The Young Widow

by Cassandra Chan

  “He has an unhappy marriage,” said Bethancourt. “Kitty’s going to find out all about it from her aunt.”

  “I don’t see how that gives him a motive for murdering his father,” said Gibbons.

  “Well, no—”

  “Uncle Phillip,” Denis interrupted from the back, “Edwin and I made a tape of our playing. Can we listen to it, please?”

  “Er,” said Bethancourt, momentarily caught off guard. “Of course, Denis,” he added, recovering. “Mr. Gibbons and I would love it. Plug it in, Jack.”

  Gibbons raised his eyebrows, but obliged and in a moment the tinny sound of two little boys thumping away at a piano emerged. What, exactly, they were playing could not be determined.

  “Splendid, Denis,” said Bethancourt heartily.

  “Turn it up, Uncle Phillip—the good part’s coming.”

  Bethancourt shot an apologetic look at Gibbons and twisted the volume control resignedly.

  “I meant to mention the tape recorder in the schoolroom,” he shouted to his friend.

  “What you should have done,” muttered Gibbons, “was confiscate all the cassettes.”

  “Sports clothes,” snarled Marla. “Ralph Lauren. Polo, for God’s sake.”

  Bethancourt smiled at the telephone. “When’s the shoot?” he asked.

  “Monday,” she answered. “Phillip, you absolutely must teach me to ride tomorrow.”

  Bethancourt’s grin widened. Last year, Marla had been involved in a fashion shoot on a country estate. Someone had been persuaded to lend their Arabian stud to the proceedings and all had gone smoothly until the photographer suggested that Marla should be photographed actually mounted on the stallion. Marla, who until that day had never been nearer a horse than the sidelines at a polo match, nevertheless agreed, used as she was to the whims of photographers. The stud’s knowledgeable groom boosted her up, where she did her best to pose as desired and to look as if she knew what she was doing, despite the fact that the ground looked rather farther away than she had counted on. The stallion, who knew an inexperienced rider when one was on his back, and who took a dim view of riders in general, decided he had had enough. He was prevented from bolting by his groom’s firm hand on his lead, but that was not an insurmountable problem. He bucked. Marla somersaulted out of the saddle, describing a beautiful arc through the air, and landed solidly on the ground which such a short time ago had seemed so far away. Her subsequent bruises had forced her to withdraw from a lucrative swimsuit and an even more lucrative lingerie shoot in the next week and a half. Needless to say, the incident had had a negative effect on Marla’s attitude toward horses.

  “It’s rather a big job to learn to ride in one day,” said Bethancourt, who was an excellent rider and an enthusiastic polo player—a sport which he enjoyed out of all proportion to his ability to play it. “But I will do my best.”

  “We’d better get an early start,” said Marla gloomily. “Tomorrow’s the only time we’ve got because I’m flying out to Ireland on Sunday afternoon, so as to be able to start shooting at dawn on Monday.”

  “All right,” said Bethancourt. “Early it is. Don’t worry, Marla, it will be fine. Really. What made you agree to it in the first place?”

  “My agents didn’t tell me horses were going to be involved,” said Marla. “And, well, I can’t really afford to turn down Lauren, especially not when there’s a rumor going round that they might be looking for a new Lauren girl.”

  “I see,” said Bethancourt.

  “It’s probably not true,” she added despondently. “It’s probably just a rumor started by people who want to force models onto horses.”

  “A conspiracy,” said Bethancourt solemnly.

  CHAPTER 8

  Saturday dawned bright and clear. Carmichael was used to having to work weekends, yet he still felt a pang as he looked out on the morning and prepared to say good-bye to his wife. Dottie Carmichael was now fifty-three, with graying hair and a thickening waistline, but he still loved her very much. Lately he had begun to feel that there had been too many mornings like this, too many weekends cancelled, too many dinners missed. He had a sudden temptation to send Gibbons on to Hurtwood Hall alone; there was, after all, very little to be followed up on and Gibbons was quite capable of handling it all himself.

  But of course that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t be right and anyway, even if he gave in to temptation, he would only spend the day worrying about how his sergeant was getting on.

  Dottie, picking up on his mood, laughed at him from across the breakfast table.

  “Look at you,” she chided gently, “so gloomy and all because you have to work on a Saturday. As if you weren’t accustomed to it after all these years.”

  “That’s just it,” he answered. “These days I’m beginning to feel I’ve worked enough Saturdays. Sundays, too, for that matter.”

  “So that’s it,” she said. “You’re seeing your retirement on the horizon. Well, dear, I’m afraid there’s a few more miles to go before you get there.”

  He chuckled and took her hand. “Not too many, though,” he said.

  “Certainly not as many as there were,” she agreed.

  Carmichael sobered. “I expect it’s also this case,” he said. “I don’t like it, Dottie. There’s not a chance of proving anything. Our only option is to worm a confession out of someone and at the moment I haven’t any idea who to start with.”

  “Everybody draws a bad card sometimes,” she said. “You’ll do your best, just as always.” She put her head to one side and considered him. “Are you certain it’s not the widow that’s troubling you?”

  “In what way?” Carmichael knew of one way in which Annette Berowne troubled him a good deal and he suspected Dottie knew it, too, but she would never broach that subject openly.

  “Because intellectually you think she’s guilty, but your instincts say she’s not. That’s not usual for you—normally the two go hand in hand.”

  “You could be right,” he said thoughtfully.

  She squeezed his hand and released it. “There’s Sergeant Gibbons driving up, dear. You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

  Thus preoccupied with his wife’s insight, Carmichael replied automatically to Gibbons’s greeting and they rode the first few miles in silence. Rousing himself at last, Carmichael glanced over at his sergeant and said, “Sorry, lad. I was thinking over something.” His eye ran over the younger man’s figure. “Is that a new jacket?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. “I thought my old tweed was looking a bit worn, so I stopped last night on my way home and bought a new one.”

  “Well, it’s very nice. Looks fine on you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Carmichael sighed and shifted in his seat. “We’ll just do the best we can today, Sergeant. I’ll start on the servants with Miss Wellman and see if I can’t trick something about Paul Berowne out of her. God knows what I got from the City and his finances yesterday wasn’t much help.”

  “No, sir,” agreed Gibbons. “Is there anything you want me to cover with Mrs. Berowne?”

  “You can ask her about the servants. You’ve already spoken with her about Paul Berowne, I believe.”

  “Yes,” said Gibbons, “the other day, when I was getting her to talk about her life at Hurtwood Hall. I was really trying for more about her husband, but we covered the rest of the family pretty well.”

  “Well, get whatever you can, lad. Paul Berowne is far too composed for us to have another go at him without some kind of edge.”

  Annette opened the door to them herself. She seemed rather subdued and a slight puffiness around her eyes revealed she had been crying. But she greeted them with a smile that lit up her brown eyes and gave her hand to Carmichael.

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Chief Inspector,” she said. “Will you be coming with Sergeant Gibbons and me?”

  Carmichael shook her hand heartily and gave it back to her. “I’m afraid not,” he answered. “I must speak
with Miss Wellman again.”

  “Well, we’ll miss you,” she said simply. “Shall I show you up to Maddie?”

  “No, no. I can find my own way. You and the sergeant had best be off while the weather holds.”

  “But it’s a lovely day,” she protested. Her eyes twinkled at Gibbons. “We won’t be needing your umbrella today, Sergeant.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then we’ll leave you to it, Chief Inspector.”

  She gave him a warm parting smile and then led the way down the hall to the side door by the study.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said as Gibbons held the door for her. “I needed a distraction today. And I’m sure this sounds silly to you, but timing my walk makes me feel as though I’m helping to find Geoffrey’s murderer. It’s the only thing I can do at all.”

  “We very much appreciate it,” said Gibbons as she linked her arm in his and strolled across the terrace.

  Gibbons had convinced himself the evening before that his unexpected desire to kiss Annette had been nothing more than a normal reaction to spending time with a very attractive woman, and he was surprised now to find that he, too, was looking forward to their outing. He shrugged the thought away; it was only natural, after all, to enjoy a pretty woman’s company. Gibbons was not very practiced at lying to himself—there had never been much need before—but he was turning out, if only he had known it, to be rather good at it.

  “Did something upset you this morning?” he asked. “You seemed rather down when we arrived.”

  Her face darkened at once. “Oh, it was nothing,” she said, but her voice was unsteady. “Maddie said some very unkind things this morning. She’s got rather a sharp tongue, but, well …” She trailed off, but then drew a breath and said, “I never realized how much she disliked me. Geoffrey always said to pay her no mind, that it was just her way, that she was curmudgeonly. I thought, now that he’s gone, that perhaps I should make more of an effort. After all, she must be grieving, too, and I’ve paid no attention to that. But she was quite, well, vicious. I didn’t understand,” she added in a low voice, “that she’d been taking her meals in her room to avoid me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Gibbons. “It must be terribly lonely for you here.”

  “Yes …’ Her voice caught and she bit her lip, but in the next moment she raised her head and said firmly,”There’s no use in going on about it. You’re my distraction, Mr. Gibbons. Tell me an amusing story.”

  Gibbons smiled. “How about a bit of detective work instead?” he said. “Today I’m interested in anything you can tell me about the people who work here.”

  She looked up at him, surprised. “But surely none of them would …”

  “Why do you say that, Mrs. Berowne?” asked Gibbons alertly. “Do you think you know who killed your husband?”

  “No.” She shook her head quickly. “Not that. But I guess I assumed it must have been Paul or Maddie.” There was pleading in her eyes. “But I’ve thought and thought and I can’t see why they would have done it.”

  Neither could Gibbons. As far as he could see, if anyone was going to be murdered at Hurtwood Hall, it should have been Annette herself.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” he said gently. “And it doesn’t do to eliminate people just because they weren’t as close to the victim as others. That’s why we need to look into the servants.”

  “Yes, of course. I see that.” She tucked her hand more securely into the crook of his elbow. “Well, I don’t know how much I can tell you. All the servants were here when I married Geoffrey, except for Kitty. We had Janet then—rather a motherly old soul. Kitty’s actually a better cook.”

  “But what do you know about Kitty personally?” asked Gibbons.

  “Let’s see. I know she went to cooking school in Paris and then came back here and got a job in a restaurant in London. Apparently they thought very well of her, but she didn’t like the life. So when Janet retired, she recommended Kitty and we were happy to have her. It worked out well all round.”

  For the first time, Gibbons felt a slight annoyance with Annette.

  “What about boyfriends?” he asked patiently. “Or hobbies?”

  “Well, she must have a boyfriend,” said Annette. “She’s very pretty. But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that. It doesn’t seem polite, somehow, to pry into people’s personal lives.”

  “No,” agreed Gibbons, “but unfortunately it’s my job. What about any of the others?”

  But Annette knew very little about any of them. Mrs. Simmons was a widow who had worked for the Berownes ever since Geoffrey had first bought Hurtwood Hall. Her husband had been alive then, but after he had died, she had sold her house and moved into the old servants’ quarters on the top floor. Berowne had had them renovated for her. McAllister, too, was an old employee, hired by the first Mrs. Berowne at what Berowne had always said was an exorbitant salary. Ken Mills had been hired more recently, just a few months before Annette’s marriage. She believed he was saving up for his own garage.

  They could see the village ahead by the time Gibbons thought he had pulled all the information he could from her, and he glanced at his watch as they came into the High Street. It had taken them just over forty minutes to walk the two miles, which left twenty minutes unaccounted for on the day of the murder.

  “Shall we have some tea before we start back?” asked Annette. “The walk has made me quite thirsty.”

  “Of course,” said Gibbons. “I’m thirsty, too.”

  Annette seemed unaware of the hostile looks they encountered at the tea shop, but Gibbons fumed inwardly at them. He escorted her to a table in the corner and held out a chair facing the wall for her. If she hadn’t noticed, he was determined that the outing shouldn’t be spoiled for her.

  “Now on the way back,” he said, taking the seat opposite her, “I want you to tell me when we reach the point where you turned back for your library card and also where it was you realized you’d had it after all.”

  She nodded. “I can do that.” She folded her hands on the table and smiled at him. “You’ve been asking all the questions,” she said. “Do you mind if I ask you one?”

  “Not at all,” answered Gibbons, although he was instantly wary. There was no denying that they got on well together and, if she were the murderer, she might feel they had established enough of a relationship for him to answer questions about the investigation. If she could discover who, besides herself, was their prime suspect, she might then be able to “remember” something or manufacture some kind of evidence to encourage their beliefs. It was something he had known to happen before.

  “What made you want to become a detective?” she said. “I mean, it seems an interesting job, but there’s also so much unpleasantness attached to it.”

  Gibbons was totally disarmed. He smiled back at her. “But I think it’s one worth doing,” he answered. “You get a real sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment, every time you close a case. And I didn’t want a desk job, which is what most work comes down to these days. Even as a detective,” he added, thinking of the piles of paperwork from his last case residing at this moment on his desk at the Yard, “there’s a fair amount of that. But most of the time, you’re out investigating, interviewing people, putting the pieces together.”

  “But what attracted you to it in the beginning?” She was sincerely interested; he could tell that and was rather flattered.

  “Well, I suppose it was a natural option for me,” he said. “My uncle was a policeman in the uniformed branch and my grandfather was a village constable. So when I came down from Oxford, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to enroll in the police academy, just to see how I liked it. And I did like it. I expect I have a certain bent for this kind of thing, and on the practical side, it’s a good career with plenty of room for advancement.”

  Their tea arrived and Annette stirred sugar and milk into hers, a thoughtful expression on her face. “So you don’t mind
the unpleasant parts?” she asked. “You don’t worry about becoming, well, hardened I guess is the word.”

  Into Gibbons’s mind sprang some of the more callous jokes that were current around the Yard and he flushed a little, remembering how he had laughed at them and even repeated them. “I expect a certain amount of hardening is unavoidable,” he said honestly. “But it’s no worse than being, say, a doctor. You have to find a way to cope with horror. And if you truly believe you’re making a difference, then it’s worth it.”

  She sighed a little. “You seem so sure of yourself,” she said. “You’re in charge of your life. I wish I was more like that. Lately, since Geoffrey died, I’ve begun to think that I’ve never really done much to make of my life what I wanted. I’ve sort of stumbled across things or people that I thought would make me happy, but if they hadn’t happened along, I’d still just be waiting.”

  “It’s never too late to start,” said Gibbons. “But you have to think things out and decide what you want to accomplish. And just after a tragedy isn’t really the best time for clear thinking.”

  “I suppose not,” she agreed, a little wistfully. “And I haven’t the least notion what I might like to do anyway. Except …”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I have thought that I would like to have children. I’ve always been a little envious of Marion with Edwin.”

  “Why didn’t you and Geoffrey have kids?”

  “Geoffrey didn’t want any. He was fifty-eight when we married, and he felt very strongly that it would be wrong to bring a child into the world when he couldn’t hope to be a real father to it. He thought a child needed both its parents and of course he might have died while any child of ours was still quite young. I suppose I agreed with him in principle, but even before he was killed, I had begun to wonder if I had been a little too ready to fall in with his plans.” She shrugged and smiled. “But you know how it is when you’re in love—nothing seems like an obstacle. What about you, Mr. Gibbons? Have you ever thought of having a family?”

  It was the very thing he had brought up to Bethancourt the day before, but it rang no bells in his mind now.