
Bethancourt raised his glass. “Let’s drink to the chief inspector’s success then,” he said.
The conversation languished thereafter and when Bethancourt suggested they move on and get some dinner, Gibbons refused the invitation, saying he had better get home.
Bethancourt cursed himself for a fool. He had known better than to interfere, but his concern for his friend had overridden his good sense. He had hoped, he supposed, that Gibbons would tell all, thereby allowing Bethancourt to judge how deliberate Annette’s effort to get Gibbons into her bed had been. Despite what had been discovered about Paul Berowne, Bethancourt remained deeply suspicious of Annette.
He told himself as he lay in bed that night that he was overreacting; just because Gibbons looked to be chucking his much-beloved career away on this woman didn’t mean she was guilty of
murder. Paul Berowne was the chief suspect now, and with good reason. Probably he would confess tomorrow, and it would all be over.
Nevertheless, it was some time before he fell asleep.
Bethancourt was not sure that Gibbons would still want him along in the morning, but the detective rang shortly before ten to say he was starting for Surrey, and did Bethancourt still want to come?
“Of course I do,” said Bethancourt. “Is Berowne at the Yard then?”
“Yes—Carmichael just rang me to say I could start. We’ll take the Rover, if you don’t mind, since I’ve already got it here.”
“Fine. It will be fun to be chauffeured for a change.”
But Gibbons was uncharacteristically silent on the trip down, driving steadily with his attention on the road.
“Thinking about what’s happening back at the Yard?” asked Bethancourt finally.
Gibbons colored, which proved to Bethancourt he had been thinking nothing of the kind, and answered, “No. I was thinking about Maddie Wellman and Marion Berowne. I’m a little nervous, actually.”
Bethancourt raised his eyebrows. “Why?” he asked. “You’ve interviewed dozens of witnesses before—why should these two make you nervous?”
“Because Carmichael would rather have done these himself,” answered Gibbons. “God knows it’s going to be delicate work, and I’ve not really taken this kind of thing on before. I’m just trying to think how Carmichael would have gone about it.”
“You’ll be brilliant,” said Bethancourt with assurance. “Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re very good at your job.”
“I suppose,” said Gibbons, still worried. “Well, we’re almost there now—time to screw my courage to the sticking point.”
“I was a fool,” said Marion Berowne bitterly. “I thought that since we had once been happy together, we could be happy again if only he would give up that woman. I thought it was my depression over the miscarriage that had driven him away, and with a new baby, things would be different.” She gave a humorless laugh. “I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
The Young Widow Page 18
