“Next we go on to Derek Towser and the Bensons. And, since the Chief Inspector has taken the Rover, you can drive.”
“All right. Just let me ring Marla first and let her know what’s afoot.”
Gibbons nodded, strolling on in order to give his friend some privacy while Bethancourt paused to dig out his mobile. But Bethancourt caught him up again after a very few moments. He was smiling happily.
“That’s taken care of,” he said with an air of satisfaction. “I suggested to Marla that she might want to give poor Eve some lunch while she was about it, and she took to the idea like a flash. She’s to ring me when she gets back, but that won’t be until much, much later. Here’s the car—hop in.”
Gibbons had known Bethancourt long enough not to quail at the idea of riding in a car driven by him. In fact, Gibbons had formed the opinion that his friend was not really an unsafe driver; erratic would be a better word. At times, when his eye was actually on the road, Bethancourt’s driving was quite commendable. Unfortunately, Bethancourt very seldom had his eye on the road. He found a myriad of fascinating things to look at on either side and occasionally even behind the car. He usually slowed down—sometimes to a crawl—when something really captured his attention, but even at a crawl, the car often strayed slightly off the road. Between distractions, he tended to accelerate to alarming speeds, apparently in a hurry to reach whatever he had sighted up ahead. Gibbons found that things were usually all right so long as he himself kept an eye on the road and alerted his friend to sudden curves, telegraph poles, and, above all, when it was time to make a turn.
Thus they inched past the Bingham and Eberhart cottages, and then the Jaguar leapt forward.
“The turn’s coming up,” said Gibbons. “It’s only a quarter of a mile or so. There, that lane off to the left.”
“That?” Bethancourt stamped on the brakes and downshifted, slewing the car around. He was then forced to moderate his pace, as the lane had not been resurfaced in some years.
About fifty yards on, well-shielded by trees, was another cottage, but this one was not Georgian. It was a late-Victorian effort in redbrick, snug enough but lacking the graceful lines of the other cottages.
The drive led toward an old woodshed, now converted into a garage and presently sheltering a rather dirty Range Rover as well as an assortment of dilapidated sporting equipment, such as a bundle of rusted croquet hoops, a bicycle with a flat tire, and a much-weathered cricket bat sticking up among a motley collection of croquet mallets, one of which was missing its head.
“Well, at least he’s home,” said Gibbons, indicating the Range Rover as Bethancourt brought the Jaguar to a halt.
“He could be out painting somewhere nearby,” said Bethancourt, to which Gibbons merely grunted.
But Derek Towser answered their knock promptly. He was a tall, lean man in his early thirties with dark, sensual good looks. Bethancourt could easily see how he had acquired his reputation, deserved or not; he was the kind of man women daydreamed about.
He greeted them quietly and invited them in. The sitting room was large and had been transformed into a studio, the original furniture all pushed back against one wall to allow for the introduction of an easel and a taboret. But otherwise the room was very tidy. Rolls of canvas were stacked neatly in a corner, and drawing pads and various supplies were arranged on the bookshelves. A few landscape oils were leaning against one wall, and there was another on the easel standing by the window. The taboret held a paint-smeared palette, a few cans of turpentine and dryer, and various vases, mugs, and old coffee cans, all filled with brushes. On the chair by the easel lay a large paint-covered rag, and there were various daubs decorating the chair and easel itself, but other than that there was no evidence of the chaos usually associated with the creative spirit.
The landscapes, to Bethancourt’s eye, were rather uninspired, despite a very capable technique. But peeking out from behind one of the landscapes leaning against the wall was part of a face, so lively in its execution that he wished he could see the whole thing.
“Come through to the kitchen,” said Towser. “I do most of my lounging there—as you can see, there’s nowhere to sit in here.”
The kitchen was roomy, and by the fireplace were two elderly armchairs. Towser waved his guests toward these, and brought up an upright wooden chair from the table for himself.
“Shocking about Charlie,” he said. “I expect that’s what you’ve come about.”
Gibbons admitted that this was so.
“I didn’t know him terribly well,” said Towser. “I’ve only been here since September, but I liked him. He told a good story.”
“I understand you’re only here temporarily, Mr. Towser?” asked Gibbons.
“Yes. I’ve let this place ’til the end of the month. I have a studio in London, where I mostly paint portraits. I was getting stale, so I came down here to try my hand at landscapes. I waited ’til the end of summer to come so as to avoid all the rest of the artists.”
“So you’ve painted no portraits since you came here?” asked Bethancourt.
“Well,” said the artist, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t exactly say that. I haven’t done any proper portraits, but I’ve done sketches of people. I did one of Charlie, as a matter of fact. He had a very interesting face. Here, I’ll show you.”
He jumped up and trotted into the other room, returning in a moment with a small canvas.
“It’s just a sketch,” he said, propping it against the mantelpiece. “I hadn’t really finished it or anything.”
They peered at the portrait with interest. It was just a head, showing a man with twinkling blue eyes, his face tanned and lined from outdoor living, but still retaining a youthful expression. He had not been handsome, but the face was an attractive one.
“That’s marvelously done,” said Bethancourt, and Towser shrugged.
“You had never met him until you came here?” asked Gibbons.
“No. He was a friendly sort, though. It wasn’t long before we were trooping off to the pub together.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” asked Gibbons.
“Saturday night at the Deer and Hounds,” he replied promptly. “We went down together after dinner and walked back after closing. I said good night to him at his place and came along home.”
“I see,” said Gibbons. “Now, can you tell me how you spent Sunday?”
The question seemed to surprise Towser, but he answered readily enough. “I went out early,” he said, “and did a painting up in the hills. I can show it to you if you like, although there’s nothing to prove it was done on Sunday. I got back here in the late afternoon and had an early supper and then went down to the pub. I did pass Charlie’s place on the way, but his car was out, so I didn’t stop.”
“About what time was this?”
“Getting on for five o’clock, I should think. I came away at about half six and spent the evening working on the painting I’d done earlier. That’s it, I’m afraid. I took a book to bed and went to sleep early.”
“So you saw no one that evening?”
“Not after I left the pub. I can prove I was there—the landlord knows me, and I chatted for a bit with Leandra Tothill. She left just before I did.” He said it matter-of-factly, not defensively at all.
“When you returned from the pub,” continued Gibbons, “did you notice whether Mr. Bingham’s car had returned?”
Towser thought for a moment. “I wasn’t paying attention at the time,” he said. “But I cut through his garden and, no, it wasn’t there.”
“You came through his garden” asked Gibbons, surprised. “You were on foot?”
“Why, yes, I nearly always walk. There’s a footpath here that cuts through the woods and meets the road at Charlie’s place. It’s much shorter than going ’round by the road. It runs up to the old farmhouse at this end, meeting up with the towpath by the lake.”
“Lake?”
“Well,
I suppose it’s more of a pond, really. It’s just over the hill, up by the farmhouse.”
“I see,” said Gibbons. “Getting back to Mr. Bingham, sir, were you aware he had a girlfriend?”
Towser looked amused. “I rather suspected he did,” he answered, “but I don’t know who she was, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What made you think he was seeing someone then?”
“The way he’d go off every so often, without a word to anyone. If you asked where he’d been, he’d just say he’d had a little business in London to take care of. I suppose Peg Eberhart put it into my head, really. She’s mentioned Charlie’s mystery lady, but I don’t think she knew who it was, either. All anybody knew was she wasn’t in the neighborhood. He always took his car, you see, and if it had been anyone around here, someone would have been bound to spot it.”
“That’s so,” agreed Gibbons. “Any idea about why he kept it so quiet?”
Towser grinned. “I can think up lots of reasons,” he said. “Beginning with the fact that women are sometimes married, or not quite respectable, or much younger than oneself, or sensitive about their reputations. But as for which was true in Charlie’s case, I haven’t a clue. He simply wouldn’t discuss it, and the only woman I ever heard him mention was his daughter.”
Towser really had nothing more to tell them, and they took their leave, thanking him for his time.
“He wasn’t very helpful,” remarked Bethancourt as he slid behind the wheel of the Jaguar.
“We didn’t expect him to be,” answered Gibbons. “Still, you never know—he might have noticed something that night. And he might have moved Bingham’s body, although he couldn’t have fed him the Seconal, not if he didn’t leave the pub ’til half six.”
“Surely whoever did one did the other,” said Bethancourt.
“Probably,” admitted Gibbons. “Here, if we go on up the lane, we’ll come out at the farmhouse.”
Bethancourt obediently reversed the car and drove slowly up the hill. As they crested it, they could see the pond Towser had mentioned, below them and to the left. The meadow ran down to it from the lane, but on the farther side, trees grew close to the banks and Gibbons observed that the farm property probably stopped there.
The lane curved away from the pond, leaving the trees behind, and ran up to the farmhouse, standing on higher ground. It was a large, gracefully proportioned house, built like the cottages of limestone and dating, like them, from the eighteenth century. The lane ran past the front door and on to some barns visible in the distance. Bethancourt drew the Jaguar to a halt and the two men got out.
Mrs. Potts answered their knock at the front door and her kindly smile broke over her otherwise stern features.
“Hello,” she said. “We thought you’d be here rather earlier, Sergeant Gibbons. And you’ve brought Mr. Bethancourt with you.”
“I’m sorry,” Gibbons apologized. “We had some other people to see first. Miss Bingham arrived last night.”
“Did she, poor girl? Mr. Bethancourt, your dog won’t chase the cat, will he?”
“Not a bit of it, Mrs. Potts,” Bethancourt assured her. “But he can wait outside, if you’d rather.”
“No, no, bring him in. We like animals here. So Miss Bingham’s arrived, eh? It must have been a terrible shock to her, for all I gather they didn’t see much of each other.”
Gibbons replied that she seemed to be coping as well as could be expected.
“Well, I expect it’s not as if he’d been a real father to her,” said Mrs. Potts, looking stern again as she led them into the parlor. “It does make a difference, and nobody knows that better than me. My twins, they’re fond enough of their mother, but they’ve never had much to do with her from the time they were small, and I don’t suppose it’s unfair to say that they’d be sorrier to see me go than her, for all we’re no real relation.”
“That’s understandable,” agreed Bethancourt, taking the seat she indicated with a hospitable wave of her hand, “since you took on the role of mother while Miss Bonnar was playing other parts.”
Mrs. Potts smiled at him. “That’s a clever way of putting it,” she said, “and true enough. Miss Bonnar hired me when the children were just five. She’d been divorced about two years by then and they were getting too old to be dragged about with her all the time. Besides, she’d married Eugene Sinclair by then, and I don’t think he was keen on children. At any rate, they never had any all those years they were married. And when I told her the twins needed to be settled somewhere regular, she was more than happy enough to pack us off down here.” Mrs. Potts’s long face had taken on a thoroughly disapproving expression. “Miss Bonnar is a lovely lady, and she’s always been good to me, but she hasn’t a maternal bone in her body, and what she ever meant by having children in the first place, I can’t imagine.”
“Did their father visit much?” asked Bethancourt, ignoring Gibbons’s impatient look.
“No—he was dead by the time I came around. Committed suicide a year or so after Miss Bonnar left him. They say he couldn’t live without her, but that’s just romantic bilgewater from the tabloids.”
“Hello!” Julie Benson was standing in the doorway, clad in jeans and a sweater with her long hair braided down her back. “I thought I heard voices. James!” she called, turning. “It is Scotland Yard this time. You’d better come down. We’ve been waiting for you all morning,” she continued, coming into the room, “and running downstairs every time we heard someone coming. In a village like this, one doesn’t get the opportunity of being grilled by Scotland Yard every day, you know.”
Gibbons murmured apologies, while Mrs. Potts said, “Eve Bingham arrived last night, dear, and they stopped to see her first.”
“Oh, she’s come, has she?” asked Julie, sitting down. “Look, here’s James.”
He greeted them politely, albeit with less enthusiasm than the female members of the household, and seated himself next to his sister on the sofa.
“Well, we’re all set, then,” said Julie. “What can we tell you?”
“First of all,” said Gibbons, “I’d like to know when you last saw Mr. Bingham.”
“Saturday night at the Deer and Hounds,” responded James. “I was playing darts there after supper and I saw him with Derek. We chatted a bit.”
“Were you with your brother, Miss Benson?”
“No. I saw Charlie last Thursday or Friday when I was taking a walk about the lake. I’m really not sure which day it was—it’s a walk I take fairly frequently.”
“And I saw him at the market on Saturday,” put in Mrs. Potts. “I didn’t speak to him, but I saw him there.”
Gibbons nodded. “Then if you could tell me how you all spent Sunday, just as a matter of form.”
“We all went to church for a start,” answered Julie. “Martha here had a bit of a cold, so she sat with us instead of with the choir. Afterward we came home for lunch, and then Martha took off in the Volvo for Somerset.”
“To visit my sister,” explained Mrs. Potts. “I go once a month or so, always on Sunday afternoon so as not to miss church.”
“And when did you return?” asked Gibbons.
“Early Tuesday morning. I can give you my sister’s address if you like.”
Gibbons noted this information down and turned his attention back to the twins.
“We went riding in the afternoon,” Julie told him. “It was a glorious day. We came back about five, had an early supper, and then played a game of Scrabble. Afterward, we felt the need of stimulation and adventure and went out to a pub. Not the Deer and Hounds—that was the adventure part—we went off to Lower Oddington and the Kestrel Inn.”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, it must have been about eight, isn’t that right, James? And we stayed ’til closing.”
“So you didn’t pass the cottages on your way back?”
“No—we came from the other direction.”
Gibbons nodded. “That
’s clear,” he said. “What did you think of Mr. Bingham?”
“He was pleasant enough,” said Mrs. Potts. “A very friendly sort of man.”
“He came to tea and things a few times,” amplified Julie. “I always found him rather amusing.”
“We all did,” said Mrs. Potts. “He even got on with Miss Bonnar, which is unusual.”
“That’s right,” agreed Julie. “We were a bit taken aback last spring when she arrived unexpectedly and then Charlie dropped ’round for a drink. But it all went off very well.”
Bethancourt was leaning back in his chair and smoking, a little bored by this recitation of facts. It was quite unusual, he reflected, for a murdered man to be so generally well-liked. And yet he had thus far noticed nothing in anyone’s manner that hinted at insincerity.
“When did you hear that Mr. Bingham had died?” Gibbons was asking.
“Not ’til Tuesday morning,” answered Julie. “Quite behind the times, we were.”
“It was because of going to look at a horse,” explained James. “It was all the way up in the Lake District.”
“It was supposed to be a good dressage prospect,” said Julie. “Only it turned out to be nothing of the sort. A wasted trip, really. Anyway, we didn’t get back until late and didn’t get the news ’til Bob came up with the post the next morning. And of course Marty didn’t hear until she came home in the afternoon.”
“It was a shock,” said Mrs. Potts. “And then of course Constable Stikes came ’round that afternoon and said it was murder, so we got a second shock.”
“Very upsetting,” murmured Gibbons. “I think that brings me to my last question. Were any of you aware that Mr. Bingham had a girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend?” repeated James. “Well, I must say it never crossed my mind, one way or another. Who was it?”
“We don’t know at present,” said Gibbons, “but there certainly was one. I take it you, Miss Benson, and you, Mrs. Potts, didn’t suspect, either? Women are sometimes more sensitive to these things.”
Village Affairs Page 8
