Village Affairs

by Cassandra Chan

  “No,” said Leandra, rallying. “He’s not in trouble exactly, Miss Bingham. I’m afraid it’s rather bad news.”

  “Bad news?”

  “Yes. Your father had a heart attack on Sunday. I’m afraid he passed away, Miss Bingham.”

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line.

  “Miss Bingham?” said Leandra. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she replied, almost fiercely. “On Sunday, you say?”

  “My husband, the vicar, found him Monday morning.”

  Again there was silence. Then came the sound of a long, shuddering breath.

  “Miss Bingham, I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “Yes. I mean, thank you.” It was almost a whisper.

  Another pause, but Leandra didn’t like to break into it. Finally the voice came again, dully.

  “What has Scotland Yard to do with it? Tilly said they rang after you did.”

  “There is some question about his death,” answered Leandra, trying to put it gently. “They’re not entirely satisfied it was a natural one.”

  “I see.” But from the tone, Leandra doubted she had taken it in.

  “Thank you for calling me, Mrs. Tothill. I’ll come at once.”

  “If you like to let us know, my husband or I will be glad to meet you at the station.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll be driving myself.”

  “Well, if there’s anything else you want, don’t hesitate to ring.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tothill. You’ve been very kind.”

  Marla’s good temper had been restored by dinner at a pleasant restaurant recommended by Astley-Cooper. She and Bethancourt were now strolling down the deserted High Street in the direction of the church. Chipping Chedding was a very picturesque village, which accounted for the number of disillusioned city dwellers who had retreated there, or at least taken a house for the summer. Chipping Chedding was their idea of the English countryside personified.

  The church, toward which Bethancourt and Marla leisurely picked their way with Cerberus at their heels, was a solid example of the Perpendicular style like so many of the churches built by the highly profitable wool trade in the fifteenth century. Chipping Chedding’s church was not, perhaps, a paradigm of the Perpendicular, but that did not stop the villagers from being very proud of it.

  The church was set on a rise at the end of the High Street amid a pool of grass. Light glowed behind the colored panes of the windows and, as they approached, a low murmur of music could be heard.

  “They’re still at it,” said Bethancourt. He peered at his watch. “It’s half nine,” he said. “Shall we go in and listen? They should be finished shortly.”

  “What about Cerberus?”

  “He can come, too. We’ll sit in the back and no one will notice.”

  It was dim in the church and peaceful, with the high Perpendicular nave arching away above them. They slipped into a shadowy pew and let the music wash over them. The choir was surprisingly good, although the organist left something to be desired, and the acoustics of the old church sent the sound clearly back to them.

  “There’s Clarence,” whispered Marla, snuggling against him.

  Bethancourt nodded and put his arm about her.

  “I didn’t know he had such a good voice,” he said.

  In ten minutes or so the rehearsal came to its end and the choir set down their music and began to collect their various belongings. The vicar’s voice echoed back, reminding them of a few things for Sunday. Bethancourt and Marla remained seated, waiting for Astley-Cooper to detach himself.

  Eventually, he came down the aisle toward them, accompanied by a tall woman with a long face and iron-gray hair.

  “Hello,” he said. “Did you hear us? This is Martha Potts, one of our altos. She’s the housekeeper up at the Bonnar place. Martha, this is Phillip Bethancourt and Marla Tate. Marla’s one of the models who came down to Stutely the other day.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” exclaimed Mrs. Potts, shaking hands. “I’ve often seen your picture in the magazines.”

  Marla accepted this accolade with a smile.

  “Oh, and here’s our vicar. Reverend Tothill, Marla Tate. I think you’ve already met Bethancourt here.”

  “Yes, of course. How lovely to meet you, Miss Tate. I hope all went well up at Stutely Manor for the shoot?”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Marla, flashing her famous smile. “Clarence is a perfect host.”

  “Well, we’re very honored to have you here. There’s my wife—Lee, come and meet Miss Tate. You remember Mr. Bethancourt.”

  More introductions ensued and gradually the party edged their way down the nave and out into the porch. Whether because of tact or a genuine liking for dogs, Tothill made no mention of the large Borzoi in his church.

  They waited at the door while the vicar closed up, and then made their way down the street to the Deer and Hounds, following the stream of choristers already headed in that direction.

  “I left a message at the police station,” Leandra told Bethancourt as she fell in beside him. “Eve Bingham rang this evening. She said she’s coming over at once.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “She was naturally very distressed. I hated having to break the news over the phone.”

  “Of course, it was a shock for her. She did seem shocked, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, certainly. What a funny question.”

  “Not really.” Bethancourt paused to light a cigarette. “One has to remember, you know, that she is now an heiress. A very wealthy one.”

  “But she was in Paris when Charlie died,” protested Leandra.

  “We only think she was,” said Bethancourt. “Has she ever visited her father here?”

  Leandra shook her head. “Never. Charlie talked about her from time to time—I think he was very fond of her in his way, and proud, too. But he never spoke of expecting to see her here and as far as I know, he didn’t.”

  “Did you have the impression they were close?”

  “How could they be? She lived in Europe and he spent most of the last twenty years in Africa and the Far East.”

  “Yes, I expect you’re right there. Well, we will just have to wait until the lady arrives.”

  “But I rather thought,” began Leandra, “that is, we got the impression from the chief inspector that he thought Charlie’s death was probably an accident.”

  Bethancourt could hardly tell her he was hoping it was murder in order to cheer his friend Gibbons up.

  “Very likely it was,” said Bethancourt, smiling at her. “You must allow for an enthusiast’s point of view. Amateur sleuthing is my hobby, so naturally I prefer there be something to investigate.”

  The Deer and Hounds was crowded with even more than the usual Wednesday night throng. Chipping Chedding had rarely had so newsy a day: the murder of Charlie Bingham, the arrival of Scotland Yard, the revelation that Bingham was rich, and, to top it all off, a famous fashion model in their midst. Everyone was very eager to discover if she was as beautiful in real life as she appeared in magazines. As usual on such occasions, opinion on this topic was widely divided, but Marla was nevertheless soon surrounded by a crowd of admirers.

  It was not long before Bethancourt was separated from both his girlfriend and his host; Astley-Cooper was glued to Marla’s side, clearly enjoying his role of host to the elite. Bethancourt, looking around, thought with amusement that tomorrow no one would even remember he had been present.

  He found himself in a corner with Mrs. Potts, who was introducing him to her employers, James and Julie Benson. These, he remembered, were the children of the actress, Joan Bonnar. Like most children of famous people who are not famous in their own right, they were polite and somewhat reserved. Neither bore any particular resemblance to their mother beyond a fairness of complexion; certainly there was nothing about them that reflected Joan Bonnar’s charisma and beauty. In their midtwenties, both were a little overweigh
t, pleasant-faced without being particularly attractive, a perfectly ordinary example of English siblings. Julie’s thick brown-blond hair was her chief beauty, and she had made all she could of it by growing it long; the single braid fell to her waist. Bethancourt privately thought that a shorter cut would have flattered her face better.

  They greeted Mrs. Potts like a favorite aunt rather than a housekeeper, and she, having finished the introductions, waved Julie over and joined her on the bench with a sigh.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Do sit down, Mr. Bethancourt. That chair will disappear if you don’t take it.”

  Bethancourt did as he was bidden, setting his drink on the table, leaning back comfortably, and lighting a cigarette. Julie and Mrs. Potts already had their heads together, so he turned his attention to James.

  “The choir is remarkably fine,” he said. “I just caught the end of rehearsal. I take it you don’t sing yourself ?”

  James gave a small smile. “No voice,” he answered. “And not much ear, either, for all I’ve had Marty there singing ’round the house since I was small. But Julie and I do enjoy it on Sundays.” He sipped at his pint. “Are you enjoying your visit to Chipping Chedding?” he asked politely. “It must be rather quiet after London.”

  “Pleasantly so,” Bethancourt assured him. “It’s a very pretty spot. Have you lived here long?”

  “Almost all our lives,” replied James. “Certainly long before it was ‘discovered.’ We’ve travelled a bit, and been to different schools, but this has always been home. It’s really our mother’s house, but she seldom comes here except to visit, and we think of it as our own.”

  “There you are.” Leandra Tothill appeared out of the crowd, clutching a double scotch. “Hello, James, Julie. Tell me, is Derek anywhere in this mob?”

  “No, he’s not,” responded James, smiling up at her. Julie’s smile, Bethancourt noticed, was far cooler.

  “We stopped by his place to see if he’d come,” she said, “but he was painting furiously.”

  “Oh, well. I’ll see him tomorrow or next day, I expect. You couldn’t make room for me on that bench, could you, Martha? I’m exhausted after that rehearsal.”

  Mrs. Potts apologized and moved over.

  “It’s just as well Derek isn’t here,” said Julie mischievously. “He might steal Mr. Bethancourt’s girlfriend. She’s certainly pretty enough.”

  “Really?” said Bethancourt, interested. In her tone, he had suddenly caught a glimpse of what it must be like to be the plain daughter of a woman not only beautiful, but famed for that beauty throughout the world. He wondered if a resentment of beautiful women was the cause of her less than effusive welcome of Leandra Tothill.

  Everyone was chuckling.

  “Derek Towser came down from London with a bit of a reputation,” explained Mrs. Potts. “Or so we heard.”

  “He’s been most disappointing,” said James. “So far as we can tell, not a single village maiden has suffered at his hands.”

  “The general consensus,” said Leandra, “is that none of us here are good enough for him.”

  “Hardly fair, Leandra,” said James. “You’re the prettiest thing we’ve got and you’re taken.”

  “Nonsense. He could have at least tried.”

  Bethancourt was watching Julie. Though she joined in the general mirth—this was obviously a running joke among them—her eyes were not amused. Their farmhouse, he remembered, was close to the painter’s cottage, and he wondered if there was one village maiden who had suffered. Or perhaps she had only wished it so.

  “Oh dear,” said Leandra, “there’s Richard calling me. Just as I’d got settled. Well, save my seat.”

  Her seat, however, was immediately taken by Astley-Cooper.

  “There you are,” he said to Bethancourt. “We lost you in the crowd, but I see Martha has taken care of you.”

  “Admirably so,” said Bethancourt, smiling at her.

  “Naturally,” said Astley-Cooper, turning toward her gallantly. “Why, Martha, where’s your ring? You haven’t dropped it in the port again, I hope?”

  “I’ve lost it,” replied Mrs. Potts placidly. “I’m always losing it, though I can’t think where it’s gone this time. I know I had it on Sunday at church.”

  Julie laughed. “That’s right. It dropped off in the collection plate, but James rescued it.”

  “Martha’s ring is famous,” Astley-Cooper informed Bethancourt. “She’s always leaving it about or dropping it.”

  “Playing with it is a bad habit of mine,” confessed Mrs. Potts. “It was my father’s signet ring, you see, and it’s really too big for me.”

  “We’ll have a good look ’round the house for it when we get home,” said Julie sympathetically. “You haven’t seen it, have you, James?”

  “What? I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

  “I’ve looked ’round the house,” said Mrs. Potts. “I think it must have dropped off at my sister’s.”

  “Oh, that’s an idea.”

  Bethancourt managed to attract Astley-Cooper’s attention and inquire as to Marla’s whereabouts.

  “I left her at the bar,” he replied, “in the midst of an admiring throng of almost every man in the village. She’s got them all twisted ’round her finger. Honestly, Phillip, I don’t know how you cope with her. She’s an extremely dangerous woman.”

  “In some ways,” said Bethancourt absently. “I expect I’m safe for the moment—she’s in her element.”

  He nevertheless looked around, trying to spot her in the crowd, and thus caught a glimpse of Constable Stikes, surveying the scene from the doorway. Behind her were Carmichael and Gibbons, also looking in, but in a moment they moved on, no doubt headed toward their rooms. Bethancourt considered nipping out to ask how things had gone at Bingham’s solicitors, but decided against it.

  “Were those the Scotland Yard men?” asked Martha Potts.

  “Where?” demanded Julie, looking ’round alertly.

  “Behind the constable. They’re gone now.”

  “Yes,” said Bethancourt. “That was Chief Inspector Carmichael and Sergeant Gibbons.”

  “That’s right,” said James. “We heard you knew them. Do they have any suspects yet?”

  “Not yet,” answered Bethancourt. “They only arrived this morning—it’s still early days.”

  He decided not to mention the fact that the detectives were still uncertain that Bingham’s death was in fact a murder; the others were so clearly enjoying their sensation, it would have been a pity to put a damper on the occasion.

  “The most surprising thing to me,” declared James, “was that he was rich. You must have seen his place, Mr. Bethancourt. Can you credit it?”

  “He didn’t even have a daily,” put in Mrs. Potts. She sounded as if she were mildly affronted that this should be so. “I offered to find him someone, but he wouldn’t have it. Said he was used to doing his own housework.”

  “But who would want to kill him?” asked Julie. “That’s what I can’t understand. Such a sweet man, really. A little eccentric, but not in a way that would prejudice anyone against him.”

  With this they all agreed, and a little silence fell as they contemplated the death of someone they had all known and liked.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Potts, setting down her empty port glass. “It’s getting late and I’m for home. Are you two coming?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said James, swallowing the last of his pint. “Julie made me walk down, and I want a ride back.”

  “A little exercise does us good,” said Julie. “But you’re right—I don’t fancy walking back, either.”

  They gathered up their belongings and bid the rest of the company good night, making their way slowly through the crowd toward the door. Bethancourt watched them go.

  “Tell me,” he said to Astley-Cooper, “you never said whether either of the Bensons had careers, or families of their own.”

  “No, they’re both single,” answe
red Astley-Cooper. “They’ve got friends among the county set, and Julie does a fair amount of riding, but neither of them has ever dated anyone for long. They keep to themselves mostly, so far as I know.”

  “Do you know them well?” asked Bethancourt.

  Astley-Cooper shrugged. “Tolerably so,” he said. “After all, they’ve lived here nearly all their lives. I well remember,” he added, smiling at the recollection, “the day we found out the Batemans had sold the old farmhouse. My parents were still alive then and they were appalled, absolutely appalled, at the idea of a film star moving into the neighborhood. Said it would bring hordes of undesirables thronging ’round, though of course there was no question of our actually receiving Miss Bonnar. Oh, yes, my mother was quite eloquent on that subject. Of course, back then we didn’t have the tourists we have today. The summer crowds these days probably have my parents spinning in their graves.”

  “And how about you?” asked Bethancourt. “Were you appalled as well?”

  “Well, no,” admitted Astley-Cooper. “I was rather intrigued. I was still a young man, you must remember, and back then Joan Bonnar was love’s young dream.”

  “I know,” said Bethancourt. “I’ve seen the films.” He took the last sip of his scotch and added, “Speaking of love’s young dream, I think I’d best go see how Marla’s getting on. She’ll never forgive me if I desert her tonight.”

  “I left her right over there,” said Astley-Cooper, waving a hand in the direction of the bar.

  Bethancourt made his way in that direction, but was stopped by Leandra Tothill before he had got very far. In the heat of the crowd, she had shrugged her sweater off her shoulders, giving her a delightful suggestion of en dishabille as she peered through the crowd.

  “Hullo,” she said to him with a smile. “I’ve lost Richard again. How are you doing?”

  Bethancourt smiled back. “I’ve lost Marla,” he answered.

  Leandra laughed. “She’s over there,” she said, pointing. “The only reason you can’t see her is that she’s surrounded.”

  Bethancourt surveyed the crowd. “She certainly seems to be,” he agreed.