“I would still like to have your version.”
“Very well.” Now that he had been discovered, Berowne seemed impatient. “The morning began just as I told you. Once I had phoned the office, I also phoned Mira and asked if I could come by. She wasn’t awake yet and said to give her an hour to pull herself together. So,” his lips quirked in a sardonic smile, “I took a walk around the estate. I must have gotten to the pub at about half nine, perhaps a little after.”
“And what was the reason for your visit?”
“You know. I had gone to bed with Mira the night before and I was afraid Ken Mills, our chauffeur, had seen me leaving. I wanted to let Mira know so that she wouldn’t be at a loss if it suddenly became common knowledge.”
“Was this an affair of long standing?”
“No. We had slept together once before, that’s all.”
Carmichael’s blue eyes were intent. “So your chief concern that morning was that Mira Fellows should not be taken unawares by gossip.”
“That’s right. Once I’d spoken to her, I returned to the estate to see how Mills was coming with the car. I was there when Maddie rang down with the news about my father.”
His tone was perfectly normal, even disinterested and his eyes gave nothing away.
“Weren’t you just the least bit worried about how your father would take the news of your affair?” asked Carmichael.
Paul Berowne regarded him gravely for a long moment. “Why should I have been?” he asked quietly.
“You would do far better, Mr. Berowne,” said Carmichael severely, “to stop playing games with me and answer as forthrightly as you can. I ask you again, did you not fear your father’s reaction to the news that you had been having an affair?”
Berowne let his eyes drop and moved restlessly in his chair. “I rather hoped he wouldn’t find out,” he said. “Mills certainly wouldn’t go to him with it—he’s not that sort of man. And it was perfectly possible that I had been mistaken and Mills hadn’t seen me at all.”
This was not a forthright answer, but Carmichael chose to ignore the fact. “Yet you were concerned enough to warn Miss Fellows.”
“It wouldn’t have been right not to.”
“And if you were not mistaken, and the news became common knowledge in the village, did you really think your father wouldn’t hear of it?”
“In that case, I suppose he eventually would.”
“And what do you think he would have done then?”
Berowne shrugged.
“Did you have any reason to believe his reaction would be any different than it was the last time you committed adultery?”
Berowne flinched at the bald words and paled, but he did not lose his composure. “No,” he answered.
“So what did you plan to do, Mr. Berowne, when he did find out and you lost your job and were disinherited?”
“I had no plans.”
“Perhaps because you had taken steps to ensure you wouldn’t need any?”
“No,” said Berowne flatly.
“Surely facing all that again must have been a rather galling prospect.”
A faint, humorless smile touched Berowne’s lips. “I’m long past feeling galled by anything, Chief Inspector.”
“Really? Even murder?”
Berowne started to reply and then closed his mouth tightly in a thin line.
“Let’s see.” Carmichael consulted the papers on the table before him. “It was six years ago, wasn’t it, that you left your wife and moved in with Amy Sullivan? How long was it before you returned?”
“Five months.”
“And why did you come back, Mr. Berowne?”
“Because I discovered Amy and I were not well-suited and I began to believe I had acted hastily.”
“Ah, so it wasn’t because you couldn’t find another job.”
“No.”
His voice was very low and Carmichael knew he was lying.
“What was wrong with Miss Sullivan?” he asked conversationally.
“Nothing was wrong with her. She and I just didn’t get on when we had to be together all the time, that’s all.”
“So you thought you might as well return to your wife, whom you no longer loved. That’s a rather exceptional attitude, Mr. Berowne.”
Berowne hesitated. “It seemed the right thing to do,” he said. “Having been disappointed a second time in love, it didn’t seem worthwhile to go on looking. And I was fond of Marion.”
“Of course. Earlier you mentioned your walk around the estate. Do you know very much about plants and trees?”
Berowne, though obviously relieved at the change of subject, nevertheless found it difficult to change gears so abruptly.
“I know something,” he said. “I’m not an expert like McAllister but I know a bit.”
“How about flowers, Mr. Berowne? Do you know much about them?”
“I know most of the ones that grow on the estate. I suppose, if McAllister suddenly gave notice, I could keep them pruned and alive if I had to.” He was clearly at a loss as to Carmichael’s purpose and spread his hands. “Are you suggesting, Chief Inspector, that five years ago I should have become a gardener?”
“Of course not, Mr. Berowne. I was merely interested in your horticultural knowledge. Are you fond, for instance, of lilies of the valley?”
Berowne seemed honestly bewildered by this question, and if he was dissembling, Carmichael could not tell.
“They’re very pretty,” he answered rather helplessly.
Carmichael leaned back in his chair. “Our neighbors,” he said conversationally, “planted some oleander last year. That’s pretty, too. Have you ever seen it?”
“Yes,” answered Berowne. “We haven’t any on the estate, but I’ve seen it elsewhere. It is, as you say, very attractive.”
Carmichael was shaking his head. “Their cat got into it, though.”
“Did it? We’ve never had a problem with pets—my father was allergic and we never had any.”
“Ah, so then likely you wouldn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“That oleander is poisonous. The cat died.”
There was a long pause. Berowne watched his interrogator warily.
“No,” he said softly at last, “I didn’t know.”
“So your knowledge of plants and flowers doesn’t reach to which ones are poisonous and which aren’t?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“I wouldn’t like to have you in the garden, then. You might plant the lettuce next some nightshade.”
“I know about that, of course,” said Berowne impatiently. “Everyone knows about that one. It’s been used in dozens of mystery stories.”
“So it has,” agreed Carmichael, who never read the genre. “Your father was fond of mysteries, I believe.”
“Yes, he was. I like them, too, or I used to do. He and I used to share them.”
There was something terribly sad in Berowne’s tone.
“But not of late?” suggested Carmichael gently. “Not in the last five years or so?”
Berowne only shook his head.
“How did you feel,” asked Carmichael, “when your father tried to end your relationship with Amy Sullivan?”
“I was angry, of course.” But his tone was utterly devoid of emotion. “And hurt. I didn’t realize until then that I’d never stood up for myself before. There were so many times I wanted something dif- ferent, but I always went along with what he suggested. Not because he forced me, but because his suggestions were always sensible and it seemed unreasonable to object. I was … shocked, I suppose is the word, to see what happened when I refused.”
“So you made up your mind to do without him.”
“I suppose.” He straightened and met Carmichael’s eyes. “But it has nothing to do with this case, Chief Inspector. The two situations are completely different. I wanted to divorce my wife and marry Amy Sullivan, or I thought I did. I gave in to weakness and slept with Mira twic
e, but there was no question of marriage. Mira isn’t in love with me and she wouldn’t have me if I offered. My father could hardly threaten to disinherit me if I didn’t break it off with Mira when there was nothing to break off to begin with.”
“It’s true that you’d only slept with her twice before your father was murdered,” agreed Carmichael, “and I suppose that hardly constitutes a full-blown affair. But that’s changed since he died, hasn’t it? You’ve spent many nights with her since then. You can hardly expect me to believe your desire for her company would have dissipated had your father lived.” Berowne only shook his head in reply.
“Let’s move on,” said Carmichael, leaning back in his chair. “Miss Fellows says you left her at about ten-thirty, perhaps a few minutes later. Would you agree with that?”
“Yes, I expect that’s about right.”
“And yet it was nearly noon when you returned to the garage. I doubt it took you an hour and a half to walk back to the estate, Mr. Berowne.”
“No, of course not. I was a little upset after I spoke to Mira and I didn’t want Mills to see anything was wrong. So I stopped at the house and got a cup of coffee before going on to the garage, just as I told you I had.”
“Ah, so that bit was true as well, was it?”
“I didn’t actually lie, Chief Inspector,” said Berowne. “I simply omitted any mention of my visit to Mira. Everything else occurred exactly as I told you.”
“I see,” said Carmichael, pretending to consult his notes, although Paul Berowne’s earlier statement was engraved on his memory. “Yes, you said your wife had already gone upstairs with Edwin, and you heard Mrs. Simmons hoovering in the living room, which was why neither of them saw you. But you didn’t mention the time. It was a long cup of coffee, Mr. Berowne. By the account you’re giving me now, you sat over that cup for nearly an hour.”
“As I said, I was upset.”
“Why? Did you and Miss Fellows argue?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“You were upset, perhaps, at the idea that you couldn’t see her again and that, in fact, it would be wise if you were to abandon your habit of spending the evenings at the pub altogether?”
Berowne said nothing at first and then, in a moment, he nodded.
“And surely you must have been at least a little concerned that these precautions were coming too late, that your father might find out about it all in any case?”
This time Berowne refused to reply at all.
“And if he did, what could be done? You’d already failed out on your own; it’s hardly likely it would be any different this time. You’d truly backed yourself into a corner. I don’t imagine you would have killed him if you had seen any other way out.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“I think you did, Mr. Berowne. I think you sat over your coffee until you’d worked yourself up to it and then you went to the study and poisoned his coffee. Or perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps you thought of all this on your walk back from the village, and went straight to your father’s study. And then you had the coffee to calm yourself down before you had to face Mills.”
Berowne was staring down at his hands and made no reply.
CHAPTER 12
“Bloody hell!” shouted Gibbons.
He was alone in his office at the end of a very long day, having just left an equally weary and frustrated Carmichael. Paul Berowne had not confessed.
The most harrowing experiences of Berowne’s personal life had been probed to their depths and at this point the man was an emotional wreck, but he still insisted he had not killed his father. In the afternoon, as the interrogation had become ever more torturous, he had finally asked for his solicitor, but even with the man present they had kept at it until well past dinnertime. Carmichael had given up then, telling Gibbons he would speak to Berowne again in the morning, but that there was little hope of a confession then and after that they would have no choice but to let him go.
Gibbons kicked viciously at the legs of his desk and swore again. He was certain Berowne was guilty; he was the only suspect whose situation had recently changed—all the rest of them had been putting up with their unhappy circumstances for years. And yet, he had also been certain that Berowne was essentially a weak man who would crack under Carmichael’s expert interrogation. He didn’t like the thought that his judgment of the man had been so wrong.
Caught up in the tension of the day-long interrogation, he had not realized until now how much he had been looking forward to reporting to Annette tonight that it was over, they had their man, and no one would any longer believe her guilty of murdering her husband. Now he would have to tell her that all their efforts had failed.
It never entered his head that he would not go and prepare her for Berowne’s release in the morning, although he would not have considered such a thing in another case. He would, he decided, go home and shower before he drove down.
“What on earth’s wrong with you, Phillip?” demanded Marla exasperatedly. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying.”
They were in a taxi on the way to a charity ball and Maria was in a very testy mood. Attendance at the ball was mandatory for Bethancourt because it was one of his sister’s charities and he would never have heard the end of it if he had not appeared. Previously he had avoided taking Marla to such affairs, since he did not look forward to the reception she would receive from Margaret, but he had known he could not avoid the meeting indefinitely.
Marla, although she would rather have died than admit it, was nervous at the thought of meeting the Sinclair-Firthings. To ameliorate this, she was splendidly dressed in green satin and Bethancourt had been extremely complimentary. But now he seemed distracted and was clearly paying her no attention at all.
“I did hear you,” replied Bethancourt automatically. “You said it rained nearly all the time you were in Ireland.”
“But you aren’t thinking about it,” said Marla, unappeased. “What are you thinking about?”
“Jack and his new lady-love. I think he’s truly head over heels.”
“What of it? They’ll go out for a while, she’ll throw him over, and it will be done. God knows it’s not pleasant, but it’s hardly earthshattering. It happens all the time.”
There was nothing else Bethancourt could say without referring to the murder investigation, whose existence he had thus far managed to keep from her. Even if he was going to tell her about it, now, when she was tense, was hardly an opportune moment.
“Quite right,” he said. “I don’t know why it’s got me down this way.”
“We’re here,” announced Marla, dropping the subject abruptly. “Do try to pull yourself together, Phillip.”
Bethancourt succeeded in this tolerably well, although the evening was difficult. Marla was not pleased with the reception given her by Margaret, which was exquisitely polite and lacking in any warmth whatsoever. Fashion models did not belong to the social strata to which Margaret aspired. Arthur Sinclair-Firthing was more admiring and Marla exerted all her charms on him, which did not go unnoticed by Margaret. Before they had been there an hour, Bethancourt had a headache.
“I do hope, Phillip,” said Margaret acidly as he guided her around the dance floor, “that you are planning to take her with you when you leave. I don’t want to have to detach Arthur from her myself.”
Bethancourt glanced over to where Marla and Arthur were dancing, admittedly closer than was strictly necessary.
“I’ll take care of it,” he murmured. “I’ll collect her after this dance.”
“Good.”
“I don’t see Marion Berowne here,” said Bethancourt. “Isn’t she on the committee?”
“Yes, but there’s been a death in her family—” Margaret cut herself off and looked at him suspiciously. “Which you know perfectly well,” she continued, blue eyes narrowing. “I thought it odd when Denis said you’d taken him to the Berownes, but I didn’t take the time to put two and two together. This i
s one of those cases you’re meddling in, isn’t it?”
“My friend Jack Gibbons is working on it, yes.”
“My God, Phillip, and you dragged my five-year-old son into the middle of it? What on earth possessed you?”
“He was hardly in the middle of anything,” protested Bethancourt. “He spent the day playing soldiers with Edwin, who, I should have thought, is a perfectly acceptable playmate.”
“And who was watching them while you were grilling suspects?”
“Jack was grilling suspects, not me,” answered Bethancourt, not entirely truthfully. “I stayed with Denis.”
The music ended before she could reply, and Bethancourt gratefully led her off the floor. Marla was making her way toward the ladies’ room, so he returned his sister to her husband and melted away into the crowd.
“You dance beautifully, Phillip,” said Rosemary Chilton. “I only wish Dick would do as well. He’s perfectly happy to come along, but he won’t step a foot on the dance floor.”
Rosemary Chilton, reflected Bethancourt, was also on the committee, in addition to being an inveterate gossip.
“Then won’t you let me?” he responded, offering his hand.
She accepted with a smile.
“It’s a wonderful evening,” said Bethancourt, clasping her firmly about the waist and falling into step with the music. “You’ve all surpassed yourselves.”
“It has come off rather well, hasn’t it?” agreed Rosemary. “Though it’s been a madhouse in the last fortnight. Poor Marion Berowne broke down completely and suddenly couldn’t do anything.”
“Really?” asked Bethancourt. “Where is she tonight? I haven’t seen her.”
“Oh, my dear, she isn’t here. We’ve hardly seen her for the last two weeks. Nancy Clarendon may say what she likes, but I think it’s that miserable husband of hers.”
“Has she a miserable husband? I don’t think I’ve met him.”
“Perfectly dreadful man,” Rosemary assured him. “Not unattractive, mind you, but the way he treats her, well!”
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