Village Affairs

by Cassandra Chan

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, unlocking the Rover. “To Derek Towser’s cottage, then?”

  “Yes. No one seems to have seen him today.” Carmichael glanced about as he went to the passenger door. “Where’s Bethancourt, then? The body put him off ?”

  “No, sir,” said Gibbons. “At least, it didn’t affect his appetite. He went off with Astley-Cooper to have lunch.”

  Carmichael grimaced. “I’d have liked some lunch myself,” he said.

  “So would I, sir,” said Gibbons feelingly as he got into the car.

  There was no answer at Derek Towser’s cottage, but just as they were returning to the car, the artist drove up. He pulled in behind them and leaned out of the window, his head adorned with a shapeless felt hat.

  “Looking for me?” he called cheerfully.

  Carmichael, who had been in the midst of cursing elusive suspects, changed gears smoothly.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Carmichael, and I’ve one or two questions for you.”

  “Righto,” said Towser, climbing out of his car, and nodding to Gibbons. “Come on in.”

  He unlocked the cottage door, ushering them into the studio.

  “There’s nowhere to sit in here,” he said apologetically to Carmichael, “but if you’ll come through to the kitchen …”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Carmichael. “This won’t take but a minute. We’re only interested, if you’ll be so good, in your movements last night and early this morning. Starting at about nine o’clock yesterday evening.”

  Towser sobered immediately. “Last night?” he repeated. “Has something happened?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m afraid it has. If you could tell me—”

  “But what’s going on?”

  Carmichael remained impassive. “I’d prefer to hear about your movements first, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do bloody well mind.”

  Carmichael did not reply. He merely stared back at Towser until the young man averted his gaze.

  “I expect,” he said moodily, “you’ll tell me afterward?”

  “I don’t see why not,” replied Carmichael levelly. “You’re bound to hear before the day is out.”

  “Well …” Towser pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Very well, then,” he said grudgingly. “At about nine last night, Eve Bingham stopped by for a drink. Actually, I think it might have been a bit earlier. She stayed until some time after ten, perhaps ten fifteen. I went for a short walk after she left, came back, did up the dishes, and went to bed.”

  “And this morning?”

  “I was up early, left the house by seven or so. I drove over to Mr. Kellam’s farm and settled in to do a painting of his barn. That’s where I’ve just come from—the painting’s in the back of the car if you’d like to see it.”

  “Not just at the moment, sir,” said Carmichael. “You say you took a brief walk after Miss Bingham left you last night? Where did you go?”

  “Up toward the lake.” Towser jerked his head. “There’s a path out back. I wanted to clear my head, on account of having to get up early today.”

  Carmichael’s eyes gleamed, and he let his gaze fall to Towser’s feet, as if mentally estimating their size.

  “Exactly how far did you go, sir? Did you walk along the lake?”

  Towser looked suspicious. “For a little ways,” he admitted warily.

  “Up along to that boulder on the far side?”

  Towser shook his head. “Not that far. I stopped when I got to the path to the farmhouse and turned back.”

  “But you could see the boulder?”

  “I expect I could have, if I’d looked. Although it was pretty dark—in fact, it started to drizzle just as I turned back—so perhaps not.”

  “And you saw no one else?”

  “No, of course not. The Bensons and Martha go to bed early, and they’re the only ones who walk around there.” He looked alarmed. “Did one of them drown?”

  “No,” answered Carmichael. “But Joan Bonnar was found dead there this morning.”

  Towser’s eyes widened. “Joan Bonnar? She’s dead?”

  “Yes, sir. Are you certain you didn’t see her? She was wearing a dark coat, but her hair would have been light.”

  Towser shook his head, still stunned by the news. “No,” he said. “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “And what time was it you were there?” asked Carmichael. “If you went for your walk directly after Miss Bingham left—”

  “I expect it was about half ten,” said Towser hastily. “Ten thirty when I reached the lake, I mean. I can’t put it closer than that.”

  “Very good. And can I ask what shoes you were wearing last night?”

  “Shoes?” echoed Towser, staring wildly. “Why, the ones I’m wearing now, I suppose. Yes, I must have been.”

  They all looked down at the black leather trainers, which had seen better days.

  “But what happened?” asked Towser. “Did she take the boat out or something?”

  “We don’t know yet,” answered Carmichael. “Mr. Towser, it would help us enormously if we could take your shoes with us. You’d have them back by tomorrow or the next day,” he added persuasively.

  For a moment, Towser merely gaped at him. Then realization dawned and he said slowly, “I see. You’ve found footprints, haven’t you?”

  “One footprint,” agreed Carmichael. “It’s very likely yours, according to your account of your walk, but you must see that we have to absolutely eliminate the possibility that it belongs to someone else.”

  “Yes, I see.” Towser was thoughtful, staring down at his feet. “You can do that, I expect?” he asked. “I mean, you can tell the difference, even if someone else was there and wearing trainers like these?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Carmichael confidently. “Yours aren’t new by any means—there will be a pattern of wear on the soles. No one else could match that.”

  “Well,” said Towser uncertainly. “Well, all right, then.” He sat down abruptly on the stool before the easel and began pulling off the shoes. “I may be a fool,” he said, “but it seems to me to be more suspicious not to let you have them than the other way about. I will get them back?” he added, rising and holding them out. “They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve got.”

  “As soon as we can,” promised Carmichael, taking his prize. “Thank you very much, Mr. Towser. And thank you for your time.”

  Despite this triumph, Carmichael was in no very good mood as they returned to the cars.

  “I expect we’d better get on to Eve Bingham,” he said with a sigh as he settled himself in the passenger seat. “Frankly, even if she killed her father, I can’t imagine why she should want to do away with Joan Bonnar, but it never does to skip things.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, starting up the car.

  Carmichael frowned and gazed out the window.

  “I want the pathologist’s report,” he said peevishly. “I want to know whether this was suicide or not.”

  Gibbons wisely said nothing.

  In the end, they found Eve Bingham closer to hand than they had expected. As they rounded the curve in the road, they saw a brown lorry parked in front of Bingham’s cottage, with two men loading crates into it. Gibbons slowed at once, looking at his superior.

  “If the removal men are here, sir,” he offered, “Eve Bingham should be as well.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Carmichael impatiently. “Pull up behind them.”

  They found Eve Bingham in the sitting room, hands on her hips, watching a burly man marking a box. She turned as they entered, and then hesitated as she saw who had come.

  “Hello, Miss Bingham,” said Gibbons. “This is Detective Chief Inspector Carmichael.”

  She held out a hand. “Chief Inspector,” she said, her glance straying back to the movers almost at once. “What can I do for you?”

  “We just wanted to check on your movements la
st night and this morning,” said Carmichael.

  She swung back to him, giving a short bark of brittle laughter.

  “Surely,” she said, “you don’t suspect me of helping my father’s murderer to escape?”

  Carmichael only smiled. “Then you’ve heard of Miss Bonnar’s disappearance?”

  She nodded. “Mrs. Eberhart mentioned it.”

  “Well then,” said Carmichael, “you’ll understand that we are anxious to be certain that she disappeared of her own free will.”

  Eve’s expression showed that she thought anything else highly improbable, but she shrugged and reeled off a sparse description of her evening. It coincided with Towser’s account, except that she thought it had been nearer ten when she left his house.

  “And afterward?”

  “I came back here to finish. I suppose I came away about twelve.”

  Her account of the morning was even less interesting. She had slept in until about eleven, breakfasted in the hotel dining room, and then come here to supervise the move. Her air said clearly that she wished they’d let her get on with the job.

  “Mrs. Eberhart saw me arrive this morning,” she added, her eyes drifting impatiently toward the huge bear of a man who was hefting a teakwood chest experimentally. She refocused her attention abruptly on Carmichael. “Will that do, Chief Inspector? You can see it’s not a very convenient time.”

  “No, but there’s no help for it,” said Carmichael agreeably. “Were you planning to return to Paris yourself ?”

  “Of course,” she said shortly. “As soon as may be. I will, of course, notify you when I do.”

  “Yes, do that. In the meantime, you might be interested to know that we’ve found Miss Bonnar.”

  “You have?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Yes. She was in the lake—quite dead. Good day, Miss.”

  Eve turned a little pale, her eyes following him as he turned away. Then she looked at Gibbons, as if for confirmation.

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” he said, shrugging.

  “But—” Eve broke off and bit her lip even while Gibbons paused, on the verge of following Carmichael out. Then Eve shook her head and without another word she turned away to deal with a removal man hovering in the background.

  Having enjoyed a large lunch at Stutely Manor, Bethancourt was eager to rejoin the detectives, while Astley-Cooper was just as eager to spread the news.

  “I’ll just run down to the vicarage,” he announced. “Someone should really let the vicar know. And perhaps I’ll stop for a pint on my way back. Sure you don’t want to come, Phillip?”

  Bethancourt hesitated, wondering if the Tothills might have any insight to offer.

  “Well,” he said, “perhaps I’ll stop at the vicarage with you. I’d like to speak to the Tothills. But then I think I had better go in search of Jack and the chief inspector.”

  “Very well, very well,” said Astley-Cooper, pleased. “You can follow me down to the village.”

  Leandra Tothill was washing her kitchen floor. For this pursuit she had donned an ancient, moth-eaten sweater that was rather too tight for her. Bethancourt, peering in through the glass over Astley-Cooper’s shoulder, paused to admire the shape of her bosom, which the sweater delineated quite nicely. With Marla as a standard, few women seemed to be worth pausing for, but Leandra Tothill was one of them.

  Astley-Cooper tapped politely on the door and she looked up, smiling as she put aside her mop and moved to let them in.

  “Hullo,” she said, smiling at them and reaching down her hand to pet Cerberus. “Do come in—you’re a welcome distraction.”

  Astley-Cooper hesitated. “We don’t want to muck up the floor,” he said. “We could go ’round to the front.”

  “No, no,” she said, pushing an unruly curl off her forehead. “I’ve only done that half. Just keep to this side—that’s it.”

  Bethancourt called his dog to heel, a command Cerberus was uncharacteristically slow to obey; he remained with his head pressed against Leandra’s side.

  “Good Lord,” said Bethancourt, taken aback by his pet’s disobedience. “I said heel, Cerberus.”

  Leandra laughed as this time Cerberus obeyed, casting a look of deep reproach at his master as he did so.

  “Muck up her clean floor and see how well she likes you then,” muttered Bethancourt to his pet as they followed Astley-Cooper down the hall and into a small parlor Bethancourt had not seen before.

  “Has something happened?” asked Leandra, looking from one to the other of them eagerly. “You haven’t found who killed Charlie, have you?”

  “No,” said Bethancourt, “I’m afraid that’s not it.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell and she began to stroke Cerberus again automatically. “I rather thought you might be coming to summon Richard to counsel the criminal.”

  Astley-Cooper, who a short time ago had seemed so eager to disseminate the news, looked sad. “I wish so,” he said, “but instead we’re the bearers of bad tidings, Lee. There’s been another death.”

  Leandra went very still, her hand frozen on Cerberus’s head. Her eyes were frightened. “Who?” she whispered.

  “Joan Bonnar,” said Astley-Cooper.

  “We don’t know,” added Bethancourt hastily, “that it was murder. But under the circumstances, the police are treating it as a suspicious death.”

  “Dear God, how awful. The poor Bensons and Martha.” The phone began to ring in the next room, and the sound roused her from her shock. “That’s probably them,” she said. “I’ll just answer it—you two go on and break the news to Richard. He’s in his study.”

  They followed her into the passage where she motioned them on as she picked up the receiver. “Hello? … Oh, it’s you … No, not just at the moment …”

  They left her voice behind and went to knock on the study door.

  Tothill was seated at his desk. As usual, he wore his cassock, but in deference to the slight chill in the room, he had donned an orange pullover which looked even more incongruous than the tweed jacket.

  He was poring over a ledger book and a shoe box full of receipts stood at his elbow. The expression on his face was one of harassment.

  “Hello,” he said, looking rather pleased to be interrupted. “I’ve been going over the parish books. I’m afraid I’m not terribly methodical and my churchwarden nearly had my head off last night. Kept me closeted in here ’til all hours.”

  Astley-Cooper sympathized and sat down while Bethancourt drew up a second chair.

  “I’ve come to break some rather bad news,” he said.

  Tothill looked anxious.

  “It’s about Joan Bonnar,” Astley-Cooper continued.

  Tothill, to Bethancourt’s eye, relaxed just a trifle. Joan, after all, was not one of his parishioners.

  “I heard this morning she’d gone missing,” he said.

  “The police found her this afternoon. She’s dead.”

  Tothill had seen it coming. He sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair.

  “How?” he asked. “Was it—was it another murder?”

  Astley-Cooper explained. About halfway through, Leandra came in. She looked agitated, but seated herself calmly enough on the arm of her husband’s chair. He put an arm about her and her hand fell to hold his.

  “False alarm,” she said. “It was only Derek Towser, also ringing to give us the news. He said she was drowned?”

  Obligingly, Astley-Cooper began his story again. When he had finished, Tothill sighed again and Leandra’s hand tightened on his.

  “I’d better go out there and see if there’s anything I can do. Not that there is,” he added gloomily.

  Leandra smiled at him and ran a hand through her hair. “No,” she said, “but people like to have you rally ’round. It’ll make Martha feel better anyhow.”

  “I suppose it will. Normally, I’d contact the undertakers first, but of course in this case they won’t be wanted for sometime. And besides, I don’t know what
arrangements may have been made. Miss Bonnar might have wished to be buried in London.”

  “You could still offer to talk to whichever funeral parlor it is,” said Leandra. “Only do take off that jumper before you go. I don’t think orange is quite the thing somehow.”

  Tothill looked down at himself as if surprised to find he was wearing orange, and Bethancourt stifled a laugh.

  But he was thoughtful as he and Astley-Cooper left Tothill to get on with the business of being the vicar and made their way toward the pub. He had hoped that this new development might strike some chord in the minds of those who had known Bingham best, but the look in Tothill’s eyes had been bewilderment. Oddly, his wife’s eyes had betrayed fear, but fear of what he could not tell.

  It was past midnight and raining steadily. The temperature had dropped and, in deference to this, Astley-Cooper had set a blazing fire going in the huge, seventeenth-century fireplace. Like everything else in the house, the fireplace’s ornamental hood was a fine example of its period, but this particular piece of antiquity did not appear to depress its owner, possibly because it was in fine repair.

  “Draws beautifully,” he said, patting the hood affectionately. “You can get a really good fire going in there.”

  Bethancourt and Gibbons grunted assents. They had already pushed their chairs back several feet from the heat of the blaze, while Cerberus had removed himself to the far side of the room.

  “And,” added Astley-Cooper triumphantly, “it never needs anything doing to it, beyond having the chimney sweep in once in a while. But you have to do that with any chimney, even the most modern ones.”

  They duly admired the functionality of the fireplace, while their host slipped back to his seat and promptly began to doze.

  Gibbons felt rather like dozing himself. He had recovered from his earlier immersion in the lake, but it had been a very long day and between the fire and the whisky, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. Yawning, he made an effort to rouse himself, sitting up straighter and sipping at his drink.