“I see,” said Gibbons soothingly. “You’re doing very well, Mrs. Simmons—this is just the kind of information I need. So you didn’t hear anything that might have been Mr. Paul coming in or moving around? No? Very well. Now about when did you start hoovering?”
She seemed somewhat reassured. “When I came in.”
“So about eleven,” mused Gibbons. “And how long did it take you to finish hoovering in here?”
She looked helpless. “I don’t know,” she said.
“I think I heard you hoovering when I came up,” said Gibbons encouragingly. “That would have been eleven-thirty or so. Did you start at about eleven today?”
“Yes.”
“And when you stopped, you heard the piano again?”
“Yes. While I was working in here, too.”
“But, Mrs. Simmons,” said Gibbons, “if you had the hoover going, how could you hear the piano?”
“I have to turn it off,” she said defensively. “I do the carpet, and then I have to adjust it for the floors. And I have to stop and move the furniture to get under it.”
“I see,” said Gibbons. “I didn’t understand before.” He thought it over, noting the position of the chairs and tables. It seemed unlikely that Mrs. Simmons could have been hoovering continuously for more than fifteen minutes—not long enough for Marion Berowne to get to the study and back.
“That’s very clear, then,” he continued. “Now you said you cleaned up the breakfast dishes in the kitchen. When was the next time you went in there?”
“After I’d finished the living room. Around noon it must have been.”
“And was everything just as you’d left it?”
“I think so. I didn’t notice anything different.”
“Not, say, a dirty coffee cup?”
“No, sir. The dishes were all put away in the washer, like I’d left them.”
It didn’t really prove anything, thought Gibbons. Berowne might have put the empty cup in the washer on his way out, rather than leaving it sitting in the sink or on the counter. And by this account, Mrs. Simmons would have been hoovering when Berowne left for the garage, and could not possibly have heard him.
After the antics of the night before, Bethancourt rose late the next morning. He was surprised not to find a message from Gibbons waiting on the answer phone, but he prudently waited until Marla had left before ringing his friend. But New Scotland Yard informed him that Detective Sergeant Gibbons was out of the office.
Bethancourt rang off and frowned at the phone. He had not spoken to Gibbons since his friend’s brief call the evening before when he had rung to say Paul Berowne had not confessed. They had had no opportunity to compare thoughts on this development and it struck Bethancourt as peculiar that Gibbons had made no effort to get in touch with him since. Neither, he recollected, had Gibbons been at home late last night and for that Bethancourt could think of only two explanations: there had been another development in the case, or Gibbons had been with Annette Berowne.
And if there had been a new development, it was surely odd that Gibbons had not found two minutes to ring his dogsbody and let him know.
“I’m making too much out of this,” said Bethancourt to his dog. “Let’s get you brushed.”
Cerberus merely wagged his tail and stood obediently while Bethancourt sat on the edge of a coffee table and began removing clouds of lose fur.
“Probably,” he said, “poor Jack was too depressed to ring. From the moment I told him about Paul Berowne, he was counting on a confession. So was I, if it comes to that, but Jack has a lot more riding on this. He very likely went to bed early last night—people often sleep a good deal when they’re depressed—and with nothing new to report, he didn’t bother ringing this morning.”
Cerberus panted happily.
“You think that’s right, don’t you, lad? Of course it is. Still, it leaves us with the problem of who did murder Geoffrey Berowne, if it wasn’t his son. It’s a pity I’m not a dog. I could have had a quick sniff around that study and known at once if anyone besides Annette and Kitty had been there that morning. Easiest, of course, for Maddie Wellman to sneak in, but if she did it, why didn’t she provide herself with at least a partial alibi? A nice, long phone call to a friend would have done the trick.”
Annette, he thought, had provided herself with an alibi, or as good a one as she could get if she were guilty. Marion Berowne had an alibi of sorts as well, though nothing that couldn’t be easily broken. But Bethancourt had always thought it a very odd coincidence that Annette Berowne, if she was innocent, had chosen to put lilies of the valley in her husband’s study. In that case, the murderer could not have planned to kill Berowne before he or she noticed the flowers there. And whoever it was would have had to have known that lilies of the valley were deadly, certainly an arcane bit of information. That led back to Paul Berowne, who had shared an interest in mystery stories with his father and who might have looked at Geoffrey’s books on poison, or even been told the fact by Geoffrey himself while discussing mysteries.
“That’s a thought,” said Bethancourt aloud. “I wonder if there have been any mystery books written that use lilies of the valley as the murder weapon. It’s worth checking out.”
Who else might have known about the flowers? There was McAllister, who very likely knew all kinds of odd things about plants. Maddie Wellman and Marion Berowne were more of a stretch; neither of them were horticulture experts and it was difficult to see how else they might have come by the knowledge. If they had been planning Geoffrey’s murder, they might have read his books on poison, but it was asking too much to believe that, just as they had hit upon their method, Annette would innocently provide it. But of course Annette could have read the books too, and selected lilies of the valley on purpose. She might have planned it months before and been waiting for spring and the blossoming of the flowers.
Gibbons had not kept in contact with Bethancourt because of a feeling he knew to be ridiculous and yet could not put out of his mind. It seemed to him that anyone as perceptive as Bethancourt, and who knew him so well, would take one look at him and know he had become Annette Berowne’s lover the night before. But by the end of the day the depth of his guilt had engendered a desire to confess, and even to be scolded. Bethancourt, he knew, would disapprove and probably be quite sharp with him, and he went almost eagerly to face him.
In the event, Bethancourt was neither sharp nor particularly observant. His first look at Gibbons apparently did nothing more than remind him of the hour.
“Jack! Good Lord,” he said when he opened the door to the detective. “What’s the time?”
“Nearly seven,” answered Gibbons, surprised.
“And I’ve never walked Cerberus,” exclaimed Bethancourt, running a harassed hand through his already disheveled hair.
Gibbons looked down at the dog who gazed back at him mournfully.
“You don’t mind, do you, Jack?” continued Bethancourt, pulling on a jacket and grabbing the dog lead. “We don’t have to go all the way to Battersea Park if you’re tired.”
“I am tired,” said Gibbons, following his friend out. “What have you been so busy with?”
“The Internet,” answered Bethancourt, turning down the street toward the embankment. “I’ve spent all day looking for a mystery novel in which someone is poisoned with lilies of the valley. I’ve gone the rounds of the chat rooms, posted queries to newsgroups and bookstores, and spent the rest of the time plowing through synopses.”
Gibbons was beginning to feel alarmed. “You didn’t mention the Berowne case, did you?”
Bethancourt shot him a withering glance. “What do you take me for?” he asked. “I posted one of those ‘Need help with title’ queries—you know, where someone remembers something about a book they’ve read, but can’t think of the title.”
“Oh,” said Gibbons, reassured. “I see. You pretended you already knew of such a book. But why?”
They had reached the
embankment gardens and Bethancourt bent to unclip the lead from Cerberus’s collar, freeing him to inspect the trees. The Thames was iron-gray beneath the cloudy skies and a brisk wind came off the water. Bethancourt huddled against a tree to light a cigarette.
“It’s one way Paul Berowne could have known about the fatal properties of lilies of the valley,” he said, straightening. “We know Annette put them there originally, so the murderer must have seen them and thought what a wonderful opportunity it was. That means he or she already knew they were poisonous, which is an odd bit of knowledge to have. I mean, neither of us knew it.”
“True,” said Gibbons. “But any of them could have read about it in that book in the study.”
“Yes, but why should they? People don’t normally browse through books on poison for light reading. They use them to look things up, like whether or not the last mystery they read was based on a reasonable premise.”
“So you’re saying that only someone who read mysteries could have done it?” Gibbons looked thoughtful. “There aren’t any on Maddie Wellman’s shelves, but I don’t know about Marion Berowne.”
“Nothing that definite,” admitted Bethancourt. “I just thought that if there was such a book, we might be able to prove Paul Berowne had read it.”
“That’s good,” said Gibbons, “because Carmichael has spent all day investigating the two women. Not,” he added, “that we’ve turned up much, beyond that it would have been exceptionally easy for Miss Wellman, and rather difficult for Mrs. Berowne.” It was not quite deliberate, but somehow he did not mention his interview with Harry Denford.
“Difficult?”
“Mrs. Simmons never ran the hoover continuously for more than about fifteen minutes,” explained Gibbons. “And when she wasn’t running it, she could hear the piano from upstairs. Marion Berowne couldn’t have made it to the study and back in that time.”
Bethancourt gave him an odd look. “But the piano’s no alibi anymore,” he said. “Didn’t you realize that?”
“No. Why should I?”
“That horrible tape that Denis and Edwin made of their playing,” answered Bethancourt. “You can’t have forgotten. We had to listen to it for half the trip to London.”
“Of course I haven’t forgot—” began Gibbons, grimacing, and then he broke off. “Oh,” he said. “Of course.”
“After the boys were done playing,” said Bethancourt, “there was more—obviously something they had recorded over. It might have been an adult and a child playing ‘Chopsticks.’ But in any case, the mere fact of the tape itself means Marion Berowne didn’t have to be there for Mrs. Simmons to hear the piano playing. She might have recorded herself and Edwin at any time and set the tape to play back while she ran over to the Hall.”
“You’re right,” said Gibbons, shaking his head at himself. “I should have realized that as soon as I heard that horrible tape. But I just never thought.”
“It doesn’t mean she’s guilty,” said Bethancourt. “No one else has an alibi either.”
“No, but it’s something I ought to point out to Carmichael,” said Gibbons. He sighed. “I’m just not sure how I’m going to explain how I came to let you bring your nephew along on a murder investigation.”
“Don’t,” said Bethancourt, flicking his cigarette into the street. “My sister knows Marion Berowne—it’s not unreasonable that Denis might have gone to play with Edwin in the normal way of things.”
Gibbons agreed gloomily. It seemed to him that every time he turned around, there was something else about this case he had to keep from his superior.
“It’s really not very pertinent how we found out,” pointed out Bethancourt, noticing his friend’s low spirits.
“No, of course it’s not,” Gibbons agreed, sighing.
Bethancourt eyed him and his suspicions of his friend’s activities the night before returned to him unbidden. Gibbons stood beside him, hands jammed into his pockets, his eyes following Cerberus’s movements along the green. But Bethancourt did not think he was really seeing the dog.
There was a long pause.
“You look like you could use a drink,” said Bethancourt at last. “Come along to the pub and I’ll buy you one.”
“All right,” said Gibbons.
Bethancourt called to his dog who came obediently to heel and they strolled along Cheyne Walk until they reached the King’s Head and Eight Bells. There was a fair amount of custom at this time of the evening, but Gibbons found an unoccupied table in one corner while Bethancourt fetched the whiskies from the bar. A group of young women there admired Cerberus enthusiastically but Bethancourt, once he had collected the drinks, detached his dog and himself and came grinning back to the table.
“I think they fancied you,” said Gibbons, smiling.
“It’s always nice to be appreciated,” said Bethancourt. “Isn’t that right, Cerberus? Cheers.”
Gibbons raised his glass and drank, but then found himself unable to either pick up their conversation about the case or introduce the subject of Annette. He stole a glance at Bethancourt, who was watching him with a worried air, and hastily looked away again.
“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Bethancourt, who still hoped, though without much optimism, that his suspicions were wrong.
“I don’t know what talking would solve,” responded Gibbons. “But, yes, I suppose I do. I spoke with Annette last night. I—we’re in love with each other, Phillip.”
It was what Bethancourt had been dreading, and he understood the implication at once. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “If she cared anything about you at all, she’d have put you off,” but he swallowed the words. Who was it that had told them Annette never thought of anyone but herself? Whoever it had been, Bethancourt heartily agreed with them.
“Ah,” he said. “Then that makes it all the more important we close the case quickly.”
Gibbons laughed humorlessly. “Aren’t you going to say ‘I told you so’?”
“No,” said Bethancourt firmly, “I’m not. Look here, Jack, it’s not as bad as all that. Undeniably, you’ve got an awkward situation on your hands, but that’s only because the case is ongoing. As soon as we solve it, you and Annette will be perfectly free to do whatever you like. And we’re getting closer all the time. I’m sure it won’t be long now.”
“I hope you’re right. She’s so wonderful, Phillip. I’ve never known a woman like her before. I still can’t believe she loves me.”
Bethancourt listened to his friend go on in this vein, sharply curbing the caustic remarks that sprang to his mind. He was rather relieved when Gibbons refused his offer of dinner and took off to have an early night.
It was ten o’clock and Gibbons had just settled down in bed with a book when the doorbell rang. His first thought was of Bethancourt, and he wondered, as he rose and pulled on a dressing gown, why his friend had come round instead of ringing. But when he opened the door, Annette stood there.
Her smile was glorious and her soft eyes beamed at him.
Gibbons was so startled that for a moment he said nothing and only stared at her. Then he swept her into his arms and hugged her tight.
“Annette!” he exclaimed. “I never expected it would be you. I rang earlier, but Mrs. Simmons said you’d gone out.”
“I’ve been having dinner with an old friend,” said Annette. “A very old friend—he was quite surprised when I rang him up this afternoon and asked if he’d dine with me. I thought of him,” she explained, “because he lives in London. I left after we’d finished dinner, but who’s to say I mightn’t have had a nightcap?” She chuckled, pleased with herself. “I could have had two nightcaps,” she added, “which gives us at least two hours, I should think.”
Gibbons laughed delightedly and kissed her.
“You were wonderful to think of it,” he said. “Here, let me get you something.”
Her arms tightened about his neck. “I don’t want anything,” she said. “Only you.”
>
The Carmichaels were sitting in their armchairs beside the fireplace, though the spring evening was too warm for any fire. Dottie had put on the television when they had come in after supper, but neither of them was watching the program. Carmichael had the Berowne case file open on his knee and Dottie was dealing out a game of patience on the little table by her chair while she listened to him wrestling with his problem.
“It seems to be coming back round to the widow,” said Carmichael, “but I don’t see how we’ll ever prove it. Commander Andrews as much as told me today that he and his lads had come to the same conclusion.”
Dottie snorted. “So, since there wasn’t any proof, they handed it over to you?”
“That’s about the size of it,” agreed Carmichael with a rueful shake of the head. “Although, to give them their due, they felt their friendship with Mrs. Berowne might have been coloring their reactions. They were all so fond of her that they couldn’t quite bring themselves to believe she’d done it in the absence of any proof.”
“And now what does this Andrews say?”
“He thinks it must be Paul Berowne,” admitted Carmichael. “He was quite excited with what we’d uncovered about him. But of course he doesn’t know about the sheepfarmer—Gibbons only got that after I’d talked with Andrews.” He grimaced. “It’s so close to being proof positive that Mrs. Berowne lied about her movements that day, and yet it just misses. This farmer—Denford’s his name—admits it’s possible he just didn’t notice Mrs. Berowne when she first came into view. He doesn’t think it likely, but it’s possible. And it is possible, Dottie. I went back up there with Gibbons after he’d reported in, and that meadow’s pretty wide. It’s a fair distance from the far side of it to the path. If you happened to be looking toward the village, you might not notice someone coming along from the opposite direction. You’d have to catch the movement out of the corner of your eye, so to speak.”
The Young Widow Page 23
