Cynthia Manson (ed)

by Merry Murder

  “And what do you mean by the beginning?”

  “The murdered man, of course,” replied Bethancourt promptly.

  “You saw the p. m.,” said Gibbons, shrugging and sipping his drink.

  “Yes. A man of about thirty, stabbed in the back sometime in August or early September and considerably decomposed. But what was he wearing? Was he dark or light?”

  “Dark hair,” answered Gibbons. “Open-necked shirt and linen pants and black loafers. And if that tells you anything—”

  “It tells me he wasn’t chopping wood when he was killed,” retorted Bethancourt.

  “Yes, but what we really need to know is who he was. And that will have to wait until we’ve finished comparing his description with the missing persons list. Until we find out who knew him, and where he might have been, we’re working in a void. He might have been killed anywhere, anytime, by anybody, and put into the attic anytime subsequently.”

  “He didn’t belong to the village, I suppose?”

  “No. That was the first thing we checked. None of the villagers in the immediate area is missing anyone. But one of the villagers, or else one of Mrs. Bainbridge’s family, must be the murderer.”

  “Because, you mean, of knowing Mrs. Bainbridge’s habits. You don’t suspect her?”

  Gibbons shrugged. “She’s a very elderly woman. She hasn’t been to the top of the house in a year because it’s hard for her to climb the stairs. I really can’t imagine her carting a man’s body up three flights.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  There was a slight disturbance in the bar. The various conversations paused momentarily as people’s attentions were caught. In a moment the cause of this became evident as several gentlemen shifted their position to allow a spectacularly beautiful woman to pass through. She walked down the aisle they made for her as if it were her right, head crowned with copper hair held high, jade green eyes passing them over until she found the one for whom she searched. And then she smiled, and her slender figure, moved quickly forward.

  “Maria!” said Bethancourt, glancing hastily at his watch. “It’s not even nine o’clock yet.”

  “You said half eight,” she reminded him, kissing him lightly. “Hello, Jack. Phillip didn’t tell me you were joining us.”

  “I’m not really,” denied Gibbons hastily. “Just a drink.”

  “Come now,” said Bethancourt firmly: “You simply can’t refuse to join us. Now that Maria’s come, we can

  get a table and be comfortable. I’ll just speak to the maitre d’.”

  And he moved off while Gibbons was explaining that he really couldn’t.

  “Why not?” asked Maria, smiling. “Have another date?”

  “No,” said Gibbons uncomfortably. “It’s just that, well, I did all my Christmas shopping today and I’m feeling a little low on funds.”

  “That is not a good excuse,” said Maria firmly. “Besides, I expect Phillip will pay.”

  “I expect so, but I don’t like him to.”

  “That’s just one of those male things,” replied Maria, hunting in her bag for a cigarette. “If you were a woman, you wouldn’t mind at all.” Gibbons was spared from answering by the return of Bethancourt, who herded them without further ado towards the dining room. He sighed resignedly.

  When they had put the menus aside and had ordered the wine, Bethancourt said casually, “I’ll have to get up early tomorrow, Maria. I told Jack I’d drive him back to Dorset.”

  “Dorset?” asked Maria. “Whatever are you doing out there? I thought your people lived in Suffolk?”

  “They do,” answered Gibbons. “I’m working in Dorset.”

  “Oh, God,” said Maria. “Not another murder investigation.” She glared accusingly at Bethancourt.

  Maria did not like her boyfriend’s hobby. She found murders an unpleasant and unhealthy topic and, moreover, felt that investigating them took an inordinate amount of time and thought. Time and thought which could far more pleasantly be devoted to herself.

  “Well, yes,” admitted Bethancourt. “But it’s only a little one, Maria, and will probably be cleared up by the time we get there.”

  “Hmpf,” said Maria, or something very much like it.

  “Actually,” went on Bethancourt, unperturbed, “it’s a rather unusual case.”

  “Is it?” she asked frostily.

  “Yes,” said Bethancourt firmly. “There’s this old woman, you see, a widow—”

  “Excuse me,” said Maria, rising. “I have to go to the w. c.”

  This was a tactical error on her part. By the time she returned, Bethancourt and Gibbons were deep in a discussion of Mrs. Bainbridge’s progeny and the possibility of their having visited the attic.

  “Chris O’Leary is interviewing the ones in Northants,” Gibbons was saying. “That’s Bill and Bernice Clayton.”

  “Bernice is Mrs. Bainbridge’s second daughter?” asked Bethancourt.

  “That’s right. Clarissa North, Daniel’s mother, is the eldest. Next is Bernice Clayton, and after her is Maureen’s father, David. There’s another son living in America who hasn’t been to England in some time, and then the youngest is Cathy Dresler, who now lives in Australia and was the cause of the August reunion.”

  “I suppose none of them is missing?”

  “No. No, I’m afraid not.”

  Bethancourt filled Maria’s wine glass, lit her cigarette, and considered.

  “And has Mrs. Bainbridge had any visitors other than her children and grandchildren?”

  “She says not.”

  “What on earth does it matter whether she has or not?” asked Maria impatiently.

  “Because, my love, the murdered man was a stranger to the village. Either one of Mrs. Bainbridge’s family ran into him unexpectedly in August, when most of them were there, killed him, and hid him in the attic, or else they killed him somewhere else, at some other time, and transported the body to Dorset, thinking that the best hiding place. Incidentally, Jack, it would be interesting to find out which of Mrs. Bainbridge’s relatives visited her by car.”

  “It sounds very farfetched to me,” said Maria.

  “True,” agreed Bethancourt. “Which is why it is more likely to be one of the villagers. One of them either has a visitor or goes to meet the victim. In a moment of passion, he kills him. He’s left with the body, all in a panic, when suddenly he remembers Mrs. Bainbridge, all alone in a huge house and slightly deaf. It’s late at night and he knows she doesn’t lock her doors. So he pushes the body along and carries it up to the attic.”

  “Lovely,” said Gibbons dryly, “but Mrs. Bainbridge is not slightly deaf. And how do you know he was killed late at night?”

  “This theory,” went on Bethancourt, unheeding, “also explains why the body was never moved. One of the family would most likely not desire their mother or grandmother to discover a rotting corpse in her attic. Moreover, they will naturally fall under some suspicion, as they are connected with the house. Whereas one of the villagers has no real connection to the house and may be less considerate of Mrs. Bainbridge’s feelings.”

  “It’s possible,” allowed Gibbons. “But it is also very possible that Cathy Dresler is the murderess and did not have the opportunity to retrieve the body before she had to leave for Australia.”

  “Anything’s possible,” said Maria. “It’s quite possible that Phillip killed this man himself, just to give himself something foolproof to investigate.”

  “Now, Maria—”

  “Here come the starters,” she said sweetly. “Shall I stay and eat them with you, or go elsewhere?”

  “Sorry, darling,” said Bethancourt. “Jack and I will keep off murder while we’re eating.”

  “Of course,” agreed Gibbons hastily, knowing Maria to be perfectly capable of dumping the starters over their heads if they did not desist. “Not an appropriate dinner topic in any case.”

  This rule was adhered to during the rest of the meal, for which Bethanc
ourt insisted on paying. Gibbons excused himself soon afterward, saying he still had his notes to put in order before returning to Dorset the next day.

  “All right,” said Bethancourt. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  “Nine o’clock, don’t forget,” said Gibbons.

  “I won’t. Goodnight, Jack.”

  “Goodnight,” chimed in Maria, and, just to show there were no hard feelings, kissed his cheek.

  Chief Inspector Wallace Carmichael made his way down the stairs from his room and stood in the doorway, surveying the clientele of the Lion’s Head pub in Dorset. He was a tall, ruddy-faced man with bristling brown mustaches and sharp blue eyes. He glanced at his watch, swore vehemently under his breath, and marched to a corner table from which he could keep the door in view. Where the hell was Gibbons, anyway? He had rung up last night to say he would be back this morning and here it was, wanting only a few minutes to twelve, and no Gibbons. Carmichael felt himself to be a lenient man with his subordinates; he gave them every opportunity to follow up their own leads and express their opinions. After all, he wasn’t going to be at the Yard forever, and there were the chief inspectors of tomorrow to think of. But he didn’t think much of sleeping in when there was a job to be done, and young Gibbons was going to get a piece of his mind on the subject. If he ever showed up.

  Carmichael had procured himself a pint of bitter and a ploughman’s lunch and was just sitting down to it when Gibbons entered, closely followed by a tall, slender young man with fair hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a large Russian wolfhound. Carmichael heaved a great sigh.

  “I have only one thing to say,” he pronounced when Gibbons reached the table. “I am always pleased to have Bethancourt here give us any help he likes, but he is not a member of the force, he therefore cannot be disciplined by us, and if he can’t get up in the morning, do not, in future, accept rides with him.”

  “I really am most awfully sorry, chief inspector,” said Bethancourt while Gibbons murmured, “Yes, sir,” and glared at his friend.

  Carmichael held up a hand. “No more to be said. Just bear it in mind next time. Now, get yourselves some food and drink and make a report.”

  “I’ll get everything,” offered Bethancourt. “You sit down, Jack, and don’t waste any more time.”

  Gibbons shot him another glare, sat down, and began digging in his briefcase for the postmortem report.

  Carmichael looked it over and listened to Gibbons’ recitation of the two interviews he had conducted. Bethancourt, having procured the viands, sat silent and alert, giving his best impression of the good schoolboy.

  “Nothing yet on his clothes or from missing persons?” asked Carmichael when Gibbons was gone.

  “No, sir. Not yet.”

  “Well, there’s been a development or two here.” Carmichael sipped his beer and wiped his mustache carefully. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Dresler in Australia. She says she was in the attic sometime at the beginning of her visit here. She can’t pin it down exactly, but it was certainly prior to the Bank Holiday weekend. Nothing was out of place when she was there—at any rate, the Christmas ornaments were not scattered about.”

  “Does Mrs. Bainbridge corroborate her statement?”

  Carmichael shrugged. “She’s not sure. Mrs. Dresler says she was looking for an old book of her father’s. A first edition of Dickens it was. Mrs. Bainbridge remembers her daughter asking after it and later finding it. She herself was under the impression the book was still in the library, although she admits that she did pack up some of her husband’s books at one time, and moved some others to different parts of the house. There is a box of books in the attic, so Mrs. Dresler’s story may be quite true.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  “The attic’s filled with them. The Australian police are taking a copy of Mrs. Dresler’s and sending them along.” Carmichael pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and lit it carefully.

  “O’Leary’s rung up from Northants,” he went on, puffing, “but he hasn’t got much more than you, Gibbons. In fact, we’ve got just about the whole family covered, but no one’s been in the attic in donkey’s years, or so they claim.”

  “Who haven’t we talked to, sir?”

  “David Bainbridge—he’s on business over in France and his wife doesn’t know when he’ll be returning. He was called there rather unexpectedly, I gather. And we haven’t talked to Renaud Fibrier.”

  “That was David Bainbridge’s business partner?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Actually, his partner’s son. I haven’t really made much of an attempt to get hold of him yet—it seems unlikely he would have gone to the attic unless he accompanied one of the others. In any case, it may be a bit of a job finding him, since we don’t know whether he lives here or in France. Mrs. Bainbridge—David’s wife, not the old lady— says she was under the impression that he was living in England in August but had no idea if that was a permanent or temporary situation.”

  “Probably Mr. Bainbridge will know, when he gets back,” said Gibbons.

  “That’s what I’ve been counting on.” Carmichael drained the last of his pint. “Well, if you’re finished, boys, we best get on with it. There’s a whole village out there that may know something. I assume you’re coming with us, Bethancourt?”

  “Actually, I think I’d better beg off,” said that young man. “Since you two are occupying the only two rooms this pub has to offer, I have to find someplace to stay. And somewhere to leave Cerberus.” He indicated the dog at his feet. “But I’ll catch you up later, if I may.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” answered Carmichael heartily. He was a broadminded man, and even if Bethancourt’s father had not been thick as thieves with the chief commissioner of New Scotland Yard, well, he had to say Bethancourt had never gotten in the way yet. And he could be very helpful when he chose, although Carmichael couldn’t help thinking that if Phillip was so interested in detection, he should get himself a proper job doing it.

  Bethancourt, once they had gone, moved over to the bar and ordered another pint. Cerberus came and lay patiently at his feet. From his overcoat pocket, he produced a book entitled Where to Stay in England, and began leafing through the Dorset section.

  “Sorry I can’t put you up,” said the publican, noticing this.

  “That’s all right,” replied Bethancourt amiably. “If you’ve only got two guest rooms, well, there it is.”

  “That’s a fact, sir. Or should I say inspector?”

  “No, no,” said Bethancourt, sampling his beer. “I’m not a policeman.”

  “Oh,” said the publican, taken aback. “Excuse me, sir, but I saw you with the chief inspector and the sergeant there, and I just assumed....”

  “I’m just a friend,” explained Bethancourt. “I sometimes push round and give the police a hand, if I’m wanted. My name’s Bethancourt.”

  “Sam Heathcote, at your service, Mr. Bethancourt.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Perhaps you could help me,” said Bethancourt, referring to his book. “Do you happen to know a Mrs. Tyzack?”

  Heathcote chuckled. “There’s not many folk I don’t know hereabouts. Mrs. Tyzack’s place is just outside the village, on the same road as Mrs. Bainbridge, and she’ll do you proud. Nice rooms she has, and a good cook into the bargain. If you don’t mind a bit of chat, her place is as good as they come.”

  “A bit of a talker, is she?”

  “Lor’, sir. To be frank, she’d talk the hind leg off a donkey. But she’s a good sort—don’t misunderstand me.”

  “Lived here long?”

  “Ever since she was married. She started the bed and breakfast after old Tyzack passed on. Just between you and me, he left her decently provided for—she just likes the company.”

  “I see,” said Bethancourt. “Just one more thing—what about the dog?” He indicated Cerberus, who had apparently fallen asleep.

  “That’s a fine animal, sir. Well, Mrs. Tyzack h
as a dog of her own—a Yorkshire terrier, he is. If you think your dog wouldn’t mind that. . . .“

  “Oh, Cerberus is a friendly sort,” Bethancourt assured him. “So long as the terrier is friendly, too, there shouldn’t be a problem. Perhaps I might use your phone to see if Mrs. Tyzack has a room free?”

  “You can take it from me she does. There’s not much call for that sort of thing at this time of year. She doesn’t have a guest in the place.”

  “Well, then,” said Bethancourt, finishing his beer, “I’ll just pop round and fix it up with her. Thank you very much, Mr. Heathcote.”

  Mrs. Tyzack was a short, plump woman of sixty who was delighted to give Bethancourt a room and thought Cerberus a lovely dog. This opinion was given after Cerberus had put down his nose to sniff at the terrier doubtfully, and then proceeded to ignore him. The terrier, puzzled by this attitude, butted him playfully; Cerberus looked round dispassionately, carefully moved his hindquarters out of the terrier’s reach, and then turned back with the air of having settled something. This did not deter the terrier, however, and the performance was repeated several times on the way upstairs.

  “This is the nicest room,” said Mrs. Tyzack, opening a door. “Looks down on the garden, as you can see, and, being on the corner of the house, it has an extra window. Makes it ever so airy, I always think. Oh, yes, thank you, I did do it up myself, although I had someone in to help with the wallpaper. I’m glad you like it. There’s the bathroom just down the hall on the right—it’s the second door down, you can’t miss it. And your towels are here, as you can see. There’s no one else in the house at the moment, so you can leave them in the bathroom if you’d rather. Well, I suppose I’d best let you get settled. Would you like some tea or anything?”

  “That would be lovely,” said Bethancourt. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  “Take your time,” she replied cheerfully. “Oh, and when you do come down, Mr. Bethancourt, would you sign the register for me? I always like to have a little record of the people who visit. It’s fun to look through and see where they all come from.”