Carmichael looked again at the report Gibbons had just handed him.
“It looks like you talked to most of the first-class passengers on that cruise,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. There was no hint in his voice of how extremely tedious he had found the task. “I interviewed the crew as well. There were three other couples who shared the Berownes’ dinner table and with whom the Berownes spent some time. But they all said they found the Berownes to be a very affectionate couple, despite the age difference between them. Some of the women didn’t think much of Geoffrey for going out and getting himself a trophy wife, but none of them thought Annette was in any way unhappy.”
Carmichael sighed. He selected a forensics report from among those on his desk and stared at it glumly. Behind him rain pattered gently against the window and the city lights shone through in yellow streaks.
“No fingerprints on the vase,” he said. “There were traces of the poison left in it, though. Geoffrey Berowne’s and Mary Simmons’s prints on the cover of that book—just what you’d expect. They haven’t finished doing all the pages, but so far there’s nothing but partials.”
“About the vase, sir,” said Gibbons, “Kitty Whitcomb has remembered seeing it two days before the murder. It was full of fresh lilies of the valley then.”
This did not cheer Carmichael as much as his sergeant had hoped. “So the murderer was topping it up,” he said. “That makes sense. He or she must have been putting fresh ones in the same water for nearly a week before the murder, to make sure it was strong enough to do the trick.”
He leaned back and puffed on his cigar. “If Annette Berowne is a sociopath who has killed three husbands, I’m afraid we’re going to have to wait for death number four before we get her,” he said discontentedly.
Gibbons was silent for a moment. “Do you believe she is a sociopath, sir?” he asked.
“I don’t know what I believe,” grunted Carmichael. “But it has occurred to me, Gibbons, that the reason neither we nor Surrey has found anything is because we’re looking in the wrong place.”
“It’s occurred to me, too, sir,” admitted Gibbons.
“What do you think of her personally, lad?”
Gibbons hesitated. “If she wasn’t his wife,” he said slowly, “and wasn’t inheriting millions, I’d have to say I think she’s innocent. Certainly I’ve come to doubt the sociopath theory—she doesn’t seem to fit that profile at all. She may have killed Berowne, but I don’t think she killed the others.”
“And if she’s not a sociopath, I can’t see what possible motive she could have had,” said Carmichael. He leaned forward again and rested his cigar in the ashtray. “Let’s see—we’ve gone over everything we could think of, aside from timing her walk to the village.”
“I did try, sir,” said Gibbons. “Several times.”
“Not your fault, lad,” said Carmichael, glancing at the rain pattering against the windows. “Well, we might as well be thorough. You can take the walk on the first fine day we have, but otherwise I think it’s time to broaden our scope. In nine out of ten cases the spouse is guilty, but this could be the tenth case.” He shifted through the case reports. “We’ll give everyone else a thorough going-over, including the servants. Surrey didn’t do much there—they were convinced from the beginning that it was one of the family.”
“The case does have that feel to it, sir,” agreed Gibbons.
“I thought so too, but we won’t rule anything out. First, however, I think we’ll look at Paul Berowne. His behavior on the morning of the murder is just as suspicious as Mrs. Berowne’s. We can spend tomorrow looking into Berowne Biscuits before we tackle him directly again. Unless,” he added, “it’s a fine day, in which case you can go down to Hurtwood Hall and tie up our loose end with Mrs. Berowne.”
“They’re predicting a clearing trend,” said Gibbons rather doubtfully and Carmichael snorted.
“They’ve been predicting that all week. Well, if you can get down there, try to see if her story about starting back for the library card holds up.” He rummaged on his desk for another sheet of paper. “We estimated the walk took her twenty minutes to half an hour longer than it should have, depending on the pace she set.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, who had already received these instructions three times before.
“I’ll talk to some City people tomorrow and see what they think of Paul Berowne,” continued Carmichael. “I can check his finances, too.”
“Do you want me to speak to Miss Wellman if I get down there?” asked Gibbons. “You always said she was holding something back about Paul Berowne and his father.”
Carmichael considered this, but then shook his head. “No,” he said, “I think I’d rather tackle Miss Wellman myself. If nothing turns up tomorrow, I’ll go down the next day to draw her out a little. After all, there was nothing preventing her from walking downstairs and poisoning Berowne herself.”
“And she did resent him for marrying Annette.”
“Just so,” agreed Carmichael. “Well, we’ll see how we get on tomorrow. You take yourself off now, Gibbons, and get a nice supper and some sleep. We’re in for the long haul here, and I don’t want you wearing yourself down.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbons, rising. “I’m sure you’re right. If we can just come to a conclusion, no matter how scanty the evidence, we’ll have a better chance of solving this.”
“Let’s hope so, lad. Off you go now.”
It was nearly eleven o’clock and the small, exclusive restaurant was beginning to empty out. It was the kind of place that relied on solid worth rather than trendiness to bring in its clientele, and its cozy atmosphere allowed its guests to talk quietly over some of the best food in London. At a table near the back, Gibbons swallowed a spoonful of his lobster bisque and sighed blissfully.
“God, that’s good,” he said.
“They do it very well here,” said Bethancourt, sampling his own soup. “Yes, very good indeed.”
“Thank you for this, Phillip,” said Gibbons, savoring another spoonful. “I don’t think I realized how much I needed to relax. And I haven’t had a real meal—much less one like this—in I don’t know how long.”
“You’re welcome,” replied Bethancourt. “I take it there’ve been no new developments?”
“No,” said Gibbons glumly. “Not a single bloody thing. Carmichael’s talking about widening the investigation. He’s going to look at Paul Berowne tomorrow, and go on down the list from there. We haven’t looked at the servants at all, for instance.”
“The servants aren’t a bad idea,” said Bethancourt. “After all, their bequests are quite a windfall for them. One of them might have wanted something badly enough to kill for it.”
“It’s possible,” said Gibbons, “but McAllister and Mrs. Simmons have both worked on the estate for donkey’s years. It’s hard to imagine what would suddenly make them want to leave. And Kitty Whitcomb and Ken Mills, who could easily have a reason to want a change, couldn’t have done it.”
Bethancourt frowned and leaned back to allow the waiter to collect the soup plates. “I know Kitty’s got an alibi,” he said, “but I didn’t know Mills had.”
“Not an alibi, strictly speaking,” answered Gibbons. “We’ve confirmed that he did go straight to the shop for the part for the BMW, and certainly he could have nipped off to the study once he got back, but it would have been risky. Paul Berowne might have returned to the garage at any time to see how the work was coming, and why should Mills take that risk? The next day, when things were back to normal, would have done just as well.”
“Still,” mused Bethancourt, “I should imagine it takes a good deal to work oneself up to a murder. Having done so, I don’t think it would be so easy to put off for another day, as if it were a lunch date or something.”
“There is that,” agreed Gibbons, but not very hopefully. “I’m still betting it’s one of the family. I just wish I knew which one.”
“So you think Annette’s definitely out of it?” asked Bethancourt.
“I don’t know,” answered Gibbons. “The more I talk to her, the more I think she could be innocent. But the problem there is that I like her, so I don’t trust myself.” He sighed. “But then, I’m getting to like them all. Annette is absolutely delightful and the way she looks on the police as if we were the answer to her prayers is very disarming. And Maddie Wellman may be a sharp-tongued old woman, but she’s such a character you don’t mind it. Kitty—well, it’s safe enough to like Kitty, I suppose.”
“And what about Marion and Paul Berowne?” asked Bethancourt.
“I’ve seen less of them,” admitted Gibbons. “But I tell you it’s a bit unnerving to be talking to Annette and laughing at something she’s said, and then to suddenly remember that she may have deliberately poisoned a man, and probably stood there and watched him die. It wouldn’t matter so much if we were getting anywhere with the investigation, because then one’s focus is narrowed. But we’re not getting anywhere and my focus is all over the place.”
“It’ll all settle down once you get a lead,” said Bethancourt consolingly. “You’ll jump on it like a hound on a scent, and all your feelings about these people will get stashed in the back seat. It’s only because you don’t know who to suspect that you’re getting muddled now.”
But Gibbons’s words had made him remember that first day and how he had wondered if Annette Berowne had been deliberately using her charms in an attempt to disarm the police. He wondered again now and wished that he had made more of an effort to accompany his friend on his endless rounds of interviews.
The fish course arrived and Bethancourt inhaled deeply and happily as he picked up his fork.
“So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” he asked.
“If it ever stops raining, Carmichael wants me to walk Annette over that footpath to the village, and see how the time works out. I’d really rather get started on Paul Berowne, but I suppose there’s something to be said for tying up loose ends.”
“How would you like a ride down there? I’ve got nothing on for tomorrow.”
“I’d love a ride,” answered Gibbons. “I’m not sure about taking you along on the walk, though. It’s going to be hard enough to get her to keep her own pace with just me along.”
“That’s all right,” said Bethancourt, reaching to refill his wineglass. “I’d like to have another chat with Kitty.”
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” said Gibbons, grinning. “She didn’t seem like your type, Phillip.”
Bethancourt raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware,” he said, “that I had a type.”
“Of course you do.” Gibbons’s grin widened. “Your type is spectacular and glamorous.”
“Kitty is not glamorous,” agreed Bethancourt judiciously, in the manner of an art critic remarking on a new artist, “but she could be said to be spectacular in her own way. Her figure, I should say, is up to any man’s standards, and although her face is not exactly beautiful, she is very pretty. The pinkness of her cheeks, I am sure, owes nothing to cosmetics.”
“Don’t be pompous,” said Gibbons, laughing. “And, anyway, she’s not stunning, which is generally how you seem to prefer women.”
“I only said I wanted to talk with her,” retorted Bethancourt. “Believe it or not, I have been known to hold conversations with downright unattractive people of both sexes.”
“I’m sure you have,” said Gibbons, still grinning. “Never mind.”
Bethancourt was awakened the next morning by the telephone. Thinking it might be Gibbons with a change in the program, he imprudently answered it and instead heard the well-bred, unwelcome tones of his sister.
“Phillip?” she said. “How like you to still be abed at this hour.”
Bethancourt pulled the clock from the nightstand and held it six inches in front of his newly opened, still blinking eyes. It appeared to be eight o’clock.
“It is like me,” he agreed, and closed his eyes.
“Well, I did wait till I got to Town to ring you,” she continued.
“Town?” repeated Bethancourt, his eyes flying open once again. “You’re in Town?”
“That’s what I’m trying to explain,” she said patiently. “I’ve had the most frightful morning, what with Clara breaking an ankle and the dogs getting into Mrs. Garvin’s garden—I nearly missed my train. However, it’s all right now, since I’ve found you in.”
“It is?” asked Bethancourt doubtfully.
“Yes, indeed,” she replied decisively. “I want you to look after Denis for an hour or two.”
Bethancourt called to mind the fact that he was due to pick Gibbons up in two hours to aid in a murder investigation. It did not seem a very appropriate activity for a boy of five. “I really don’t think—” he began.
“You really must help me out today, Phillip,” she said firmly. “I’m at my wit’s end. We’ll just get a taxi and be round in twenty minutes. You’re a darling, Phillip.”
“Margaret—” said Bethancourt, but she had rung off. “Oh, Lord,” he groaned, and propped himself up on the pillows.
He knew from past experience that he was probably doomed to baby-sit his nephew. Margaret, four years his senior, was like a steamroller once she got started, and no excuse he put forward would be tolerated. Even as children, they had not got on well, and their differing personalities as adults had done nothing to bring them closer. Margaret led a very busy, well-arranged life, doing a great deal of work for various charities whilst running an immaculate household. Bethancourt was essentially lazy and had never won an argument with her. His only chance, he realized, of avoiding the plans she had made for him was to leave the flat before she arrived. And if he did that, he would be hearing from his mother in no time at all, and the incident would be repeated down through the years as evidence of his irresponsibility.
While he was cleaning his teeth, it occurred to him that the presence of his nephew might not actually spell disaster. There was no real reason he shouldn’t take the boy along and let him play in the kitchen while he was talking to Kitty. Denis might even provide an easy excuse to visit Marion Berowne again. Her son, he recollected, was near Denis’s age.
When Margaret Sinclair-Firthing arrived at her brother’s flat, she found him drinking coffee. He had showered and shaved, but was still clothed in an elegant silk dressing gown embroidered with cattails. Margaret recognized it as one she had given him for Christmas two years ago.
“I’m glad you still like that,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“I certainly do,” responded Bethancourt. He was not lying; he might feel that his sister had many flaws, but there was no denying she had excellent taste.
There was a strong family resemblance between them. Like her brother, Margaret was tall and slender with a delicately shaped nose, a firm jaw, and thick, straight hair just a shade lighter than Bethancourt’s. Her eyes were blue rather than hazel and there was no humor in them whatsoever. She was beautifully turned out in a periwinkle silk suit.
Her son was a skinny, tow-headed child with his mother’s blue eyes.
“Hello, Uncle Phillip,” he said, as a politely brought-up child should, and then abandoned his relative in favor of the said relative’s dog. “Cerberus!”
“Denis,” said his mother, “you’re going to get all over dog hair.”
“He’s going to anyway, if he’s spending the day with me,” pointed out Bethancourt.
“I expect so.” Margaret sighed and cast a disapproving glance at the dog. “Better you than me,” she added, brightening.
“So you pointed out when you gave him to me,” said Bethancourt dryly.
“Good heavens,” said Margaret, coming into the living room. “You’ve got another coffee table.”
“Rather a nice one, don’t you think?” said Bethancourt.
“It’s very nice, but you have four others,” she answered. “Most
people have one at maximum.”
“Really? How odd.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Phillip.” She looked about the room. “There is absolutely no cohesion in this room,” she said severely. “You really should have had a decorator in.”
“I like it the way it is.”
“You might like it just as well if it looked nice.”
Bethancourt gave up. “What charity is it today, Margaret?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Orphans,” she answered succinctly. “And then I’m lunching with Sir Rodney and Mrs. Chilton. I should be done by one-thirty or two.”
“Rosemary Chilton? Is she Sir Rodney’s latest?” asked Bethancourt, who much enjoyed twitting his sister about her aristocratic friends. There was nothing Margaret loved so much as a title, even those belonging to people who were less than admirable. “Good gracious, at the rate he’s going, he’ll have run through the entire charity committee by midsummer.”
Margaret frowned at him. “I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” she answered firmly. “What Sir Rodney does in his private life is no concern of mine—or yours.”
“If Rodney didn’t want people to gossip about his private life, he should leave other men’s wives alone,” retorted Bethancourt. “He’s a toad, Margaret, and you think so yourself.”
“Sir Rodney is the guiding force behind a very worthwhile cause,” said Margaret primly.
“Ah,” said Bethancourt, suddenly enlightened. “I see. That diatribe you spouted off about him last month was only a reaction to his chatting you up.”
“It was no such thing,” snapped Margaret, her outrage merely confirming her brother’s hypothesis. “I was merely distressed about Claire Lyndhurst, who, after all, should have known better.”
The Young Widow Page 9