The Young Widow

by Cassandra Chan

  She had not denied the story when it was presented to her, nor even asked why they should dredge it up. Instead, their questions had immediately plunged her into a gloom in which she seemed not to care what they asked.

  “Then the reconciliation wasn’t a success?” asked Gibbons.

  “God, no. He never forgave me for not letting him go. Even Edwin—Paul seemed to resent him instead of caring for him.” She drew a deep and ragged breath. “I’ve spent years regretting that I went to Geoffrey—but I was so sure then that we could be happy again.”

  “And yet you’ve stayed married?”

  “What other choice was there? And there’s not been much reason to fight for a divorce again. Paul and I have organized our lives so that there’s very little time we have to spend together. What would be different if we divorced? I’d move into the main house, no doubt, but that’s not very appealing with Annette there. I’m sure Paul thought the same.”

  “Then you were unaware,” asked Gibbons gently, “that your husband had begun another affair?”

  She was startled, and stared blankly at him for a moment.

  “I don’t think he was,” she said shakily.

  “We have testimony to that effect,” said Gibbons.

  “But he—oh, God.”

  Abruptly she broke down, leaning over the arm of the sofa with her face buried in her hands. Her crying was silent, but her shoulders shook with its force.

  “Here.” Bethancourt rose from his chair and seated himself beside her, slipping an arm about her and proffering his handkerchief. “We know it must be a shock,” he said soothingly, “especially after the terrible experience you had before. Did you still love him after all, then?”

  The handkerchief obscured her face, but she nodded ashamedly.

  “I’d given up any hope,” she said haltingly, the tears still running down her cheeks. “I knew it would never be good between us again. But I did still care.”

  Bethancourt patted her back.

  “It’s—it’s not the same woman, is it?” she whispered and then hunched her shoulders as if she could not bear the answer.

  “No,” answered Gibbons, “not the same.”

  She let out her breath in a long, tremulous sigh and blew her nose.

  “That’s it,” said Bethancourt. “Try to bear up.”

  “But,” she gasped, “how will I ever face him tonight? I can’t—I simply can’t.”

  “That may not be a problem,” said Gibbons slowly.

  She looked at him questioningly, not understanding.

  “Chief Inspector Carmichael has taken him in for questioning at New Scotland Yard,” said Gibbons. “I don’t know if he will be released tonight or not.”

  She couldn’t grasp what he was telling her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “You must see,” said Bethancourt gently, “that this gives him a motive for murder.”

  She stared wildly at them. “But I thought Annette killed Geoffrey.”

  Gibbons bristled, but kept his voice calm. “There is some reason to believe Mrs. Berowne is innocent,” he said.

  “But I’m sure Paul wouldn’t have hurt his father,” she protested, tears filling her eyes again. “He wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “Nothing’s certain yet,” said Gibbons. “You never suspected then that your husband might be guilty?”

  She shook her head wildly. “No. I’m sure he isn’t. He can’t be.”

  There was clearly no more she could tell them, and they took their leave as soon as they could without seeming callous.

  “I hope Miss Wellman doesn’t cry,” grumbled Gibbons as they made their way toward the main house. “I hate it when witnesses break down in tears.”

  “Oh, I don’t think Maddie Wellman is the type to weep on your shoulder,” said Bethancourt. “She’s made of sterner stuff.”

  “Let’s hope she’ll be more helpful,” said Gibbons. “I haven’t got anything so far that you didn’t already tell me. It would be nice if we could uncover an extra bit for Carmichael to spring on Berowne.”

  Mrs. Simmons opened the door to them and guided them up to Maddie’s sitting room. Bethancourt wondered where Annette was, but was pleased that Gibbons did not ask.

  “Back again, eh?” said Maddie as they came in. “I suppose you’ll expect another meal.”

  “Not today, Miss Wellman,” said Gibbons cheerfully. “I have orders from Chief Inspector Carmichael to speak to you and get back to Town as quick as I can.”

  “Then you’d better be at it,” she answered. “Here, Mr. Bethancourt, pull up another chair for yourself. That one there will do. So what have you come about today?”

  “Chief Inspector Carmichael,” began Gibbons, “was wondering why you hadn’t told him that Geoffrey Berowne had prevented his son’s divorce.”

  “Why should I? It’s ancient history.” She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand.

  “So you don’t feel that Paul bore his father any resentment for his actions?”

  “Of course not. Paul acknowledged that it was his duty to try to reconcile with Marion in light of the baby on the way, and so it was.”

  “So you maintain that the reconciliation was effective?”

  “Of course it was.”

  “Then why are they still so unhappy?” asked Gibbons mildly.

  “They’re not,” she snapped.

  “Really? Marion Berowne seems to feel quite differently. I haven’t spoken with Paul yet, but he looks an unhappy man to me.”

  Being caught out did not seem to phase her in the least. “Marion likes to dramatize things,” she said. “Every marriage has its rough spots.”

  “So that would, in your opinion, explain the affair Paul Berowne has been having? A rough spot in his marriage?”

  She colored. “An affair? He can’t have been.”

  “But he was, Miss Wellman.”

  “Not that Sullivan woman again?”

  “No. We’ve spoken to Miss Sullivan, and she’s not seen him since their breakup six years ago.”

  “It was all her fault, you know. She set her cap for him the minute they met.” Maddie seemed almost eager to serve up the old news and steer their attention away from the present. “But he gave her up, you know, of his own accord.”

  “Yes. But only after his father threatened to disinherit him and fire him from his job.”

  “Geoffrey never did that!”

  Her voice was shrill, her eyes giving away the lie.

  “Two people say that he did,” said Gibbons relentlessly. “Perhaps you’d like to correct us? Give us your version of events?”

  She was sullen and did not answer at once. Then, “No,” she said, “I wouldn’t. Get out of here, both of you. Get out now. And you can tell your chief inspector the only way he’ll speak to me again is down at the station with my solicitor present.”

  “Miss Wellman,” began Gibbons persuasively, but she cut him off.

  “Get out!” she repeated.

  There was nothing they could do but go.

  “Hell,” said Gibbons as they reached the top of the stairs. “I bloody well mucked that up.”

  “I can’t see what else you could have done,” said Bethancourt. “She was bound to be upset when you started pointing the finger at her beloved nephew.”

  Gibbons ran a harassed hand over his hair and grimaced. “The D.C.I. wouldn’t have got himself tossed. And he’s not going to be best pleased that I did.”

  Bethancourt considered briefly and decided against pointing out that Carmichael’s forty years’ experience gave him an authority that could not hope to be matched by a sergeant still in his twenties. Instead, he said thoughtfully, “Do you know, she was nearly frantic to shift your suspicions away from Paul.”

  “As you said, he’s her beloved nephew.” Gibbons gave him a sharp look. “You can’t mean you think she knew he did it.”

  “No,” answered Bethancourt. “She would have been prepared
for this line of questioning in that case. But I was thinking it possible she had killed Geoffrey herself, knowing everyone would suspect Annette.”

  “Leave it to you to resurrect another suspect just as we’re narrowing them down,” grumbled Gibbons. “Still, I take your point. If Carmichael brought her in and hammered it into her that he was going to charge Paul, she might break down and confess.”

  “Only if she did it,” said Bethancourt. “Well, what now? Back to Town?”

  “No,” said Gibbons slowly, starting down the stairs. “I think we ought to try Mrs. Simmons.”

  Mrs. Simmons, however, was as taciturn as usual, replying only in monosyllables. She sat before them in the writing room like a frightened bird, her eyes darting around as if in search of escape. It did not matter how gentle Gibbons was with her, nor how tactfully he phrased his questions, she would do no more than agree with the story he sketched out. Bethancourt, taking pity on her and thinking she might be more at ease without both of them hovering over her, excused himself and waited out the rest of the interview in the hall.

  He was standing there, leaning up against the wall and smoking, when Annette came down the stairs.

  She looked very small and forlorn and for an instant, before she was aware of him, he felt a pang of pity for her. Then her head turned and she drew in a sharp breath, startled.

  “Why, Mr. Bethancourt,” she said, continuing down the stairs to meet him. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I came down with Sergeant Gibbons,” he replied, motioning toward the closed door of the writing room. “He’s just speaking with Mrs. Simmons. I expect,” he added, smiling, “he’ll want you next.”

  She flushed, but her expression was eager.

  “Has there been a development?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Bethancourt. “I think it would be best if you spoke to Jack—I really haven’t any business being here at all, but this case has rather drawn me in.”

  “Oh, but I’m sure you’re being a great help,” she said, her eyes travelling to the writing room door as if willing it to open. “And we all appreciate it very much,” she added, returning her attention to him.

  “My contribution has been pretty minimal,” he said. “But how are you? Are you bearing up under it all?”

  Annette sighed. “It’s been difficult,” she said in a low voice, and her eyes strayed again to the implacably closed door.

  Bethancourt studied her, groping for some clue as to what had occurred between she and Gibbons in her manner, but could discern nothing.

  “Is Mrs. Simmons being helpful?” she asked. “She’s awfully reserved, you know.”

  “It’s why I came out,” admitted Bethancourt. “I thought she might be more comfortable without both of us there.”

  “Perhaps,” Annette agreed doubtfully. “It was kind of you to think of it.”

  Her eyes were back on him, but her whole being was focused on the writing room. On Gibbons’s presence there, wondered Bethancourt, or on what Mrs. Simmons might be saying?

  Yet when the door finally opened, she flinched back, coloring again and looking up through her lashes as Gibbons emerged.

  He smiled warmly as he saw her, his eyes softening from their fierce concentration.

  “I was just coming to speak with you,” he said.

  Her answering smile was a little uncertain, as if she feared a rebuff. “Mr. Bethancourt says there’s been a development?” she asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” affirmed Gibbons. “If we could sit down somewhere …”

  “Of course. Come into the drawing room.”

  She led the way back down the hall and into the room where they had first met her, settling herself on the couch and looking expectantly at Gibbons.

  He sat beside her and, Bethancourt was almost sure, started to take her hand. Instead he stopped himself and turned the gesture into reaching for his notebook.

  “This will be difficult for you to hear,” he said gently, “and I want to stress that we’re still far from making a case, but Chief Inspector Carmichael has brought Paul Berowne in for questioning.”

  “Paul?” she repeated doubtfully. “But I can’t believe that Paul …”

  “Tell me, Annette,” continued Gibbons, “were you aware that a couple of years before your own marriage, Paul and Marion had wanted to divorce?”

  “Yes, I knew,” she said, a little bewildered by the change in subject.

  “Did you know that it was Geoffrey who stopped them?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “He told me about it himself. But I don’t see what that has to do with his death. It was years ago.”

  Gibbons frowned a little. “I’ll explain,” he said, “but first tell me what Geoffrey said.”

  “He told me Paul had been seeing another woman in London,” she answered willingly enough, “and wanted a divorce. Marion was very upset—she hadn’t realized what was going on—and for that alone, Geoffrey thought Paul ought to give the marriage another chance. Then it turned out that Marion was pregnant with Edwin and, well, I’ve told you how Geoffrey felt about children needing both parents. He eventually persuaded Paul to go to counseling and was very pleased when Paul and Marion patched things up, although he thought Paul rather resented his interference. But it all turned out well in the end.”

  Gibbons was frowning, clearly confounded by her answer. “Geoffrey didn’t tell you how he had persuaded Paul to return?” he asked.

  “Well, I suppose there were a lot of rows,” she admitted.

  “He didn’t tell you that he had cut Paul off, fired him from his job, and was going to disinherit him?” asked Gibbons sharply.

  Annette looked horrified. “No, Geoffrey would never do that.”

  “I’m afraid he did,” answered Gibbons. “He was very determined that Paul should fulfill his responsibilities.”

  Annette bit her lip. “I know he didn’t believe in divorce,” she said in a small voice. “He did have strong opinions and a bit of a temper. Are you sure he didn’t just say those things while he was angry?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gibbons. “Perhaps that’s how it was. But Paul did take him seriously. He left home for a time and as I understand it, Geoffrey did cut off his allowance.”

  Annette sighed and shook her head. “Geoffrey must have let his temper get the better of him. And if Paul took him at his word, I’m sure Geoffrey would have felt obliged to carry his threats out. But he would have relented in the end, I’m sure of that.”

  Neither Gibbons nor Bethancourt thought so, but there was no point in poisoning her husband’s memory for her. They acquiesced with murmurs of agreement.

  “Still,” she said, “I can’t see what it has to do with Geoffrey’s murder. It seems a little odd to me that you think Paul would have waited all this time to take his revenge.”

  “Not revenge,” said Gibbons. “Think—what would happen if Paul fell in love again?”

  Her brown eyes went wide as realization struck. “And—was he in love?” she asked in a low voice.

  “He was having an affair,” said Gibbons. This time he did reach out and pat her shoulder. “We’ll see what he has to say for himself. This may yet all blow over—there’s still very little to build a case on. But now I want you to think very carefully. Did you never suspect Paul might be guilty?”

  “I suppose I’ve thought that of everyone at one time or another,” she said, “but only because I knew it had to be one of us. No, I never really believed it could be Paul. Although,” she added slowly, “I have thought how odd it was that Paul didn’t go into work that morning. I remember another time, last year, when something went wrong with his car and he made a big fuss about being late for work. He finally took one of the other cars and Geoffrey said how silly he was to be so attached to the BMW.”

  “I see,” said Gibbons. “But even though you thought that odd, you never seriously considered it might be Paul?”

  “No,” she said a little bitt
erly. “After all, it’s just as odd that I should walk to the village instead of driving.”

  “Now, we’ve been over all that, Annette,” said Gibbons kindly. “You mustn’t torture yourself with it. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll just have a word with Kitty, and then I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to London. But I’ll let you know how things go.”

  Once again Bethancourt was left feeling confounded with Annette Berowne as they took their leave of her and made their way to the kitchen. If she was in love with Gibbons, she had shown very little sign of it to his mind, and yet she had seemed very sincere when she had declared she had never considered her stepson a serious suspect. Perhaps, he thought to himself, he had got it all wrong. Perhaps she did not care for Gibbons, had no intention of seducing him, and was innocent of murder as well. It was a happy thought, but one which he could not bring himself to place much confidence in.

  The interview room was bare and clinical, a room for facts, although Carmichael had heard more fabrications than facts here in his thirty-six years with the Yard.

  He set the tape recorder going and regarded the man who had become his prime suspect with shrewd eyes. Paul Berowne was not a fool; he knew that his summons here boded ill for him, and yet he had not demanded a solicitor and Carmichael wondered why. He sat quietly on the opposite side of the table, his hands still in his lap, and watched Carmichael expectantly. If he was nervous, he did not show it.

  “I’d like to go over the morning of the murder again,” began Carmichael. “You said, I believe, that you took a walk?”

  “Yes,” answered Paul.

  “Did you remain on the estate the entire time?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not, for instance, walk into the village? Perhaps stop at the pub?”

  The ghost of a smile touched Berowne’s lips. “You’ve spoken to Mira,” he said quietly. Deep in his eyes was surprise. Not, thought Carmichael, surprise at the betrayal, for he had expected that, but surprise at how, even thus prepared, it still hurt.

  “Yes,” agreed Carmichael, “we have. Her story of the morning differs from yours at several points, Mr. Berowne.”

  “I think,” answered Berowne dryly, “you can easily see why. However, there’s no point in trying to cover things up. I did lie to you, Chief Inspector. Whatever Mira’s told you is the truth.”