The Young Widow

by Cassandra Chan

  Bethancourt pretended to be aghast. “He doesn’t beat her, does he?”

  “Oh, no, nothing of that sort,” said Rosemary. “But when Marion was pregnant, he went off and had an affair and even tried to divorce her before the baby was born.”

  “Presumably he came to his senses before the blessed event?” asked Bethancourt, curious as to how the affair had been seen from the outside.

  “The way I heard it, Paul only went back to poor Marion because his father threatened to cut him off without a penny if he didn’t.”

  “But why would she want him back on those terms?”

  Rosemary shrugged. “Hormones, probably—she was pregnant after all.”

  “But surely that’s all water under the bridge by now.”

  “It would be if they’d ever made it up properly. Marion tries to put the best face possible on it, but when she does manage to drag him out to affairs like this, they barely speak to each other. He could at least pretend—it’s so terribly obvious to everyone.”

  “There’s no excuse for bad manners,” agreed Bethancourt. “But surely she could have come tonight without him?”

  But something else had caught Rosemary’s attention. She stiff ened suddenly in his arms and stared daggers at someone past his left shoulder. Bethancourt turned his head and saw Marla dancing with Sir Rodney Randolph. He smiled to himself. Randolph, darkly handsome and very charming, was notorious for having affairs with other men’s wives and for successfully conducting several of these affairs simultaneously. Bethancourt did not like him, but he felt Marla was perfectly safe from his blandishments. She would not know of his reputation, but she dealt regularly with the attentions of men who were looking for trophies and was not likely to mistake Randolph’s intentions.

  Rosemary Chilton was another matter. Bethancourt had been joking the other morning when he had suggested to his sister that Rosemary might be Randolph’s latest conquest, but now his words came home to roost. From the look on her face, it was quite obviously true, and if looks could kill, Marla would have ceased living in the last few seconds.

  “I see Rodney has found my girlfriend,” he said.

  “Oh, did she come with you?” said Rosemary with a strained effort to be casual. “She’s very pretty.”

  “I think so,” said Bethancourt. “Lucky for me that Rodney’s not her type. She’s a model, you know, and sees all too much of perfect looks like his.” He grinned. “That’s why she’s dating me.”

  Rosemary relaxed a little, though not entirely. Knowing that Randolph’s charms would fail with Marla was not the same as knowing he wasn’t trying. But she smiled back at him and said, “Are you fishing for compliments, Phillip? I wouldn’t have thought it of you.”

  “Not at all,” protested Bethancourt. “And just to prove it, I’ll return to our previous topic of conversation. If I can remember what it was.”

  “Marion Berowne,” supplied Rosemary. “You were asking why she wasn’t here tonight. Nancy Clarendon says it’s delayed shock over that business with her father-in-law, though Marion was simply a trooper right after it happened.”

  “Her father-in-law? Has he forbidden her to go to balls like Cinderella’s stepmother?”

  Rosemary giggled. “No, hush, it’s not funny at all. The man was murdered.”

  “What?” Bethancourt appeared surprised. “Oh, Lord, of course. The Geoffrey Berowne case. I’ve seen it in the papers, but I never connected it with Marion Berowne. Stupid of me.”

  “They say the wife did it,” confided Rosemary.

  “Really?” said Bethancourt. “From what you’ve been telling me, I should have thought the son was a good candidate.”

  “You really shouldn’t make fun,” said Rosemary, giggling again. “It’s quite serious. And just because a man’s a rotten husband doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”

  Which, thought Bethancourt, was quite true.

  He recaptured Marla from Randolph as the dance ended and found her in need of refreshment.

  “I need a drink,” she declared. “And to sit down. My feet are killing me.”

  “In those shoes, no wonder,” said Bethancourt sympathetically. “Go on into the next room and I’ll fetch the drinks.”

  But when he brought her champagne, he found her surrounded by half a dozen men and it was all he could do to push through and deliver her glass. She showed no immediate desire to be rescued, so he slipped away to find a quiet corner in which to telephone Gibbons.

  “Quite the belle of the ball.”

  Bethancourt, emerging from the crowd, turned and saw Randolph beside him.

  “It does seem that way,” he agreed blandly.

  Randolph turned away from his contemplation of Marla and scanned the crowd. “Have you seen Margaret?” he asked. “I was looking for her.”

  “Not since the last dance,” answered Bethancourt and was about to excuse himself when Randolph continued, “She’s a fine-looking woman, your sister.”

  His tone was that of a man admiring his possession, both smug and fond. If Bethancourt had not known better, he would have assumed Randolph and Margaret were sleeping together, and he was correspondingly infuriated.

  “As her brother, you’ll have to excuse me from commenting,” he said coolly. “Speaking of looking for people, Rosemary was asking for you a little while ago. I think that’s her, over there.”

  Randolph looked suddenly a little uncomfortable, and Bethancourt smiled and slipped away on his errand.

  He found some quiet in the building’s lobby and dialed Gibbons’s number on his mobile phone. His friend’s description of the day’s interrogation had been abbreviated since he had rung while Bethancourt was dressing for the ball, and Bethancourt was eager for more details. But although it was now past eleven, Gibbons did not answer his phone.

  Gibbons, showered and changed and fed, had taken out a police Rover and driven down to Hurtwood Hall. He had by no means forgotten the events of two nights ago, but he was so distracted by the bad news he had to deliver that he never thought of how his arrival there, at this time of night, might be misinterpreted.

  Annette smiled warmly at him, her brown eyes alight, and reached out to touch his arm as she ushered him in.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said.

  “I wanted to give you what news there is,” he answered.

  “Of course,” she said. “Come and sit down.”

  But her smile did not fade as she led the way down the hall to a little sitting room. She had obviously been spending the evening here: a television in the corner was tuned to a game show and a half finished drink stood on an end table beside an armchair. She used the remote to flick off the television while he sat on the love seat opposite the chair, unsure of how to begin.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “That would be wonderful,” said Gibbons.

  She turned to the drinks cabinet and then gave a little laugh. “How funny,” she said, turning back. “I don’t know what you like.”

  “Scotch, if you’ve got it.”

  “Of course we do.”

  “I’m afraid the news isn’t good,” said Gibbons, taking the plunge. “I’m sorry, Annette. We weren’t able to get a confession from Paul. He’ll be released in the morning.”

  Her face sobered as she handed him his drink and, picking up her own glass from the end table, sat beside him.

  “Do you still believe he did it, then?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Gibbons took a swallow of the whisky and felt some of the tension ease out of his muscles. “But it means digging for more evidence—we can’t make a case as things stand.”

  She looked troubled. “I’ve been thinking, since you left this morning, that you must be right,” she said slowly. “Paul meant so much to Geoffrey that I hate to believe he would have hurt him, but all day I’ve been remembering the arguments they had. I always saw them from Geoffrey’s point of view. Even when he was furious with Paul, Geoffrey always loved him
, and it never occurred to me that Paul might not feel the same. But now, thinking back on the look in his eyes, on some of what he said, I think I was wrong.”

  “It isn’t pleasant to see beneath people’s masks,” said Gibbons. “I’m sorry you had to be put through this.”

  “It hasn’t been any more pleasant for you,” she said. “You must have had an awful day. You look so tired.”

  “It was a bit grueling,” admitted Gibbons, swallowing more of his Scotch. “But it’s my job, after all.”

  “Well, at least you can relax now,” she said. “Here, I’ll top up your drink.”

  Gibbons let her, although he knew he was going to be driving back to London shortly. He could not resist the comfortable languor that was stealing over him.

  “There,” she said, handing the glass back to him.

  “Thanks.” He smiled at her. “You’re taking it very well,” he said. “I’m afraid I wasn’t so restrained. I’d been so looking forward to giving you good news for a change.”

  Her answering smile was warm and she reached out to lay the back of her hand against his cheek.

  With a shock, Gibbons realized she believed because he had come himself, rather than phoning, he was there to pick up where they had left off two nights ago. He cursed himself for a fool.

  Setting his drink aside, he captured her hand and said, as gently as he could, “Annette, no. I didn’t come for this.”

  She reddened at once, snatching her hand away, the hurt and embarrassment plain to be seen in her eyes.

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry.”

  She rose and turned away from him and he stared at her back, not knowing how to put things right.

  “Annette,” he said at last, “it’s not that I don’t care for you. I do, very much.”

  “I know,” she answered, facing him again and trying for a smile that did not quite succeed. “It’s all right.”

  But in her eyes he saw the same doubt he had seen two nights ago, when she had asked if he believed in her innocence.

  “I don’t think you know what you’re asking of me,” he said, desperate to make her understand.

  “I’m not,” she said. “Please. It was just a misunderstanding. I’m very grateful you came to tell me about Paul. It was very good of you.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then, not knowing what else he could say, he accepted her effort to put the conversation back on a normal footing.

  “Not at all,” he said, and rose. “I’d better be getting back.”

  “Yes, it’s getting very late. Thank you again for coming.”

  Gibbons left her at the door with a polite good night, and walked slowly across the gravel drive to his car, his thoughts in turmoil. She didn’t seem to understand his position at all, but of course she had been badly hurt and couldn’t be thinking clearly. And he had no choice but to leave her with her trust in him broken, because the price of her trust was too high. It would come right in the end, after they’d solved the case.

  He leaned his forehead against the cool roof of the car. He didn’t really believe it would come right. Once her innocence had been proven in open court, he could never prove he believed in it now. And if he didn’t love her enough to demonstrate it now, she would never accept it later. She would always wonder at his motives, would never be sure the feeling he offered her was genuine.

  He was shaking as he strode back and rang the bell a second time. Annette, when she opened the door, looked surprised. But before she could say anything, he reached out and took her in his arms, searching out her lips with his own. She responded eagerly, pressing against him and wrapping her arms about his neck.

  “I love you,” he said. “Nothing else matters.”

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  Dottie Carmichael took one look at her husband’s face and knew it had been a bad day.

  “I’ve kept some supper warm for you,” she said. “You get yourself a beer while I serve it up.”

  Carmichael did not feel very hungry, but experience had taught him Dottie’s opinion of a canteen sandwich for supper, so he acquiesced with a smile.

  “That’s good of you, dear. I’m fair worn out.”

  He got a bottle from the refrigerator and settled himself at the kitchen table while she bustled about the stove.

  “I thought we would crack it today,” said Carmichael, pouring the beer into the glass set ready for him. “It all seemed set to me.”

  “Paul Berowne? Did you bring him in for questioning today?”

  “That we did.”

  Dottie set a plate of stew and some bread before him on the little kitchen table and then sat down opposite him with her tea. Carmichael speared a piece of carrot and frowned at it.

  “I thought he’d confess,” he said. “I’ve told you about him, Dottie—he’s always struck me as a weak man. I believed from the beginning that if he was guilty and we could bring any pressure at all to bear on him, he’d break down.”

  “You’re a good judge of character,” said Dottie. “As you should be, after all these years. You’re not often mistaken about people.”

  “No,” agreed Carmichael, eating the carrot.

  “But he didn’t confess?”

  “No. And is that because I was wrong in my judgment of him, or because he truly isn’t guilty?”

  “I don’t know, dear. What evidence was there against him?”

  Carmichael told her what Bethancourt had discovered and described his interview with Berowne in detail.

  “I was right in part, at least,” he concluded. “Berowne isn’t arrogant at all. So many rich men are, and that was what I expected of him before we met. And when I heard about his past, it only confirmed the impression I’d had of him.”

  Dottie was thoughtful. “But he’s an intelligent man?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then surely he could see you hadn’t really any evidence against him. Perhaps, having made this bid for freedom, he’s grown a little more backbone. Enough, at least, to hold out against you.”

  “I can’t say he showed much evidence of backbone today,” said Carmichael. “It was all very harrowing, and he appeared truly agonized about having the whole story dredged up and gone over with a fine-toothed comb. I would have said all the spirit had been beaten out of the man long ago. But if that’s so, then why didn’t he confess?”

  “You think he’s innocent,” said Dottie.

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Well, who else do you suspect?”

  Carmichael sighed. “All of them,” he answered. “I’m almost certain it wasn’t one of the servants, but any of the family might have done it. Next to Berowne, the widow’s got the best motive. On the other hand, Gibbons’s instincts are telling him that she’s innocent, and why should I act on my own instinct and ignore his?”

  “Because,” said Dottie, smiling, “you’ve more than twice the experience that he has. Sergeant Gibbons is still a very young man, and didn’t you tell me Mrs. Berowne was an attractive woman?”

  “I don’t think Gibbons would be swayed by that.”

  “Young men are idealistic,” said Dottie. “They don’t like to think that pretty women could be murderers, not if they’ve got another suspect who will do just as well.”

  Carmichael laughed, his spirits suddenly lifting. “I don’t know if Paul Berowne murdered his father or not,” he said, “but I do know I couldn’t get on without you, Dottie. Let’s go to bed and I’ll see what it all looks like after a good night’s sleep.”

  “You are impossible!” fumed Marla. “I can’t believe you’ve been sneaking around for the past fortnight and lying to me about it.”

  “I haven’t been lying,” said Bethancourt mildly, though inwardly he was cursing his luck. “I just didn’t bring it up. You know you loathe talking about murder investigations.”

  “I hate your sneaking around behind my back even more!”

  The Berowne murder h
ad naturally been a chief topic of speculation at the ball, but how exactly Marla had divined his own involvement, Bethancourt was not sure. She was furious, though, and he had ushered her out as quickly as he could, if not as quietly as he would have wished.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t refer to it as ‘sneaking,’” he said. “I have not been sneaking. I have not broken any dates with you. I did not refuse to spend Saturday teaching you to ride. In fact, I have spent exactly as much time with you as I would have had there been no case.”

  “Yes, but you were thinking about it all the time.”

  “Obviously not. If I had been, you would have noticed.”

  “I did notice—” Marla broke off and stood stock-still, her jade eyes widening. “Jack’s girlfriend!” she exclaimed. “That’s what you’re so worried about. She’s involved in the case.”

  “The prime suspect, in fact.”

  Marla’s mercurial temper swung abruptly out of the red.

  “And do you believe she did it?”

  “I don’t know whether she did or not. That’s the trouble.”

  “But …” Marla frowned. “Isn’t dating a murderess going to be terrible for his career?”

  Bethancourt shot her a humorless grin. “Death for his career,” he affirmed.

  “But he’s always been so keen on his work. Or,” she added dubiously, “does he imagine he can keep it secret?”

  “He’s a fool if he does,” said Bethancourt bitterly. “The man has no idea of discretion. He went down there the other evening and left an unmarked police car parked out front.”

  Marla giggled. “He didn’t really?”

  “Yes, he did. And it’s not funny.”

  “It is, rather.”

  Bethancourt ignored this. “It could be even worse if she’s innocent,” he said grimly. “Can you imagine what a barrister for the defense would make of an investigating officer who was in love with his prime suspect and ended up arresting someone else?”

  “Dear God,” breathed Marla, “it could make the front page of the tabloids.”

  “Almost guaranteed to,” agreed Bethancourt glumly.