The Tothills looked surprised, but acquiesced willingly.
“Only,” said the vicar, “I must warn you that he certainly never said anything very important about her. Lee and I would have remembered something like that.”
“I don’t expect that he did,” said Bethancourt. “What I really want to know is how he felt about her and her life, how he thought she felt about him. That sort of thing. Try to remember as much as you can.”
They promised to do their best and Bethancourt took his leave. When he had gone, Leandra turned slowly back to the breakfast dishes while her husband sat thoughtfully at the table.
“I think we should write down what we can remember,” he said. “And perhaps it would be best to try and start at the beginning, when we first met Charlie, and work our way forward. How does that strike you?”
“What?” said Leandra.
“I said—why, Lee, are you all right? You look rather pale.”
He rose and went to put an arm around her.
“I’m fine,” she said, although she did turn and lean her head against his shoulder. “Oh, Richard, I do love you.”
“And I adore you,” he responded, kissing the top of her head. “What’s wrong, Lee?”
“Nothing,” she answered. “Or, at least, it’s just that I had never thought that the murderer might be one of us, here in the village. It’s so peaceful here and people always seemed so, well, not all of them are nice exactly, but I thought they were quite normal.”
“Dull, you mean,” said Tothill with a grin. “But, Lee, it may not be true—they may all be as innocent as the day is long. It’s not time yet to worry about that.”
“You’re right,” she said, and hugged him fiercely.
Bethancourt stopped at the Eberharts’ to repeat his request, and then went on to Towser’s, his last stop before picking up his passengers and proceeding up to town. He rather expected Towser to be out painting in the early morning light, but he was at home.
“It’s the inquest today,” the painter explained. “They want Peg Eberhart to give evidence, so I said I’d drive her since Steve has his rounds to do. They really ought to get a second car now that Peg has the baby.”
Bethancourt agreed with this point of view, and explained why he had come.
Towser scratched his head. “I suppose I can try,” he said. “Off hand, I can’t remember his saying much about her—oh, excuse me.”
The telephone was ringing. Towser went to answer it, while Bethancourt studied the landscape painting on the easel.
“Really?” Towser’s voice drifted back to him. He sounded surprised. “Well, I think you’re getting the wind up … . of course I understand that, but I shouldn’t worry now …”
A woman, Bethancourt decided idly, turning to another picture leaning against the wall, a woman was speaking at the other end of the phone. Men sounded different when they talked to each other than they did when talking to women. And both sexes sounded quite different from anything else when they talked to their families.
“Well, thank you,” said Towser, “but, truly, I doubt it will come to that … . All right, I’ll speak to you later.”
“I must be off,” said Bethancourt as Towser reentered the room. “I’ve still got to get up to town this morning.”
“Very well,” said Towser. “I’ll give it some thought and let you know what I come up with.”
Bethancourt thanked him and took his leave, glancing at his watch as he started up the Jaguar. He had timed it admirably, he thought. Marla had not finished packing by the time he was ready to leave, and experience had allowed him to translate her promise of “twenty more minutes” into an hour. By the time he picked up Jack and returned to Stutely Manor, she should be just about ready to go.
“Wake up, Jack.”
Gibbons opened an eye. In fact, the nap he had been lulled into by the smooth ride of the Jaguar along the motorway had long since been broken by the stop-and-go London traffic, but he had decided feigning sleep was preferable to contributing to the discussion in the car. This had centered around Bethancourt’s plan to have Marla pick up what gossip she could about Bingham’s visit to his daughter in Paris. When Gibbons had fallen asleep, Marla had still been hesitating, but by the amiable atmosphere in the car on his awakening, she had apparently acquiesced.
“We’re here,” announced Bethancourt.
Gibbons grunted and pushed himself into a sitting position. Cerberus, sitting beside him, leaned over to helpfully lick his face. Gibbons patted him and glanced out the window where the entrance to St. Martin’s Lane Hotel sat beneath its canopy.
“All right, then,” he said. “You’ll meet me back here? You’ve got my bag in the boot.”
“Never fear,” Bethancourt assured him.
“Very well.” Gibbons gave Cerberus a last pat and opened the door.
“Good heavens,” said Marla. “You’re not going in like that, are you?”
“Like what?” asked Gibbons, but she was already getting out of the car, calling to Bethancourt to open the boot.
“She’ll set you right,” said Bethancourt, waving him out. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Outside, Marla was rummaging in one of her bags, from which she eventually produced a lint roller.
“Here,” she said, grabbing him by the arm and industriously sweeping down one side of his chest. “You’ve dog hair all over.”
“Oh,” said Gibbons. “I hadn’t noticed. Thank you.”
“People will never take you seriously as a police officer if you’re covered in dog hair,” she said, working her way down his left leg and then straightening to begin operations on his right side.
“Well, I do have the proper ID,” he said.
Marla merely sniffed and continued her work.
“There,” she said. “Your back’s all right—Phillip must have brushed out the car this morning.”
“Thanks again,” said Gibbons. “I hope you enjoy Paris.”
She waved at him as she went to return the roller to her bag and he turned toward the hotel.
St. Martin’s Lane was the last word in fashionable hotels and Gibbons was rather glad Marla had noticed the dog hair as he entered the elegant lobby. He felt dowdy enough as it was.
The chic young woman behind the desk, informed of his identity and purpose, refused to deal with him at all, and instead summoned her manager. That gentleman looked slightly alarmed and ushered him quickly into an office as fashionably outfitted as the lobby. Gibbons explained his errand, adding, “I’ll want to speak to anyone who was on duty that Sunday night—maids, waiters, lift operators.”
“Of course, sir,” said the manager, who then hesitated. “I’m afraid none of those people are here at the moment, it being the day shift.”
It was what Gibbons had expected. He arranged to return in the evening for his interviews, after he had seen Dr. Loomis, and asked for a list of the night-shift staff. This being produced, he took his leave and then stood hesitating in the lobby. In the ordinary way of things he would have got himself a cup of coffee and settled down to wait for Bethancourt, but he felt distinctly out of place amid these surroundings and the people who inhabited them. Scotland Yard was not far away, and he could run his list of names through the computer there for anything that might crop up.
He made for the exit, digging out his mobile as he went to let Bethancourt know where to find him.
In the event, Bethancourt declined to accompany his friend that evening, opting instead to have drinks with the manager of a well-known art gallery where Bethancourt was an occasional patron.
They settled in comfortably at Atlantic, ordering dry martinis and chatting about a new gallery Max Merriman’s onetime assistant had just opened in the East End.
“She did me proud,” sighed Merriman, sipping at his drink. “I went to the opening, of course, and everything was spot-on. A really well-staged little show. And I’ve sent a few people her way—I’m really hoping she makes a
go of it.”
“I’ll stop by there when I’m next in town,” promised Bethancourt.
Merriman raised an eyebrow. “Next in town?” he asked. “Where are you now then?”
Bethancourt grinned. “I’m only here overnight,” he answered. “I’ve been spending some time up in the Cotswolds. In fact, I ran into an artist up there that you must know of—Derek Towser?”
“Towser,” Merriman mused. “Oh, yes, the portrait chap. Yes, that’s right—he’d be off feeding his soul on landscapes just now. Does it every October unless he has something big on. I don’t know him well, myself, but his work’s very sound.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Thinking of having your portrait done, Phillip?”
“Not at the moment,” said Bethancourt. “I’m just curious about the man. He seems to have developed a reputation in the village up there as something of a ladies’ man, and I can’t make out if it’s true, or just wishful thinking on the part of the womenfolk. He’s certainly a handsome man.”
Merriman chuckled. “That he is, and he doesn’t hesitate to use it. Not that he’s any worse than a lot of others, but of course that old scandal does cling to him.”
“Ah,” said Bethancourt, adjusting his glasses and regarding Merriman with a bright eye. “I love a good scandal, Max.”
Merriman laughed again. “It’s ancient history now,” he said. “Well after Derek got his start, but before he was quite so well known. I don’t know if you’ve met the Mayhews?”
Bethancourt sipped his drink and thought. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t believe I have.”
“Well, no matter. Wealthy family with a pretty daughter named Lisa. She got herself engaged to Lord Wythens and everything was set for a big society wedding. Her parents had the bright idea of having her portrait done, and hired Towser for it—and he did a first-rate job, though that’s by-the-way. He also seduced pretty little Lisa. Or maybe it was the other way ’round—you know how these things go.”
“Indeed. I take it Towser was indiscreet?”
“Ah, that’s the really fine bit in the whole affair—pardon the pun. No, Derek was the very soul of discretion, but Lisa couldn’t resist telling her friends, and of course it got back to Wythens.”
“Naturally. These things always do. Did he call off the wedding ?”
“Oh, yes, in high dudgeon. As I say, it was quite the scandal at the time, and ever since then Derek’s been suspected of sleeping with every woman he paints. It’s not true, of course. Though if you’re asking if he’s likely to remain celibate for an entire month, I should say no. Not, at least, if there’s anyone pretty enough up there—with his looks, he can afford to be particular and I hear he is.”
Bethancourt sighed in satisfaction and drank his martini. “It’s always nice to be in the know,” he said. “Speaking of which, what do you think of his landscapes?”
“Never seen one,” said Merriman. “He sells them over at Acton’s, but I’ve never been interested enough to go and look. They don’t make much of a splash. Not like his portraiture—really brilliant, that is. It’s Danvers who’s all the rage in landscapes these days. Have you seen his stuff ?”
The conversation went on to other things, and after another half-hour the two men parted.
Bethancourt stood on the street outside the bar, hesitating for a moment before he shrugged as though casting fate to the winds, and turned toward Piccadilly Circus. He crossed Shaftesbury Avenue and walked briskly along Coventry until he came to Charing Cross. A few minutes later saw him descending the stairway leading down to Saint. The doorman, recognizing him, looked for Marla, but, failing to find her, returned his eyes to Bethancourt’s face.
“Do you know if Spencer is here tonight?” Bethancourt asked him.
There was no need for a last name. There was only one Spencer in the fashion world.
“Came in a few minutes ago,” said the doorman.
“Thanks,” said Bethancourt, smiling, and made his way inside.
Spencer Kendrick, the noted fashion photographer, was standing at the bar. He was a tall, lanky man with an air of calm that the frenetic pace of his chosen profession rarely disturbed. He was several years older than Bethancourt, but the two men had got on well from their first meeting and had quickly become friends.
Kendrick, nursing an Irish whiskey and smoking languidly, smiled when his gaze fell on Bethancourt.
“Hullo, Phillip,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d see you tonight with Marla out of town. Or didn’t she go?”
“She went,” affirmed Bethancourt, leaning against the bar. “I was looking for you.”
“And here I am, entirely at your disposal. I’ve nothing on tonight, beyond wanting dinner in a bit.”
“I haven’t eaten, either,” said Bethancourt, signaling the barman and ordering another martini.
“Were you up in the Cotswolds?” asked Kendrick.
“Yes. In fact, I’m going back in the morning.” Bethancourt, receiving his drink, settled himself more comfortably on his stool and lit a cigarette. “There’s been a murder up there, you see.”
“Ah,” said Kendrick. “Does Marla know?”
“She could hardly avoid knowing—it was the talk of the village.”
“Too bad,” commiserated Kendrick, well aware of Marla’s dislike of her boyfriend’s hobby.
“Well, she didn’t mind as much as usual,” said Bethancourt. “A friend of hers is involved this time.”
Kendrick looked startled. “There was a murder during the shoot?” he asked. “I hadn’t heard anything. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “I can well see how nearly anyone might want to murder Liz Randall. But she can’t be dead—I’d certainly have heard that.”
“No,” said Bethancourt, smiling. “It didn’t happen during the shoot. The murder was purely a village affair, but the victim happened to be Eve Bingham’s father. Do you know her?”
“In a sense,” replied Kendrick. “She’s always somewhere about during the Paris shows. A couple of years ago, she had momentarily abandoned rock stars and was going in for photographers.”
“I see,” said Bethancourt.
“It was a nice weekend,” continued Kendrick, “but I can’t say we spent a lot of time getting to know each other.”
“In that case, I don’t suppose she mentioned her father.”
“Well, no, but then very few women ever do mention their fathers to me. I can’t think why. I mean, it’s not as if I have anything against fathers. I’m quite fond of my own, for example.”
“On the other hand,” said Bethancourt, “you probably didn’t mention him to Eve.”
“Probably not,” admitted Kendrick. “After all, the old fellow’s principle interest these days is fishing, and while I’m a great fisherman myself, I don’t find it goes down very well as a topic of conversation amongst the city-bred.”
“No, I don’t imagine it would.”
Kendrick lit another cigarette. “I take it you think Eve killed her father?”
“I don’t know,” replied Bethancourt. “She’s merely one of several suspects at the moment.”
“That’s good.” Kendrick let out a stream of smoke with a sigh. “I should feel … odd, if it turned out she was a murderer.”
“The most unlikely people are capable of murder, given the right circumstances,” said Bethancourt.
“No doubt, but I do try to avoid sleeping with them,” retorted Kendrick. “Oh, well.”
He threw back the last of his whiskey with a shrug.
“Where do you want to eat?” he asked.
Bethancourt, when he arrived to pick up Gibbons the next morning, had brought coffee and Gibbons was grateful. He had risen later than he had meant to, decided he had no time to properly brew coffee, and had tried to make do with some instant coffee, only to find that the milk in his refrigerator had soured while he had been away. He settled himself in the passenger seat, patted Cerberus, and took the steaming latte thankfully.
“And so of
f to Lincoln,” said Bethancourt cheerfully, edging his way out into the morning traffic.
“Mmm,” said Gibbons, sipping. “Where did you get to last night?” he asked. “I thought you wanted to come to the hotel with me.”
“I had drinks with Max Merriman,” answered Bethancourt. “He manages a gallery in Cork Street, and I wanted to ask him about Derek Towser. I found out, by the way, why he has such a reputation with the ladies.”
“You mean besides his looks?”
“That’s right.”
Bethancourt recounted the story of the scandal and Gibbons chuckled.
“I don’t see that it has any bearing on the case, though,” he said.
“No, as it turned out. I was only curious,” said Bethancourt. “I really don’t see that Towser could have had any previous connection with Bingham, not unless he painted a portrait of Eve. I asked Max, but he didn’t know.”
“I don’t think he did,” said Gibbons. “I spoke to his agent yesterday afternoon, and he claims not.”
“And did the hotel staff give Eve Bingham an alibi?” asked Bethancourt.
“They did not,” replied Gibbons. “She might have been there, but she equally well could have slipped out. They were, however, relatively certain that she had not had a visitor, particularly not one answering to Bingham’s description. That doesn’t mean anything, of course—she might have met him elsewhere.”
“She must have, if she killed him—she couldn’t possibly have smuggled the corpse out of St. Martin’s. But it is difficult to see how she got back to London from the Cotswolds.”
“I checked with all the major car rental agencies, and she hadn’t rented a car that night, but that’s not proof of anything, either.”
“No,” agreed Bethancourt. “How about those names you got from Pat Stikes? Any joy there?”
“Carmichael had me give them to DI Mathers,” answered Gibbons. “He’s already spoken to the first woman on the list—the one who stayed at the Deer and Hounds with a girlfriend. He rang me on the mobile to tell me about it.” Gibbons was smiling.
Village Affairs Page 13
