They both shook their heads.
“He used to chat up Leandra Tothill down at the pub,” offered Julie.
Mrs. Potts was shocked. “Julie!” she said. “How dare you make such an insinuation about the vicar’s wife?”
“Well, everybody knows the kind of life she led in London before—”
“Julie! I will not hear such talk.”
Mrs. Potts’s was the voice of command and Julie subsided.
“Whatever,” Mrs. Potts went on more composedly, “Leandra may or may not have done in the past, she has behaved with perfect propriety since she came here. And done a lot of people a lot of good, too.”
“Yes, of course,” said Julie.
“To return to Mr. Bingham,” said Gibbons, “none of you ever noticed that he sometimes went away overnight?”
“I suppose he was sometimes gone,” said James. “But if I ever noticed, I didn’t think anything of it. Lots of people run up to town for a day or two.”
“He was new here, you see,” said Julie. “If someone mentioned that he was away, I just thought he’d gone to visit friends.”
“A natural assumption,” said Gibbons. “Well, thank you all very much. You’ve been very helpful.”
Outside, Bethancourt turned the Jaguar and started back down the lane.
“Where to now?” he asked.
“High time for lunch,” grunted Gibbons.
“I suppose you have a particular place in mind? Like a pub called the Kestrel?”
“Well,” said Gibbons, “we might as well get it over with. It’s probably pointless, but these things have to be checked. After all, they’ve no alibi for the time of death, and only this pub visit for the moving of the body.”
“Maybe they were in it together with Towser,” said Bethancourt mischievously. “The Bensons doped him and then Towser drove the body home.”
“It’s perfectly possible,” said Gibbons, “only there’s no reason on earth any of them should. You want to turn left here, I think.”
“There’s a pub guide in the glove box,” said Bethancourt. “Pull it out and see if this Kestrel place is in it. I warn you, if it’s not, I’m not eating there, not unless it smells uncommonly good when we walk in.”
“All right,” grumbled Gibbons, opening the glove box and producing both the guide and an ordnance survey map. “I don’t particularly want synthetic cottage pie for lunch, either, you know. No, we’re safe after all—here it is.”
“Are we going right?” asked Bethancourt, who was dawdling along the road while peering intently out of the window at the view to his right.
Gibbons consulted the map. “Yes,” he said. “Lower Oddington is just past Stow.” He glanced up and said sharply, “Phillip, you’re going into the hedge.”
“Am I? Sorry.” Bethancourt peered in a surprised way through the windscreen and corrected this error. “There we are. We’ll be in Stow in no time.”
He had become accustomed, over the past weeks, to adding such pointless but upbeat remarks to his conversations with Gibbons. But now, glancing over at his friend, he was surprised to see he need not have bothered. Gibbons did not appear in need of cheering up; instead, he wore a thoughtful look as he said, “Didn’t you think it was odd that the Bensons and Mrs. Potts hadn’t heard of Bingham’s mystery lady? There seems to have been quite a bit of speculation on the subject in the village, and gossip travels fast in a small place.”
“A little odd,” agreed Bethancourt, stepping on the gas and shifting into third gear. “Of course, it’s less odd if they already knew all about it.”
“What do you—Oh, no, you can’t mean Martha Potts.”
“Yes, I can. She’s about the right size to fit into those clothes.”
“But you said whoever bought them was rich.”
“Joan Bonnar is rich—the clothes could have been a present from her or the twins. Or Bingham might have bought them for her himself.”
“Possibly,” admitted Gibbons. “She’s pretty unattractive, though.”
“And Bingham was an appealing fellow. There is that,” agreed Bethancourt.
“But if it was Mrs. Potts,” continued Gibbons, “what on earth would be the point of keeping it secret? She’s not married.”
“Perhaps they wanted to avoid village gossip. Anyway, it’s only an idea.”
Gibbons thought for a moment. “It would explain the clothes being there without anyone ever seeing the girlfriend. She could have come by the footpath with no one the wiser.”
“That’s why I thought of it in the first place,” agreed Bethancourt. “But of course the whole notion is just a stab in the dark. It could be anybody. Jack,” he added, changing up to fifth gear in a sudden burst of speed, “there’s a roundabout coming up.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Gibbons, and bent over the map.
They ran into Lower Oddington without further difficulty, beyond a slight difference of opinion as to exactly where in Stow-on-the-Wold the A436 turned off. But once arrived, they found the Kestrel right on the High Street, housed in a venerable old building covered with ivy. It was clearly a prosperous business, with a recently redone interior, and a separate dining room in which there was plenty of customers despite its being the off-season.
Bethancourt, who as usual had eaten no breakfast, made a beeline for the dining room, leaving Gibbons to interview the landlord in the bar alone. This was an active-looking man of about forty-five who came over quickly to take Gibbons’s order, but did not seem much put out when Gibbons showed his warrant card rather than asking for a pint.
“Ah,” he said, “that business over in Chipping Chedding, is it?”
“That’s right,” answered Gibbons, tucking his wallet away. “It’s only a matter of an alibi, if you can remember who was drinking here on the Sunday night.”
The landlord immediately looked thoughtful. “Sundays are quiet,” he said. “I doubt there were many here beyond my regulars. Now, let me see. Was that the night that couple came in? Or was that Monday?”
“Couple?” asked Gibbons. “What were they like?”
“Youngish and fairish,” he answered at once. “The girl was putting on a bit of a show—bright red dress she had on, a bit too short and a bit too tight. And long hair, all the way down to her—well, below her waist.” He grinned. “I remember that because she kept pushing it back behind her shoulders and it kept swinging back. She was doing her best, and her hair was nice, but she wasn’t very pretty in truth.”
“That sounds right,” said Gibbons, leaning on the bar. “And the man with her?”
The landlord paused before he answered, frowning thoughtfully. “Fair chap, a little heavy,” he said at last. “That’s about all I noticed. I didn’t see as much of him—it was the girl came up for the drinks.”
Gibbons nodded. “Now,” he said, “how sure are you that they were in on Sunday night?”
The publican eyed the ceiling thoughtfully. “It was a slow night, like I said,” he replied, “but that could have been Monday. Wasn’t last night or the night before, I know. No, it were Sunday right enough, I remember now. Because it was early closing night and Alf had one too many and wouldn’t believe me when I called time. Them two left and I said to Alf, ‘See, you’re the only one here.’”
Gibbons thanked him and went to join Bethancourt in the dining room. He found his friend already well-launched into a filled baguette and a pint.
“You haven’t wasted any time,” said Gibbons reproachfully.
“I’m hungry. I did get you a pint of Hook Norton. It’s very nice.”
“Ta,” said Gibbons, pulling out a chair and looking for the waitress. “What are you having?” he asked.
“Smoked chicken with rocket and tomato,” answered Bethancourt around a mouthful. He chewed industriously and swallowed. “I highly recommend it.”
“Good enough. Ah, there’s the waitress.”
Gibbons ordered and turned his attention to the pint of ale Bethancourt had g
ot him, taking a long, deep pull.
“That is good,” he said.
Bethancourt nodded agreement. “What happened in the bar?” he asked. “Did the landlord remember the Bensons?”
“He did indeed, and off his own bat, too, without any prompting from me,” said Gibbons. “They were here until closing.”
“Well, that’s settled then.” Bethancourt washed down a mouthful with his ale and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “None of them up at the old farmhouse could have done it, not unless Martha Potts’s sister is willing to lie for her.”
“It’s not very likely it was anyone in the village anyway,” said Gibbons. “Although I admit I was hoping to get more of a line on exactly where Bingham went on Sunday and whom he might have seen. But unless the chief inspector comes up with something, it looks very much like I will be spending hours going over all the traffic photos taken on Sunday between here and London.”
He sighed and took a glum swig from his pint.
“Well,” said Bethancourt, seeing no way in which to make this prospect seem less deadly dull than in fact it was, “at least you don’t have to do it yet. Where do we go from here?”
“Back to Stow-in-the-Wold,” said Gibbons. “I want to stop at the station there and see if I can find Constable Stikes. And I must ring the chief inspector to tell him about Miss Bingham.”
“Where is Carmichael today?”
“Went up to see Bingham’s business partner. Name of Sealingham.”
Andrew Sealingham was a large, prosperous-looking man of about sixty. He had a hearty, jovial manner, which, as he grew serious, turned into bluntness.
“Oh, yes,” he confirmed, “Charlie was still a full partner, as his daughter is now. I haven’t heard from Evie yet, though.”
“She only arrived in England this morning,” said Carmichael. “No doubt she’ll contact you very soon. I take it you know her?”
“Haven’t seen her since she was about fourteen,” answered Sealingham. “But I knew her fairly well back then. She even spent a summer holiday or two with my family and me. We were close to the Binghams in those days.”
Carmichael nodded. “You say Mr. Bingham was a full partner. But how much did he really have to do with the business?”
“Virtually nothing,” said Sealingham cheerfully. “Never did, actually. This place was originally set up not only as a manufacturing plant, but as a place for Charlie to work on his inventions as well. Which he did, in the beginning. I was always the businessman—that’s why Charlie hooked up with me to begin with. And, at the start, we pretty much pulled in double harness.”
“But then he left the country.”
“Exactly right.” Sealingham paused, his eye falling on a photograph of a group of young children which was positioned prominently on his desk. “His wife’s death hit him very hard. He stuck it out for a while, but then his sister convinced him to send Evie to that boarding school and after that there wasn’t anything to hold him here. He was a brilliant man, you know. Could have turned his hand to anything, but he became interested in archaeology and off he went. He came back for Evie’s school holidays at first, and we’d go over things together then. But the next thing I knew, instead of his coming back, she was going out, and we ended up communicating by telegram.”
“That must have been frustrating for you.”
“It certainly was. Most certainly was. Then Evie started growing up, Charlie went out east, and his response to my messages was ‘Do as you think best.’ So I did. For the last few years, I’ve been trying to buy him out, but he wouldn’t have it. I don’t know why. Then he turned up about a year ago, said he was coming back to England to live and thought he’d get involved in the business again. I wasn’t half-pleased with that, I can tell you, not after so many years. But it never came to any thing.”
“Why was that?”
Sealingham chuckled. “Oh, I think it was clear enough. What’s that book, You Can’t Never Go Home Again? Well, it was like that. We were great friends in the old days, but I hardly recognized him when he showed up here. He came to our house for a weekend, but it didn’t come off very well. We didn’t know each other anymore, Chief Inspector, it’s that plain and simple. Charlie wasn’t a man to deceive himself; he saw it as clearly as I did.”
Carmichael nodded. “Now that Eve Bingham has inherited her father’s share in the company, will you try to buy her out?”
“Probably. I can’t see her taking a real interest in the business.”
“Well, that’s all very clearly put, sir. I’m afraid I must ask you, just as a matter of routine, where you were last Sunday evening.”
“At home,” he replied with the air of a man whose life was an open book.
Upon Carmichael’s asking for further details, however, he became rather blustery. People often did, Carmichael reflected, when the police showed an inclination to question even the most innocent parts of their private lives. But the chief inspector was far too old a hand to either offend or to come away without what he wanted. Gently, he extracted the information that Sealingham had spent the day playing golf, and had then returned home, eaten supper in front of the television and been in bed by ten thirty. There were no live-in servants, and his wife was away.
“Ann was down visiting Clara, one of our daughters. She’s due to have her baby any day now. Clara, I mean, not Annie.” He laughed.
Carmichael congratulated him on this forthcoming event, thanked him for his help, and departed.
He paused as he settled himself in the car, and pulled out his mobile phone. As expected, Gibbons had left a message while Carmichael had been speaking to Sealingham, and he punched in the sergeant’s number as he started the car.
“How are you coming, lad?” he asked when Gibbons answered. “Finished with those interviews?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Gibbons. “It’s all much as we thought, except for one surprise. Eve Bingham was in London on Sunday night.”
“What?”
“She had come over for a party on Saturday and didn’t fly back ’til Monday. She spent Sunday night alone in her hotel room.”
“My God, Gibbons.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m on my way back,” said Carmichael. “We’ll go over everything then.”
“Right you are, sir,” said Gibbons cheerfully.
Swearing, Carmichael rang off and started out with all possible speed for the motorway.
“Hold on,” he said to himself, slacking his speed about a mile farther on. “What are you dashing about for, old man? Gibbons is a bright lad, and not one to get carried away. You should have faith in him to do his job. And,” he added practically, “if I stop for lunch, I won’t be descending on the poor lad all hungry and out of sorts.”
There was, he remembered, a likely looking pub not too much farther on. He set out toward it at a moderate pace.
Gibbons returned to the police station to make some phone calls. It had been arranged that he could use Constable Stikes’s office, which turned out to be little more than a cubbyhole furnished with a desk, complete with a phone and a computer, and two uncomfortable chairs. The window overlooked the car park.
Constable Stikes was out when they arrived, though the sergeant at the desk said she was expected back shortly.
“She’s probably out detecting,” said Gibbons gloomily, seating himself at the desk. “She’s not a detective, but she seems quite taken with helping us out.”
“Surely that’s all to the good,” said Bethancourt, shifting one of the hard, upright chairs so that he could sit with his feet propped up on the windowsill. Cerberus followed him, sitting and gazing out the window. “I mean, she knows everyone in the village.”
“Yes, but she’s overzealous if you ask me,” said Gibbons, taking out his notebook and opening it on the desk.
“It’s no good ringing St. Martin’s Lane,” he grumbled. “They’ll never tell me over the phone whether Eve Bingham stayed there or not. I wonder if
Carmichael will send me back—he seems determined to leave no stone unturned, although if you ask me it’s all make-work until we find Bingham’s girlfriend.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Bethancourt, lighting a cigarette and exhaling slowly. “Doesn’t it strike you that a case which appeared quite straightforward and hardly seemed to be a case at all is now getting more complicated with every fact we learn?”
Gibbons shrugged. “The simplest explanation is usually the right one,” he reminded Bethancourt. “And if there’s reason to keep a six-month affair quiet, there’s probably a reason to kill to keep it so.”
“There is that,” agreed Bethancourt. “And yet, there is the money. When very rich men die, the money is so often the reason, and that’s simple enough.”
“True,” sighed Gibbons. “And now that we know the heiress was in London on the night in question … well, I probably will have to go back and visit the hotel.”
“If that’s a hint that I should drive you, you can forget it,” responded Bethancourt uncharitably. “Marla would have a fit. Oh, no, half a tic—I forgot.”
“You forgot what?”
“She’s got to go back tomorrow—she’s flying out to Paris for another shoot. That’s all right then. You can come with us, and I’ll drive you back afterward.”
“I don’t know that Carmichael will send me yet,” said Gibbons evasively. He had no desire to make a third with Bethancourt and Marla. The addition, he was certain, would not be welcome to her. “I’d better try the doctor again,” he said, pulling the phone toward him. “I couldn’t get him yesterday, or this morning.”
“I thought you spoke to Dr. Cross.”
“Not him,” replied Gibbons, dialing. “This is the cardiologist Bingham saw in London, a Dr. Preston Loomis.”
This time, he succeeded in actually speaking to the eminent doctor, who confirmed that Bingham had been a patient of his at one time and went on to refuse any further information, when in fact Gibbons had only been about to ask when the doctor would be available for an interview.
“You could be anybody,” he said cheerfully, “anybody at all. You come ’round tomorrow with proper identification and I’ll be happy to tell you all all about it. By then I may even remember it. Only,” he added, “if it’s going to take any time, you’d better come late, around five. Otherwise you’ll put my appointments out, and I’ll have patients howling at me all afternoon.”
Village Affairs Page 9
