The Young Widow

by Cassandra Chan

  Carmichael smiled back at her. “Yes, I see,” he said. “So you arrived in the village at about what time?”

  “Just before noon, I think,” she replied. “I didn’t actually look at my watch, you know.” She was frowning a little, her eyes downcast, as if remembering something unpleasant or sad. But in the next moment the mood was gone as swiftly as it had come, and she lifted her eyes and smiled ruefully. “There was a point when the day seemed just a little bit less lovely and I was wondering if I’d ever get there and I looked at my watch and it said ten minutes before the hour. But then I came over the top of the hill and there I was.”

  “That’s a very clear account, Mrs. Berowne,” said Carmichael. “I know this is a painful time for you and I’m sorry, but I must ask: was your marriage a happy one?”

  She looked thoroughly startled, as if it were impossible that he should not already know. “Yes,” she said at last, in a low voice. “We were very happy together. Very happy indeed.” She caught her breath and bit her lip to hold back sudden tears.

  “He was your second husband, was he not?” asked Carmichael gently.

  Again she looked surprised. “No,” she replied, a little uneasily. “Geoffrey was my third husband.”

  It was their turn to be startled. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Berowne,” said Carmichael. “I was only told you had been married before, and I’m afraid I assumed … you seem rather young to have been married three times.”

  She smiled at that and raised her chin a little. “I was nineteen when I married Eric Threadgood,” she said, almost wistfully.

  “That was your first husband?” said Carmichael encouragingly.

  “Yes. We met when I got a job as secretary to his brother-in-law.” She smiled, a little deprecatingly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t a very good secretary, so it’s just as well that Eric came along.” She sighed. “We’d been married almost five years when he died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Carmichael, a little formally. “How did he die?”

  She hugged her arms to her body. “In a skiing accident—in Switzerland. He was a very active man for his age—skiing, sailing, golf. In a way, I wasn’t really the best wife for him. I’ve never been very good at sports, and I get horribly seasick.”

  “You had no children?”

  She shook her head, sighing a little. “No—we meant to, but I didn’t get pregnant right away and, well, I think really Eric was less interested than I was. He’d worked hard all his life and what he really wanted was to have fun.”

  Carmichael raised a bushy eyebrow. “He was retired, then?”

  “Oh, yes. He was fifty-five when we married—he had taken an early retirement.”

  “I see,” said Carmichael evenly, but what he was really seeing was a pattern. Three husbands much older and wealthier than herself, and three deaths. “And your second husband was William Burton?”

  She hesitated and raised her eyes to his, a question hovering in their depths. But then she seemed to think better of it and simply replied, “Yes. I met him in Switzerland shortly before Eric’s death. He was very kind to me. We travelled back to England together and were married two months later.”

  “How long did your marriage to him last?”

  The brown eyes were sad and wistful. “Two years,” she answered. “Bill wasn’t in the best of health when I married him, but I didn’t realize quite how bad it was. For the last six months, he was very ill indeed, and the doctor prepared me for the idea that he would die. It was still somehow a surprise when it happened, though.”

  “It always is,” murmured Carmichael sympathetically, but his blue eyes were shrewd. “You married Geoffrey Berowne soon afterward?”

  “Well, about eighteen months later, yes.”

  “I see,” said Carmichael again. “Now, Mrs. Berowne, I have just a few other questions. Were you aware of any enemies your husband might have had?”

  She shook her head. “None,” she said firmly. “He was very well liked and looked up to in the community, Chief Inspector. He was a very kindly man—I can’t believe he gave anyone cause to hate him.”

  “I understand,” said Carmichael, almost casually, “that there had been some business disagreements between he and his son.”

  “Oh.” She seemed a little startled. “Well, yes, I suppose there had been. But nothing—I mean—Paul would never hurt Geoffrey. I’m sure he had great respect for his father, even if they did disagree from time to time.”

  “Well, thank you, Mrs. Berowne.” Carmichael beamed at her with his best put-the-suspect-at-ease smile. “You’ve been uncommonly helpful. Now what we’d like to do is interview the rest of the household and then have a look at the study, if that’s all right with you.” His tone was positively avuncular.

  She blossomed under the smile. “Of course, anything you’d like. Maddie is upstairs in her rooms and Kitty’s in the kitchen, naturally. I think Mrs. Simmons is in the dining room at the moment.”

  Carmichael appeared to think these choices over, though Gibbons knew he had long ago decided what to do. “Perhaps,” he said, “my colleagues could talk to Miss Whitcomb, while I see Miss Wellman.”

  “Certainly.” She rose at once, drifting up out of the chair and smoothing her skirt. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you where everything is.”

  She led the way across the room, and paused abruptly by the door, turning to look up at Carmichael. She hesitated, and took a step closer to him.

  “Chief Inspector,” she said, “tell me: do you think—well—” She paused, biting her lip, and then went on in an even lower voice, “Will you be able to find who did it?”

  Carmichael was unexpectedly touched. “I’m sure we will, Mrs. Berowne,” he said, carried away by the moment, although in fact he was not sure of anything of the kind.

  Bethancourt, viewing this tableau with a neutral eye, had a sudden moment of doubt as to her guilt. He glanced at Gibbons to see what he thought, but his friend did not look his way; his attention was fixed on Annette Berowne. Bethancourt frowned. He had noticed during the interview how she had spoken to Carmichael and had several times included Gibbons in her glance, but never himself. Was he being ignored because he was not a policeman? Or because she instinctively knew her charm had failed to move him?

  CHAPTER 3

  Kitty Whitcomb was a great surprise. In view of the conventional way in which the Berowne household seemed to be run, both men had envisioned “Miss Katharine Whitcomb, cook” as a middle-aged or elderly woman of unattractive mien and generous proportions. What they found was a young woman of about twenty-five with a shining cap of dark hair and a fresh, clear complexion. As for being overweight, there was not an extra pound on her slender frame. This they had ample opportunity to observe, since she was clad in a bright yellow spandex unitard which clung to every line and curve of her body, with a close-fitting T-shirt pulled over the top. A traditional white chef’s apron covered the front of this remarkable outfit.

  She was standing at a counter in the vast kitchen, turning over pieces of lamb in a large earthenware bowl. She looked up as they introduced themselves, displaying a countenance which exuded common sense. She waved them to seats at a large kitchen table.

  “I expect you want the whole story again?” she said, slapping a piece of plastic wrap over the bowl.

  “We’d like to go over it, yes,” answered Gibbons, as he and Bethancourt settled themselves at the table and exchanged looks.

  She wiped her hands, but made no move to join them at the table and be properly interviewed. Instead, she reached over to flick the switch on an electric kettle. “I do the coffee every day he’s at home,” she said. “That day was no different.”

  She opened a cupboard and began to assemble mugs and plates on a large tray.

  “I set up the usual: coffeepot, cup and saucer, plate with two digestive biscuits, and a napkin, which he never touched.”

  She opened the refrigerator and removed a bag of coffee, some of w
hich she spooned into a filter. She swung back to the refrigerator, turning on the balls of her feet. They watched the ripple of her slender leg muscles in silence.

  “Most days,” she continued, replacing the coffee and taking out a container of cream, “Mrs. Berowne came down just before eleven and took the tray up. That day she didn’t, so I took it up myself.”

  She turned again, giving them an excellent view of firm, rounded buttocks, and produced scones from an old-fashioned bread box.

  “Mrs. Berowne was in the study with Mr. Berowne when I came in. I put the tray on the table and she told me that she was going into the village and did I want anything. At no time did she go near the tray. I said I didn’t want anything and we left the room together. Then I remembered Miss Wellman had been asking for tinned pears the other day and I’d forgotten to pick any up.”

  She seized the boiling kettle and began to pour the water through the filter into the coffeepot.

  “Mrs. Berowne said she’d get them and I said thank you. She went out the side door and I came back here. By twelve-fifteen, I had lunch well in hand, so I went back to get the tray. Sometimes Mr. Berowne brings it down himself, but not if he’s gotten involved. I knocked and opened the door and saw at once that something had happened.”

  She set the kettle down and replaced the lid on the coffeepot with a firm hand. She lifted the tray and brought it to the table where they sat.

  “He had his back to the door, of course,” she continued, pouring out, “but he was sprawled in his chair—half out of it, actually. So I ran over, but as soon as I saw his face, I knew it was no good.”

  She set a mug in front of Gibbons and one in front of Bethancourt. “Help yourself to scones,” she said. “I make them myself.”

  Both men, who had assumed she was preparing the tray for someone else, were rather taken aback.

  “It was very kind of you to go to all this trouble,” said Bethancourt.

  “Very kind,” echoed Gibbons. “You really didn’t need to bother.”

  She looked surprised. “Everybody eats in a kitchen,” she said and, taking her own mug of coffee, moved to sit between them, tucking one yellow leg up beside her on the chair. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I tried to feel for a pulse, but, quite frankly, I’ve only the vaguest idea where one is and I mightn’t have found it if it had been there. I couldn’t help thinking he was dead, and it rather unnerved me.” Her matter-of-fact tone faltered for a moment, but in the next instant she had collected herself and continued, “Anyway, I rang 999 and then went up to tell Miss Wellman what had happened. Then I went out front to wait for the ambulance.”

  Finding a corpse had clearly disturbed her, but she showed no emotion about the death itself.

  “You don’t seem very grieved,” said Gibbons carefully.

  Kitty looked surprised. “It’s been over a month,” she pointed out. “I was upset at the time, of course, and sad to see him go, but it’s not as if we were close.”

  “This is delicious coffee,” put in Bethancourt, reaching to butter a scone.

  She grinned, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Naturally,” she replied. “They don’t pay me for nothing, you know.”

  Bethancourt grinned back and took a large bite of scone. “Did Mr. Berowne take it this strong?” he asked around the mouthful.

  “Yes. Oh, I see what you’re getting at. Well, I don’t know what the poison would have tasted like, but if this would have masked the taste, then it did.”

  “Did Miss Wellman seem surprised when you told her?” asked Gibbons.

  “Quite,” she answered. “In fact, she thought I must have made a mistake and hurried down to see if she could do anything. Of course, at the time I assumed he’d had a heart attack or something like that. And I forgot to say—” here her tone sharpened, “—there is absolutely no possibility whatsoever that anything but coffee and hot water got into that pot in this kitchen.”

  “It does seem more likely,” answered Gibbons diplomatically, “that the poison was introduced in the study.”

  She nodded and sipped her coffee.

  “Now I understand,” continued Gibbons, “that Fatima Sathay, the daily help, was in the kitchen during this period?”

  “Fatima was our daily help,” said Kitty wryly. “She’s only seventeen, and her parents made her quit when the news came out about the murder. Poor Mrs. Simmons is working herself to the bone to get everything done herself.”

  “But Miss Sathay was here on the day of the murder?”

  “That’s right,” she answered. “Fatima was polishing the silver that morning. She’d brought it all down and was here at this table the entire time. She was at it when I took the tray up and she was still here when I went up and found him. She couldn’t possibly have left without my seeing her.”

  Which also, reflected Gibbons, gave Kitty herself the next best thing to an alibi. It was barely possible that she had re-entered the study after Annette had left the house, but by Fatima’s account Kitty had been gone for less than five minutes.

  “How long have you worked for the Berownes?” continued Gibbons.

  “Two years,” she answered. “Almost two and a half.”

  “Could you give me your impression of your employers?”

  “That’s easy enough,” she said readily. “Mr. Berowne could be a very generous man and a very pleasant one, but he was definitely the king of his castle. He seemed, to me, to be very fond of Mrs. Berowne, and she of him. If she married him for his money, he was certainly getting value for it.”

  “But it seemed a happy marriage? For both of them?”

  “I certainly would have said so.”

  “What about Miss Wellman?”

  “She’s a bit eccentric, and she’s got a sharp tongue, but she’s all right, really. I think she and Mr. Berowne got along quite happily until he remarried. She can’t stand Mrs. Berowne, and she makes no secret of it. Mrs. Paul doesn’t like her any better, but she doesn’t say so in so many words. Mr. Berowne was very fond of her, too.”

  “That would be Marion Berowne, the daughter-in-law? And what about Paul Berowne?”

  She shrugged. “He didn’t get on with his father. Or his wife, for that matter. And he’s the only man I’ve ever seen who isn’t taken with Mrs. Berowne. But that’s probably prejudice—he wouldn’t like any woman who married his father.”

  Gibbons looked slightly uncomfortable. “So in your opinion, all men find Mrs. Berowne attractive?”

  “Sure. Didn’t you?”

  “She has a certain allure,” admitted Bethancourt, finishing his scone. “What do women think of her?”

  “Just the opposite,” said Kitty frankly. “All men fall in love with her; all women hate her. She doesn’t need them and she shows it.”

  “You, too?” asked Gibbons.

  Kitty frowned, considering. “I can’t say I like her,” she answered, “but, on the other hand, she’s easy enough to work for. And, of course, she’s different with me because she does need me—she can’t cook for beans. Miss Wellman usually takes over on my night off.”

  “Do they still eat together, Miss Wellman and Mrs. Berowne?” asked Bethancourt. “I mean since Mr. Berowne’s death?”

  She laughed, displaying even white teeth. “Lord, no,” she said. “The very next day, Miss Wellman came to me and said she’d have a tray in her sitting room for all her meals. I told her fine, but she’d have to come down and get it. Mrs. Berowne still eats in the dining room.”

  “How about breakfast that morning?” asked Gibbons. “Did everyone seem just as usual?”

  “I’m not in the dining room much in the morning,” she answered. “But everything seemed much the same. Mr. Paul came in late, looking bit hungover, but that’s not unknown.”

  “Mr. Paul?” questioned Gibbons. “I thought he and his family lived in a separate house.”

  “Oh, they do,” she said, “but Mr. Paul usually comes in to breakfast. Before Mr. Berowne retired, they used to breakfas
t together every morning and then go up to town together. Now Mr. Paul comes round most mornings to keep his father up to date with things. And Mr. Berowne still went up to the office twice a week or so.”

  “Liked to keep a finger in the pie, so to speak?” suggested Gibbons.

  “That’s right.”

  “And I suppose Mr. Paul rather resented not being left on his own to handle things?”

  She shrugged. “There were arguments. I don’t know how serious any of them were—I don’t know much about business.”

  Gibbons leaned back, cradling his coffee cup. “Let’s go back to that morning for a moment. Were you surprised to hear that Mrs. Berowne intended to walk to the village?”

  “I didn’t know she did,” said Kitty ruefully, “not then. She only told me she was going, and I assumed she meant to drive.”

  “But you saw her leave by the side door?”

  “Yes, but she would have done if she was going to the garage in any case. It wasn’t until Mr. Paul said her car was still in the garage that I realized she must have gone on foot.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  Kitty spread her hands. “I suppose it did, but at that point everything was so topsy-turvy, I don’t expect I would have had much reaction if Mr. Paul had said she’d gone by magic carpet. But it was certainly unusual. Mrs. Berowne likes to walk in the garden, but otherwise she’s not much for exercise. There are whole parts of the grounds that she’s never even seen.”

  “You haven’t said,” said Bethancourt, “if you think she killed him.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Not my place, is it?” she said. “Besides, I really don’t know. I wouldn’t have said any of them could have committed murder. But I’d have been wrong. One of them did.”

  Mrs. Berowne had shown Carmichael upstairs to a separate sitting room, part of a suite originally meant for honored houseguests. It was a very lived-in room, arranged to be comfortable rather than elegant. The mantelpiece was crowded with framed photographs, and a television stood openly and unashamedly in one corner. Beside it was a radio which was presently playing a selection of classical music.