Village Affairs

by Cassandra Chan

  The same question was plaguing Gibbons as he parked the Rover along the High Street in Lower Oddington.

  “It would seem to me,” he said, swinging open the car door, “that killing Joan Bonnar would have done well enough. And I’ll swear they weren’t lying when they claimed to have no antipathy toward Bingham.”

  “I’ll take your word for that,” agreed Bethancourt. “And since Bingham didn’t need money, there was no need for Joan to alter her bequests. In light of that, it does seem unreasonable for the Bensons to have murdered Bingham. It gained them nothing.”

  He let Cerberus out of the back while Gibbons leaned into the car to retrieve the envelope of photos they had picked up from the local newspaper editor in Stow-on-the-Wold. The editor was well-acquainted with Constable Stikes and had been happy to let her Scotland Yard colleague have several pictures of the Benson twins, taken at various local events over the years. He had even found one of Julie Benson at a charity ball, when she had worn her hair down. It was five or six years old, but she had not changed very much in that time, and it was still a good likeness.

  A lot of people in the area apparently liked to start their weekend early, and the Kestrel pub was crowded, its dining room doing a brisk business. They had to wait several minutes at the bar before the landlord could attend to them. He proved just how good his memory for a face was by recognizing Gibbons straightaway.

  “Well, you’ve had a lot on your plate since I saw you last,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You know, this is generally a quiet part of the country—not much goes on in the usual way of things.”

  Gibbons grinned at him. “And I wouldn’t be here if these were ordinary times,” he said. “No, thank you—we haven’t time for a pint tonight. I just want to know if you still remember that couple we talked about the other day.”

  “Well enough,” said the landlord, shrugging. “I haven’t seen them again, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “No, this time I have pictures,” said Gibbons, producing them from the envelope.

  The landlord identified Julie Benson at once, but he took longer over the pictures of her brother, considering several of them carefully before he said, “I don’t think this is the man. I didn’t see as much of him as I did the girl, but the man that was here was blonder and heavier than this fellow, and, well, rounder in his features if you know what I mean.”

  Gibbons assured him that he did, and thanked him as he gathered up the photos and took his leave.

  “That’s it then,” he said to Bethancourt as they emerged from the pub. “I’ll wager if we can discover which innocent friend of the Bensons was here that night with Julie, the landlord will pick him out for us.”

  Bethancourt agreed, but he frowned as they started back for the car. “But doesn’t it strike you as odd,” he said, “that they arranged such an elaborate alibi for Bingham’s murder, and yet had virtually none at all for their mother’s death?”

  “It is odd,” admitted Gibbons, and sighed. “We’re still missing something, Phillip. I can’t think what, but it doesn’t all quite tie together.”

  “It’s almost as if Joan Bonnar’s murder was done on the spur of the moment,” continued Bethancourt. “Like an afterthought.”

  “Can murder ever be undertaken as an afterthought?” asked Gibbons. “I really don’t think so.”

  “I didn’t mean that it was one,” retorted Bethancourt. “Just that it seems that way from the outside. We’ve agreed that their mother’s murder had to be the more important one.”

  “And they might have brought that one off, if it had occurred alone,” said Gibbons. “Even now, there’s not much evidence to say it wasn’t an accident.”

  Bethancourt seemed about to agree, when he suddenly stopped dead and said, “Dear God. Of course. It would explain everything.”

  “What?” demanded Gibbons.

  “If Bingham’s death was an accident,” said Bethancourt. “Jack, supposing it was Joan who was supposed to die that night? The Bensons have their alibi ready—and, mind you, it’s for the time after Joan arrived home, not for the time of Bingham’s death—and the likelihood is that it will be taken for a tragic accident anyway.”

  “Only,” said Gibbons slowly, working it out, “Bingham drives up to see Joan on impulse and drinks the whisky meant for her. And, with his weak heart, instead of merely knocking him out, it kills him. It does make sense, Phillip.”

  “I think it does,” said Bethancourt with satisfaction.

  “Let me ring Carmichael,” said Gibbons, pulling out his mobile as they resumed their walk to the car. “I hope the Bensons haven’t turned up yet.”

  They had not. Constable Stikes, growing chilly, had risen and begun to pace while she spoke with her counterpart at the hospital. He was reporting that Mrs. Tothill had been taken in to the operating theatre, that the doctors were still optimistic about her prognosis, but that it was unlikely she would recover consciousness until morning. Her husband had arrived and was sitting in the waiting room with Clarence Astley-Cooper.

  Having absorbed this information, Stikes rang off and turned back to the chief inspector, who had taken a call of his own while she had been speaking with Constable Evans. His cigar was clamped between his teeth, and his eyes were narrowed under his bushy brows while he articulated a series of grunts, culminating at last in the words, “Very good, Gibbons, I agree. What? No, wait a moment.” He looked up at Stikes and asked, “What’s the word from the hospital?”

  “Mrs. Tothill is in surgery, sir,” replied Stikes. “They still think she’ll be all right in the end, but they’re not expecting her to wake up until morning.”

  Carmichael nodded and spoke into his phone. “You might as well come back, Gibbons,” he said. “I can’t see what more we can do tonight, and Mrs. Tothill is still out at the hospital. All right then.”

  He rang off, and said with satisfaction, “Well, Constable, you’ll be pleased to know that alibi’s gone south. There’s still a bit more to be done there, but I think I’m safe in saying there’s no longer an obstacle to our theory.”

  “That’s good news, sir,” said Stikes.

  Carmichael squinted at his watch. “What is it, coming up to ten? Surely if Mrs. Potts’s outing is a legitimate one, she ought to be back soon.”

  “I should think so, sir,” answered Stikes. She did not know whether to hope that Mrs. Potts was indeed involved in the crimes, which would at least prevent her from having her heart broken when she realized what the twins had been up to, or to hope that the woman was innocent. Stikes had always liked Mrs. Potts.

  “You might as well check ’round the back again, Constable,” said Carmichael. “See if there’s been any change there. We’ll wait it out a while longer, at least until my sergeant returns, but then I’m thinking of calling it a day.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Stikes. She retrieved her torch from the step and was about to set off when she paused, hearing a car coming up the drive.

  “Ah,” sad Carmichael, rising with a grunt. “That must be her. We’ll see what she has to say about the whereabouts of the Bensons.”

  In another moment, headlamps swept over them as the Volvo Estate pulled up before the house, coming to a stop beside the other cars.

  “Is that you, Constable?” came Mrs. Potts’s voice as the engine died and the passenger door swung open. She climbed out of the car a moment before a second figure emerged from the driver’s side.

  “It’s the chief inspector, too,” said Julie Benson. “Has something happened?”

  Carmichael watched their faces as they came forward into the light from the door lamp. “There’s been a spot of bother down at Mr. Towser’s cottage,” he affirmed. “Have you both been out long?”

  “We’ve been to a film,” answered Mrs. Potts. “The new Hugh Grant one—I thought it would help take our minds off our troubles.”

  Carmichael’s eyes strayed toward the car. “Mr. Benson isn’t with you?” he asked.

&n
bsp; Julie laughed. “No, James isn’t much for romantic comedies,” she answered. “He stayed home and watched a DVD.”

  “He doesn’t answer the door,” said Carmichael.

  Mrs. Potts looked alarmed and moved at once toward the door, digging in her bag for a key. “His car’s here,” she said. “I can’t think …”

  “Perhaps he went for a walk,” suggested Julie. “It’s a nice night out.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Potts uneasily as she unlocked the door and flicked on the hall lights. “James! James, are you here?”

  There was no answer at first as they all moved into the house, but then a voice came down the stairs.

  “Coming, Marty.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Mrs. Potts sagged in relief against the hall table.

  “Marty, are you all right?” asked Julie, coming to her side.

  “Yes, yes, dear. It’s just that, with your mother and Charlie, well, never mind. It was silly of me to be worried.”

  Julie, Carmichael noticed, did not appear much relieved. She patted Mrs. Potts’s shoulder with true affection, but her eyes were tense as they turned toward the stairs and her brother.

  “Hullo, all,” said James, coming down slowly. “Didn’t realize the police were here. Is something up?”

  “You haven’t been answering your door, sir,” said Carmichael, genially enough. “The constable and I have been trying to raise someone here for some time.”

  “Oh, sorry,” said James. “I’m afraid I fell asleep upstairs. Marty and Julie will tell you, I’m a sound sleeper when I go off. Can sleep through most anything. I must not have heard the door. Were you looking for me?”

  He was wearing slippers, and had a thick robe tossed over his shirt and trousers, but his hair appeared recently brushed and there was no sign of sleep in his eyes.

  Carmichael opened his mouth to reply, and then hesitated, a sudden thought occurring to him. He glanced at Constable Stikes, praying she would not queer the pitch he was about to try; he wished Gibbons had returned in time. His sergeant would always follow his lead.

  “I wasn’t looking for you in particular, sir,” he said to James. “It was actually Mrs. Potts I was hoping to have a word with.” He turned back to her, one eye on Stikes, but she behaved beautifully, her face remaining impassive.

  Mrs. Potts was regarding him alertly. “With me?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “On the Sunday of Mr. Bingham’s death,” said Carmichael, a little ponderously, “I understand you went to church with the Bensons here, returned here to the house, and, after a meal, drove straight off to Somerset. Is that correct?”

  Mrs. Potts looked surprised. “Why, yes,” she said. “That’s right.”

  “You did not, then, stop by Mr. Bingham’s cottage?”

  While Mrs. Potts denied this, Carmichael, out of the corner of his eye, saw James was desperately trying to communicate something silently to his sister. Her face remained set and tense.

  “But I also understand,” continued Carmichael, “that you had your signet ring at the service, but subsequently lost it later that day?”

  Mrs. Potts appeared amazed that her ring should be of interest to the police. “Yes,” she answered. “I don’t know where it’s gone to.” A sudden light appeared in her eyes. “Are you saying you found it, Chief Inspector?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Potts, we have,” said Carmichael.

  She smiled broadly, obviously pleased, while Julie at her side stiffened.

  “That’s a great relief to my mind,” said Mrs. Potts. “I’m always losing it, I admit, but I usually find it again right away. Thank you so much, Chief Inspector. May I have it back now?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Carmichael. “You see, it was found in the drive of Mr. Bingham’s cottage on the Sunday night, while you were supposedly at your sister’s.”

  “Supposedly?” Mrs. Potts frowned, trying to work this out. Slowly, her expression changed. “But you can’t think that I—”

  “You’ve just denied you were there on Sunday,” said Carmichael.

  “Well, I wasn’t—”

  “She could have dropped it there anytime,” broke in James.

  Carmichael raised an eyebrow. “When?” he demanded. “She had it at church that Sunday. The ring was found that night.”

  “Charlie probably found it himself somewhere,” said Julie. “No doubt it dropped out of his pocket while he was getting in or out of his car. That would explain it.”

  “But Mr. Bingham did not leave his cottage that day until he went to London,” replied Carmichael. “And that was after Mrs. Potts had supposedly left for Somerset. No, I’m afraid the conclusion is inescapable: Mrs. Potts was at that house sometime on Sunday, very likely after dark.”

  Mrs. Potts was looking stunned.

  “No,” said Julie. Her eyes were desperate. “Wait a moment, how do you know Marty had the ring in church? She probably lost it earlier.”

  Mrs. Potts roused herself. “No, Julie,” she said gently, “I know I had it that morning. It was the day I dropped it in the collection plate, remember?”

  “Oh, that.” Julie gave a short laugh. It had a hint of hysteria in it. “No, you’re wrong, Marty, that was the Sunday before. Isn’t that right, James?”

  “Of course,” he replied at once. “I remember it perfectly.”

  Mrs. Potts hesitated, a puzzled frown on her face. “No,” she said, half to herself, “I’m certain it was that Sunday …”

  “So are several other people who noticed the incident,” said Carmichael sternly. “Mrs. Martha Potts, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder.”

  “No!” cried out James before Carmichael could continue with the formal words of the caution. “Julie, do something. You can’t let them take Marty! You can’t!”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing your sister can do, Mr. Benson,” said Carmichael.

  “But it wasn’t Marty,” James protested. “It was me. I dropped the damn ring—”

  “James, shut up!” said Julie urgently.

  “I dropped it, I say,” shouted James, his deeper voice drowning out that of his sister’s. “I found it in the car after Marty had gone and put it in my pocket. She must have lost it on the drive back from church. I thought I had it safe, but it must have dropped out when I was trying to get Charlie out of the car. Oh, God, we never meant to hurt Charlie—”

  Julie was still shouting at him to be quiet, not to be a fool. Mrs. Potts had smiled indulgently at his first words, but the smile had faded from her face now and there was a growing horror in her eyes. Constable Stikes was doing her best to remain impassive, but her eyes had widened in surprise as James went on.

  Carmichael was smiling very slightly.

  “We?” he said coolly. “Who do you mean by ‘we,’ Mr. Benson?”

  “No one,” James replied, stricken. “There’s no one else. Marty had nothing to do with it, it was I who killed Charlie. I didn’t mean to …”

  Mrs. Potts was staring at him. “It can’t be true,” she whispered, horror-struck. “Why would you even think of—Oh, God, not your mother, too …”

  Her eyes sought Julie’s, as if for comfort, but Julie looked away, and Mrs. Potts gasped and grabbed at the edge of the table. “Dear heavens,” she murmured. “Julie, tell me you knew nothing about this. Tell me!”

  “Of course not,” said Julie shortly, but she did not look at her.

  “But of course she knew,” said Carmichael relentlessly. “If she hadn’t, she would have no reason to lie and claim Mr. Benson was with her that night.”

  Julie pressed her lips together tightly, but the way in which Mrs. Potts put a hand over her mouth showed whom she believed.

  “How could you even think such a thing?” she said brokenly.

  “I’m very sorry,” Carmichael told her as he moved to take James’s arm and give him the caution. At his nod, Stikes did the same with Julie, while Mrs. Potts shook her head in shock, her haunted gaze going from one to the othe
r of the twins, as though they were changing before her eyes.

  CHAPTER 18

  Astley-Cooper rolled down the window of his Range Rover and leaned his face into the cold, damp wind that blew into the car.

  “Almost there,” he muttered to himself.

  It was the very wee hours of the morning and he was tired. He had felt obligated to wait with Tothill until Leandra came out of the operating theatre; it had seemed the only decent thing to do.

  “She’s going to be fine,” the surgeon had told them, standing wearily in the hallway, still in his scrubs. “The blow she sustained to her head did result in some slight bleeding into her brain. We hoped that might resolve of its own accord, but in the end it was necessary to relieve the pressure before it did any damage. It all went very well, and she’ll be right as rain when she wakes up, beyond having a beast of a headache.”

  “Oh, splendid,” Astley-Cooper had said. “Good man.”

  “Can I see her?” asked Tothill anxiously.

  “They haven’t brought her down yet,” replied the surgeon, glancing at the clock. “They’ll watch over her for a bit before they shift her to a room, but it will be several hours before she wakes up. The best thing you can do is go home, get a bit of sleep, and come back in the morning.”

  Tothill had refused this excellent advice. He had contained himself quite well during the hours they had waited, praying quietly at times, but otherwise remaining still and responding reasonably to whatever cheering remarks Astley-Cooper thought to make. He was nonetheless distraught for all that, as the quiver in his voice showed.

  “I think I might as well stay for a bit,” he had said. “At least until they bring Leandra down and I can see her. I’ll never sleep before then, anyhow. But you should certainly go home, Clarence. You’ve been too patient as it is, waiting with me all this while.”

  Though by that time Astley-Cooper had been longing for his bed, he had not been able to leave his friend sitting alone in the sterility of the hospital waiting room. Privately, he had been rather touched by such devotion, although of course it was not how he had been brought up. His parents had been of the old school, and if it had been his mother in that hospital bed, his father would have stiffened his upper lip, gone home as advised; and at least pretended to sleep even if it gave him an ulcer. Which, Astley-Cooper reflected, he had indeed suffered from at the end.