Village Affairs

by Cassandra Chan

  Mostly, he decided as he slumped into a chair and lit a cigarette, he was trying to contain his impatience. He knew it would be some time before he could expect to hear from Gibbons, but his curiosity was eating away at him. He settled himself comfortably in his chair and tried as best he could to resign himself to waiting.

  Derek Towser heard the news at the Deer and Hounds. He entered to find a great many strangers at the bar, avidly questioning the locals, who seemed to welcome the attention. Towser ordered a pint and asked what had happened.

  “Have they solved the case?” he inquired of the landlord.

  “It’s Joan Bonnar,” the landlord replied, but he was called away to other customers before getting any further, leaving Towser with the impression that the commotion had to do with celebrity, not murder. He was still curious and looked around for someone who might fill him in. Neither Leandra Tothill nor Astley-Cooper appeared to be in the pub, though it was the right hour for one or the other of them to stop in. In Towser’s opinion, one of the nicest things about Chipping Chedding was the casual way in which the inhabitants dropped by the pub to look for each other. The Tothills in particular seemed to use it as a meeting place, largely, Towser suspected, because it gave them a view on their parish they would not otherwise have had. But whatever the reason, he—and Bingham, too, before his death—had found this odd habit of the vicar and his wife to be most convenient, offering a fair chance of good company at the pub on many evenings.

  But not tonight, it seemed. Towser, still in search of an information source, at last caught sight of Gerald Owens, who owned the grocer’s shop in the High Street and was presently planted at the end of the bar.

  Making his way through the crowd toward this goal, Towser was abruptly stopped by a voice saying, “That’s Towser. He lives in the cottage next door.”

  He looked for the speaker, but before he could identify him, several of the strangers had turned to him and begun a barrage of questions whose import he did not understand.

  “Did you know about the relationship, sir?”

  “If so, why didn’t you inform the police?”

  “You do live on the farmhouse property, don’t you?”

  “You were the victim’s best friend, isn’t that so, sir?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Towser. “What’s it all about?”

  They frowned at him.

  “The news has only just broken,” said one. “Joan Bonnar has confessed to being the murder victim’s girlfriend.”

  “Really?” said Towser, astonished.

  “But you lived right there, sir, you must have known.”

  “I didn’t know anything,” protested Towser. “And I don’t know anything now,” he added, as they opened their mouths with new queries.

  After a few more such uncommunicative answers, the reporters left him alone and returned their attention to the other locals, who were leading them on in a shameful manner. Towser sat by himself, watching the show, and wishing Leandra would come in to keep him company. The pub seemed a lonely place without either her or Bingham, despite the influx of new people.

  At about eight o’clock, somebody reported seeing the policemen’s Rover driving through the village and the reporters hastily decamped, this evidently being the signal for a fresh onslaught on both the farmhouse and the station in Stow. Towser finished his second pint and reflected that, although he had only known Charlie Bingham for a month or so, he was not altogether surprised to find that he had nabbed the only celebrity in the neighborhood. Charlie had been that sort of person.

  He decided against a third pint and left the pub. The stars were bright overhead and he walked briskly along the road. Towser liked walking at night and he seldom bothered with a torch even when the sky was overcast. He turned when he reached the cottages, but paused in the drive. Both houses were lit, and next to Steve Eberhart’s mud-splattered Land Rover was parked a gleaming white Rolls-Royce. It occurred to Towser that there was one person in Chipping Chedding who might not have heard about Joan Bonnar, and who actually needed to know. He followed the path up to the first cottage and knocked at the door.

  Carmichael had gone back to Chipping Chedding. He had dealt with the media, compared notes with his sergeant, and set a program for tomorrow, leaving Gibbons to type up a report at the police station. This Gibbons had finished, and now he was tired and very hungry. He was just about to ring Bethancourt and inform him that if he wanted to hear the latest, he would have to drive Gibbons to a restaurant when the telephone rang.

  “Sergeant Gibbons?” said Eve Bingham.

  Gibbons almost groaned aloud. “Yes, Miss?” he replied, stifling the groan.

  “I’m about to leave my father’s house,” she said. “May I stop and see you on the way? I’ll only take a moment of your time.”

  “Of course,” said Gibbons, who felt a sudden qualm at the idea of a second tête-à-tête interview. Sternly he reminded himself that she was still a murder suspect and he was honor-bound to listen to whatever she had to say.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Gibbons replaced the receiver and sighed mightily. Then he dialed Stutely Manor.

  “I’m starved,” he told Bethancourt.

  “We had dinner early,” said his friend, “but I could do with a snack. Shall I pick you up? We could go to that pub Marla and I were at the other night. It’s quite decent.”

  “Brilliant,” said Gibbons. “Only don’t come straightaway.”

  “Why ever not?” asked Bethancourt, surprised. “I thought you said you were starving.”

  “I am. But Eve Bingham rang to say she wanted to stop by. She said it wouldn’t take long.”

  “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “No, and I can’t think what it could be. Normally, murder suspects don’t offer to come down to the station.”

  “All right,” said Bethancourt. “I’ll drive down in a bit and wait for you outside in the car.”

  “Perfect,” said Gibbons. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  He rang off, slipped into his jacket and straightened his tie, and then sat back to wait nervously. He had only just settled himself, however, when Eve Bingham was shown in. He eyed her sharply, but she appeared cool and collected, if a little tired.

  “They don’t do you very well,” she remarked, looking about the tiny office.

  “I’ll convey that to the chief constable,” replied Gibbons before he could stop himself.

  She seemed slightly taken aback and he apologized at once and asked her to be seated.

  “It’s just that I haven’t had my dinner yet,” he explained, and went on briskly, “Now then, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s about Joan Bonnar,” she said. “I understand she was seeing my father.”

  “That’s so,” he said. “We spoke with Miss Bonnar this afternoon. You didn’t know?”

  She shook her head. “My father hadn’t mentioned it in any of his letters.”

  Gibbons nodded. “You must understand, Miss Bingham, that no one else knew of the relationship, either. Miss Bonnar wished to avoid any publicity.”

  “Yes, I know.” Eve toyed with the strap of her bag. “Were they—was it a serious relationship, do you know?”

  Gibbons decided that there was no need to tell her that her father had planned to be married without letting her know.

  “I believe so,” he answered. “They had been seeing each other for about six months.”

  She looked up at him, surprised. “Oh,” she said. Then she bit her lip. “I expect I’ll meet her tomorrow then. I don’t know how I feel about that. Was that where he was going on Sunday, then? To see her?”

  “We don’t know yet,” said Gibbons. “It may have been.”

  “Then she wasn’t expecting him?”

  “Miss Bingham, I understand this news must come as a shock, but I really can’t discuss the case with you,” said Gibbons.

  She met his eyes. “C
an you tell me if you think she killed him?”

  Gibbons spread his hands. “I simply don’t know,” he said. “We’ll be looking into that, certainly, but at the moment she is no more a suspect than anyone else.”

  “Than me, you mean,” said Eve bitterly.

  “Anyone without an alibi is a suspect at present, Miss,” said Gibbons evenly.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, recovering herself. “I suppose it was silly of me to bother you. I just thought …”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought you might have a feeling about it,” she said.

  “Even if I did,” said Gibbons, trying to be patient, “you must see that it would be wrong of me to communicate it to you, to either prejudice you against Miss Bonnar or to give you confidence in her innocence. How would you feel if afterward I turned out to be wrong?”

  “Then you do think you know?”

  Gibbons sighed. There was just no reasoning with some people. “No, Miss Bingham,” he said firmly, “I don’t. After we’ve done some more investigating, I may have, but at the moment I honestly don’t know. I’m very sorry I can’t help you.”

  She nodded acceptance and rose. “Thank you anyway for seeing me,” she said. “I expect I’m just on edge about the funeral tomorrow.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” said Gibbons, throwing his coat over his arm and holding the door for her. “I’ll see you out.”

  He ushered her through the station and into the cool evening air. They paused on the steps, she to light a cigarette, he to look for Bethancourt’s gray Jaguar.

  “There you are,” came Bethancourt’s voice, and Gibbons turned to see his friend coming up the walk, Cerberus pacing sedately at his side. “Hullo, Eve. How are you holding up?”

  She smiled and held out a hand to the dog. “As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she answered. “I’m rather dreading the funeral tomorrow.”

  “A pity, that,” said Bethancourt sympathetically. “After all, they say funerals are supposed to be for the comfort of those left behind.”

  “This one,” said Eve dryly, “looks to be more for the comfort of the media.”

  “Do your best to thwart them,” said Bethancourt. “Wear a veil.”

  She almost laughed. “It would serve them right if I did. Will you be coming?”

  “Certainly,” said Bethancourt. “Marla sends her regrets, but she already had a shoot scheduled in Paris and couldn’t get out of it.”

  Eve waved this away. “She’s already been kind enough. I’ll see you there, then. Good night.”

  She walked down the steps toward her car, and they watched her go.

  “I’m parked ’round the corner,” said Bethancourt, starting off in the opposite direction. “We had better hurry if we want to catch them before they stop serving. Cerberus, heel.”

  The pub was a very old one, sitting in lonely splendor on the Cheltenham road. A large room off the bar was a modern addition and had been set up as a proper dining room. It was almost deserted at this hour. Bethancourt and Gibbons arrived just before the kitchen closed and long after most of the day’s specials were sold out. They ordered steaks and pints of bitter instead and then Bethancourt lit a cigarette and leaned back while Gibbons, with half an eye on the kitchen door, demolished the rolls in the breadbasket and told him what they had learned from Joan Bonnar.

  “So she could have done it,” said Bethancourt reflectively.

  “The sleeping tablets rather point to her.”

  “Yes,” said Bethancourt, “but it’s very circumstantial, especially now that we know there was an unattended bottle of them at the farmhouse. Almost anyone could have got hold of the pills while they were visiting the Bensons. Or it might be someone else’s prescription altogether—although it’s not a common medication.”

  “You just like to complicate things,” said Gibbons. “It’s barely possible that someone else connected to the case had access to Seconal, but it’s extremely unlikely.”

  “True.” Bethancourt smoked for a moment in silence, his hazel eyes thoughtful. “What bothers me, though, is that there’s still no motive. To me, that means there’s something we haven’t discovered.”

  “We haven’t begun to investigate Miss Bonnar,” Gibbons reminded him. “Perhaps something will turn up there.”

  “Perhaps, but you must admit nothing springs readily to mind.”

  “Besides,” said Gibbons, “motive’s the last thing to consider. Means and opportunity first—that’s the rule.”

  “Which Joan Bonnar had,” said Bethancourt. “Only everyone claims she and Bingham were very happy together, and even if they’d had a row, she’d hardly murder him just to keep him from telling the tabloids about their affair.”

  “There may have been something else,” said Gibbons, sneaking another look toward the kitchen. He had finished the rolls.

  “Bingham,” continued Bethancourt, “might have been going to see his daughter or his business partner rather than Joan. Neither of them, so far as we know, have access to Seconal, though one can make a case for them both having motives. On the other hand, someone from the village had access to the tablets, but no motive we can come up with, and no reason to meet Bingham in London.”

  “Why stick to London?” said Gibbons sarcastically, while he signaled for another pint. “We’ve never succeeded in tracing his car—he might have gone anywhere.”

  “He told Peg Eberhart he was off to London.”

  “Yes, just as he always did when he was going to see Joan Bonnar. Now that we know that, there’s no reason to suppose otherwise.”

  A gleam had appeared in Bethancourt’s eye. “You’re right there,” he said. “If in fact he wasn’t going to meet her, then he must have had a reason for lying to Peg Eberhart.”

  “Oh, very well, have it your way,” said Gibbons. “He wasn’t meeting Joan, he was meeting Leandra Tothill, with whom he’d also been having an affair. But Leandra has gotten the wind up, and is afraid he’ll tell someone. So she pinches the Seconal at the farmhouse and feeds it to Bingham mixed up in some whisky. He dies, and she drives him back to his cottage, arranges him in the sitting room, and then rides home on her bicycle which she has earlier stashed behind the hedge. There you are—motive and opportunity together.”

  “That’s really very fine, Jack,” said Bethancourt admiringly. “I’d never thought of Mrs. Tothill.”

  “She’s a very unlikely suspect,” said Gibbons. “Oh, look, here comes the food.”

  Gibbons applied himself industriously to his steak and mushrooms and parsley new potatoes, listening with only half an ear as Bethancourt returned to their discussion.

  “In any case, all I’m saying is that it’s difficult to think of a motive for Joan Bonnar,” said Bethancourt. “Unless,” he added, struck by a thought, “she had somehow lost all her money and had already secretly married Bingham.”

  Gibbons snorted to show his opinion of this theory.

  “True,” said Bethancourt sadly. “It doesn’t work at all.”

  He ate a piece of beef and was silent for several moments while Gibbons demolished his potatoes and most of the rest of his steak. Bethancourt, eating in a more leisurely manner, suddenly paused with his fork in midair.

  “You said the press agent was with her that night?”

  Gibbons nodded. “Watkinson is his name.”

  “Perhaps …” Bethancourt chewed ruminatively for a moment. “Perhaps it was an accident after all. Listen to this, Jack. Bingham doesn’t know about the Sunday interview and on impulse he decides to spend the evening with her. He arrives at her townhouse, finds her still out, and settles down to wait. Only he’s got a headache and mistakes the sleeping tablets for aspirin. Anyway, he takes them by accident and dies. Joan comes in with Watkinson and finds him. She assumes it’s a heart attack—anyone would—and explains the situation to Watkinson, who sees no reason she should be stuck with the bad publicity that is sure to result. It’s the kind of thing
a press agent would think of. He moves the body back to Chipping Chedding, possibly with her help. But when there’s a murder investigation, they decide they’d better come clean about the affair after all, since the police will be bound to find out sooner or later. Only they don’t want to confess to moving the body because they know that will result in a criminal charge.”

  Gibbons, having finished his meal, was willing to consider this. “It’s possible,” he said slowly. “There’s only the one point about how and why Bingham took the tablets.”

  “Oh, no,” groaned Bethancourt. “I’d forgotten the damn tablets in Bingham’s cottage. A theory’s no good unless it accounts for that.”

  “Unless Joan realized he had taken the tablets.”

  But Bethancourt was shaking his head. “In that case, she would have said she’d lent him some. And anyway, how would she know? If you have a boyfriend with a bad heart and you come home to find him dead, you assume it’s a heart attack. You don’t go rifling through your medicine cabinet to see if any of your pills are missing.”

  “Put like that,” said Gibbons, “I have to agree.”

  Bethancourt had gone back to his supper. “I forgot to ask,” he said. “What did Eve want this evening?”

  He glanced up at his friend, but Gibbons showed no sensitivity about the subject, and Bethancourt breathed a sigh of relief.

  “She only wanted to ask about Joan Bonnar,” answered Gibbons. He raised a hand for the waiter. “I wonder what they’ve got left for pudding,” he said.

  He had a choice between bread pudding and chocolate cake, and opted for the pudding. Bethancourt ordered coffee and then leaned back and lit an after-dinner cigarette, exhaling with a sigh of deep comfort and satisfaction.

  “Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?” he asked.

  “No,” answered Gibbons. “I was surprised to hear you were. Or was that just an impulsive effort to cheer Eve up?”

  Bethancourt grinned. “I’m not that nice,” he said. “No, Astley-Cooper is panting to go, and I said I’d accompany him. Besides, I haven’t seen Joan Bonnar yet.”