The Young Widow

by Cassandra Chan

  There was a hunted look in her eyes now as she cast about for an answer.

  “I—I did go to see him,” she said. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d think I’d killed him.”

  “Really?” Carmichael raised an eyebrow. “But you didn’t tell Commander Andrews either, and when he spoke to you everyone still assumed Mr. Berowne had died naturally.”

  Her eyes were on her lap and she did not answer.

  “What did you go to see him about?”

  “What?” She looked up, confused and terrified.

  “You must have had some reason to visit Mr. Berowne that morning. Some very specific reason, since you left your son here and couldn’t be gone long. What did you wish to speak to him about?”

  “I—I don’t remember.”

  “I see.”

  Bethancourt was beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable and wondered why he had not thought to excuse himself from this scene. It was impossible not to pity this woman, murderer though she might be, and he felt a sudden urge to shake her and demand she tell the truth and have it end. Instead, he busied himself with lighting a cigarette and gazing out the window where the spring glory of the day made a mockery of the darkness inside.

  “So,” continued Carmichael, “you have no recollection of your conversation or your intent in seeking it, although it was important enough that you left your six-year-old son unattended in order to speak to Mr. Berowne in private. You must admit, Mrs. Berowne, that’s not a very satisfactory statement.”

  She shook her head but did not reply.

  “In fact, I think I can do better than that myself,” said Carmichael, his voice harsh. “I think you were having an affair, Mrs. Berowne, and wanted a divorce. You saw the lilies of the valley in Mr. Berowne’s study and conceived a plot to be rid of him. You left your son alone and went to the study where you poisoned Geoffrey Berowne’s coffee. But it didn’t turn out to be worth it, did it? Your lover abandoned you.”

  Marion burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. She spoke, but her voice was unintelligible.

  “What did you say?” asked Carmichael softly, his voice almost soothing now.

  “I didn’t mean it!” she sobbed. “I was so afraid—I didn’t really think. And, oh God, then it was all for nothing! Rodney said he loved me, he said no woman had ever meant what I did to him. He wanted to take me away, to marry me—and it was all lies! Filthy lies! I killed Geoffrey for him, and he didn’t love me at all!”

  Carmichael rose and offered her his handkerchief. “I’ll have to arrest you now,” he said quietly. “Anything further you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

  She was still weeping bitterly and gave no sign that she had heard him. Carmichael stepped back to have a word with his sergeant.

  “Gibbons, you’d better bring the car around. And I don’t know what we’re to do about the boy.”

  “I’ll go and fetch Kitty,” volunteered Bethancourt. “She’ll take care of Edwin, and she and I will pack Mrs. Berowne’s guest off.”

  “Yes,” said Carmichael. “That would be best. Thank you.”

  Bethancourt nodded and fled.

  Kitty, who still believed that Annette was presently being charged for the murder of her husband, was shocked when Bethancourt arrived with the news.

  “Good Lord,” she said weakly, and leaned back against the kitchen counter where she had been preparing sandwiches. “Mrs. Marion did it? But why?”

  “I’ll explain on the way,” said Bethancourt. “They’re taking her away and you’ve got to come now and fetch Edwin.”

  Kitty’s hands flew to her cheeks and her mouth made a silent O. “But whatever am I to tell him?” she said.

  “Nothing,” said Bethancourt firmly. “We tell him that his mother’s been called away, that’s all. Now come along, sweeting.”

  By the time they arrived back at Little House, Marion Berowne was gone. Apparently she had pulled herself together enough to take leave of her son with a vague promise of seeing him later, and to ask her guest to stay until Kitty arrived. The guest, a Linda Bancroft, was brimming over with curiosity which Bethancourt refused to satisfy.

  “I’m terribly sorry to have interrupted your day this way,” he said, “but something’s come up down at the station that really calls for Mrs. Berowne’s presence. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it later. We’d better be getting Edwin back to the house now for lunch.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, glancing toward her own sons. “Marion and I were just about to make some for the children.”

  “As I said, I’m sorry to interrupt your plans,” said Bethancourt, edging away. “Delighted to have met you.”

  Marion had evidently put on a good show for her son. Edwin seemed a little confused, but not at all distressed, although Bethancourt could not help but feel sorry for him as he watched him romping with Cerberus on the way back to the house. His little world was about to come apart and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

  He left the boy with Kitty in the kitchen and reluctantly climbed the stairs to Maddie Wellman’s rooms. He had no obligation to break the news to her, but he would have felt ashamed leaving it to Kitty, who was grateful not to have to do it.

  “You again?” she said. “I thought you’d left.”

  “I thought so, too,” answered Bethancourt, taking a chair. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Maddie studied his face and began to look alarmed.

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “I ran into McAllister after I left you,” he said. “It was quite by accident, but, well, in the course of the conversation it turned out that when he said he’d seen Mrs. Berowne leaving the house after you waved to him, it was Marion and not Annette that he meant.”

  Maddie’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?” she barked. “Marion? But Marion was at Little House with Edwin.”

  “So we all thought. I’m sorry, Miss Wellman, but Marion’s confessed to poisoning Mr. Berowne.”

  “Marion?” Maddie repeated incredulously. “She’s confessed?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why on earth would she do such a thing? It makes no sense.”

  Bethancourt shrugged. “She was having an affair and wanted a divorce,” he said. “It doesn’t seem much of a motive, but she must have believed that Mr. Berowne would be able to stop her. And she’d been very unhappy for a very long time—I think she would have done almost anything for a chance to be happy at last.”

  “But to kill Geoffrey …” Maddie shook her head and then looked at him sharply. “Just how did this confession come about?” she asked suspiciously. “Without a solicitor, I’ll be bound. That chief inspector of yours had a hand in it, didn’t he? I always knew he fancied Annette. What did he do to get Marion to confess, threaten Edwin?”

  “No, Miss Wellman. He simply confronted her with the fact that she had been seen leaving the house. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Marion killed Geoffrey. I know you thought Annette did it—hell, so did I—but I heard Marion’s confession and she didn’t say it to protect Edwin or because Carmichael hammered it out of her. She confessed because she was caught and she’s been wracked with guilt and regret ever since she did it.”

  Maddie heard the sincerity in his voice and all the combativeness drained out of her.

  “If you say so, I believe you,” she muttered. “But I still can’t quite fathom it. Marion, of all people …”

  “I know. It’s difficult to accept.” Bethancourt rose. “I have to be going. I just thought you should know.”

  “Yes. Thank you for coming to tell me.”

  She did not succeed in summoning up a smile for his departure and Bethancourt wished that his previous farewell to her could have stood, when she had smiled gaily at him and he had been able to respond in kind.

  When they arrived back at the station, Gibbons was delighted to be given the errand of releasing Annette. She looked up as he entered, he
r eyes full of dread, and then frowned, puzzled by his air of good cheer.

  “I’m very sorry for the delay, Mrs. Berowne,” he said, nodding to her solicitor. “I’d like to thank you for your help with our inquiries today.” The solicitor’s eyes narrowed at this well-known phrase, but Annette merely looked confused. “You’re free to go,” Gibbons finished.

  “That is certainly satisfactory,” said the solicitor, rising. “Might I ask if you anticipate having to question my client at some later date?”

  “I don’t believe that will be necessary,” said Gibbons. Annette was looking from one to the other of them in complete bewilderment, and Gibbons reflected that there was no reason they should not be told the truth. “We’ve arrested Mrs. Marion Berowne for the murder of your husband.”

  Annette’s eyes widened in astonishment. The solicitor, better versed in the vagaries of police investigations, merely nodded. “That’s very good indeed,” he said. He turned to his client. “A difficult day, Mrs. Berowne, but at least it’s ended well. Would you like me to drive you home?”

  Annette was not listening. She was still staring at Gibbons, stunned.

  “Marion?” she said incredulously. “Marion killed Geoffrey? But why?”

  “She wanted a divorce,” answered Gibbons. “I’m not sure why she thought Geoffrey would be able to prevent it, but apparently she did.”

  The solicitor, who did not care about motives so long as they were not ascribed to his client, said, “Ah,” and glanced at his watch.

  “But Geoffrey wouldn’t—” began Annette. “I mean—I don’t understand.”

  “I know it’s a shock,” said Gibbons sympathetically. “Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?”

  “I’m afraid I really must be going,” said the solicitor firmly. “I’d be happy to drop you at home, Mrs. Berowne, but I can’t wait.”

  “What?” asked Annette vaguely, aware of him for the first time since Gibbons’s announcement. “Oh, of course. You go on, Ben. I’m sure the sergeant will phone a taxi for me. I just need a few moments to take this in.”

  “As you will. Don’t hesitate to ring me if you need anything more. Good day, Sergeant.”

  Left alone, Annette stared at Gibbons as if willing an explanation out of him. With the solicitor gone, he came to sit beside her and took her hand.

  “I was surprised, too,” he said. “I knew, of course, that it wasn’t you, but I had thought it much more likely that it was either Maddie or Paul. Marion just didn’t seem to have a motive, and I still don’t understand it.”

  “But are you sure?” asked Annette. “Perhaps there’s some mistake, as there was with Paul.”

  Gibbons shook his head. “We’re quite sure,” he said. “Marion confessed.”

  “She confessed?” Annette shook her head. “I can’t believe it. What happened, Jack? I know the chief inspector was sure it was me this morning.”

  “I forgot you didn’t know.” Gibbons told her about Bethancourt’s activities that morning and their results.

  “Then that’s lit,” said Annette rather emptily when he’d finished. “That’s the end of it at last. I suppose I’m glad of that, but to know for certain that one of the family actually killed him … it’s hard.”

  “I know,” said Gibbons soothingly. “Let me get you that cup of tea.”

  “No.” She drew a deep breath and managed a tremulous smile. “I’d really rather go home and have a stiff drink. And I’m sure you have things to do. Will I see you tonight?”

  “Probably not,” said Gibbons regretfully. “I imagine I’ll be tied up here all evening. But I’ll ring you in the morning and I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a celebratory dinner tomorrow.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I’ll look forward to that,” she said. She tilted her face up to be kissed, and then let him lead her from the room.

  “So you were wrong about her,” said Marla that night at dinner.

  “I was wrong about her being a murderer,” said Bethancourt, loosening an oyster from its shell. “I’m not so sure I was wrong about her making use of Gibbons.”

  “For what, in God’s name?” asked Marla irritably. She had lost interest in the topic several minutes ago.

  “As a port in a storm,” answered Bethancourt. “But maybe I’m wrong about that, too,” he added, reaching to refill her wineglass. “Let’s hope so.”

  “Let’s,” agreed Marla, with the finality of one who had thoroughly exhausted a subject. “Phillip, did I tell you that horrible man has been ringing up the agency and leaving me messages?”

  “What horrible man?” asked Bethancourt.

  “You know—from the charity ball. Ronny Rotter or whatever his name is.”

  “Sir Rodney Randolph?” Bethancourt began to laugh.

  “I doubt it’ll come to trial,” said Gibbons.

  It was nearly a week later and he was comfortably sprawled in one of Bethancourt’s armchairs with a glass of Lagavulin in his hand. Despite the intervening days, it was the first opportunity the friends had had to consult with each other since the arrest.

  “Her solicitors seem more interested in talking us down from murder one,” continued Gibbons. “And I think it likely they’ll succeed. After all, they could work up a lot of sympathy for her among a jury—a husband who tried to leave her while she was pregnant and from whom she was subsequently estranged despite her best efforts to hold the marriage together, as well as being cut off from her father-in-law because of his remarriage.”

  “Unsound mind,” agreed Bethancourt from the sofa. “But you haven’t told me, Jack, why she did it. Did you ever find out?”

  “Didn’t I?” said Gibbons, surprised. “I thought I’d told you last week—it came to light quickly enough.”

  “No, you didn’t,” said Bethancourt, carefully restraining himself from pointing out that nearly all their telephone conversations had centered around Annette rather than the case.

  “Oh. Well, it makes much more sense than her somehow believing that Geoffrey could prevent the divorce. She thought—and she may have been right—that he could take Edwin away from her.”

  “That’s ironic,” said Bethancourt grimly, “seeing as how she’s now lost him anyway. How did she imagine Geoffrey would manage that?”

  “She believed if she tried to break up her marriage, Geoffrey would see that as a sure sign that she was an unfit mother since no good parent would try to deny a child its father. I don’t know whether he would have or not—Annette claims such a thing would never have occurred to him, but then she’s never believed he really meant to disinherit Paul for his infidelity. Anyway, Marion had no doubts about it. She thought he’d accuse her of all sorts of things, starting with adultery and ending up with alcoholism and mental instability.”

  Bethancourt was startled. “She’s not an alcoholic, is she?”

  “No, of course not,” answered Gibbons. “But the accusations could be enough, especially if Paul backed them up and Marion thought he might have, if Geoffrey brought pressure to bear. And with all of the high-priced legal talent Geoffrey could command, she didn’t see how she could fight it. She knew Randolph couldn’t afford a long, drawn-out battle in the courts.” Gibbons frowned and sipped his drink. “That’s the only bad thing about not going to trial,” he added. “I was looking forward to seeing Randolph totally humiliated in court. You can’t say the murder was his fault, since if he’d been completely sincere about wanting to marry her, she’d still have done the same thing, but on the other hand, if he hadn’t seduced her, it would never have happened.”

  “Don’t worry about Rodney,” said Bethancourt. “I’ve got plans for him. What about the lilies of the valley? How did she know they were poisonous?”

  Gibbons laughed. “That’s the most incredible thing of all. Geoffrey told her himself. She brought Edwin by to visit him the day after Annette had put the flowers in the study and Marion remarked how pretty they were. So Geoffrey told her that they were deadly poison and even
showed her the bit in his poison book about them. Marion says she had never considered killing him until that happened, and then it seemed almost like fate.”

  “Fate it was, at that,” said Bethancourt. “I’ll have to remember not to point murder weapons out to people.”

  “What did you mean about Randolph?” asked Gibbons suspiciously. “You’re not planning to ambush him in a dark alley and hit him, are you? Because I would hate to have to arrest you for assault and battery.”

  “No, no,” said Bethancourt, airily waving a hand. “Although I admit it did occur to me. But he’d recover all too quickly and meanwhile all his friends and associates would lavish sympathy on him. No, I’ve something more permanent in mind.”

  “Like what?”

  Bethancourt smiled and sipped his drink. “I’ll tell you if it comes off,” he said. “How’s Annette doing?”

  “Better,” said Gibbons. “She’s been pretty devastated that Geoffrey was killed, as she sees it, by mistake. Since he would never have interfered in Marion’s divorce, I mean, and since Randolph never wanted her to get one to begin with. I have to admit, sometimes it’s made me a bit jealous, although of course I understand. But just lately she seems to be getting over it, and I’ve made plans for us to go off to Cornwall this weekend and have two whole days all to ourselves.”

  Gibbons had a positively dreamy look in his eyes, and Bethancourt repressed a sigh.

  “That sounds just the thing,” he said.

  “Phillip,” said Lord Ashcroft, “what’s this my wife’s been telling me about Rodney Randolph?”

  Bethancourt quelled a desire to smile. He had never before enjoyed himself so much at one of his sister’s dinner parties, which tended to be full of dull, well-meaning people, a great many of whom were involved in charity work. In fact, he had earlier been reflecting that the world of charities was a relatively small one and had a definite hierarchy, nearly all of whom seemed to be represented tonight. And Lady Ashcroft, by virtue of her title and her connections with the royal family, was very definitely as high up the ladder as he could reach.