Cynthia Manson (ed)

by Merry Murder

  Bethancourt promised to sign the register, and with that she left him.

  He was not very long in following her down, and the tea had not yet appeared in the sitting room. He went back to the entrance hall and found the register spread open on a little table. He wrote his name and address beneath a signature dated in late November, and then turned back the pages to the August entries. These were plentiful; apparently Mrs. Tyzack did brisk business during the summer months. Unfortunately, it was impossible to tell who had been traveling alone and who had not, since everyone except the married couples signed their names on a separate line. Still, if Carmichael was looking for strangers to the village, here was a large list of them. Bethancourt wondered if Mrs. Tyzack had seen all of them leave, luggage in hand.

  “There you are, Mr. Bethancourt. I’ve got the tea all set up now.”

  “I’m just coming, Mrs. Tyzack.”

  “You’ve been signing the book, I see,” she went on, leading the way back to the sitting room.

  “Yes. You haven’t had anybody in lately.”

  “No, it’s not the season for it, you see. People mostly come in the summer—by the end of October we’re down to a trickle. And it’s very unusual to get anyone this close to Christmas.” She looked at him curiously.

  “I’m here to work with the police,” supplied Bethancourt.

  “Oh, about poor Mrs. Bainbridge’s body,” said Mrs. Tyzack with eager interest. She seated herself and began to pour out the tea. “Wasn’t it just awful? Who would have left it there for the poor woman to find I just can’t imagine. People have no consideration for the elderly these days at all.”

  “I suppose you know her quite well?”

  “Oh, yes. The family was living here when I married George. Louisa Bainbridge is older than I am, but she had her Cathy just about the same time I had my Ken, and we got quite chummy over the baby prams. She’s not had a very easy time of it, poor woman, and now to have this happen in her old age—well, it’s just too bad.”

  “Not an easy time?” asked Bethancourt cautiously, hoping this was not a reference to childbirth. “But I understood she was in easy circumstances, and her family seems to be very close.”

  “They are now,” said Mrs. Tyzack with emphasis. “But it was a long time coming, I can tell you. It was her husband, you see. Very strict he was, with a nasty temper, and an awful snob. I’m afraid they didn’t get on very well, though she never complained except to say once she’d been married too young. I know you won’t believe this, but when the third child died—just a baby, it was, and born before its time, too—and Mrs. Connelly said to him how sorry she was, he said it didn’t matter much, it had only been another girl, anyhow.”

  “That,” said Bethancourt with distaste, “is unpardonable.”

  “Just so,” said Mrs. Tyzack, nodding. “Although he changed his mind in the end, when he found out what a bother boys can be. Louisa had two boys in a row after that, but it was the last child, Cathy, who was always his favorite. Not that he didn’t end by alienating her, just as he had all the rest.”

  “He didn’t get on with his children, then?”

  “Far from it,” said Mrs. Tyzack. “Everything was more or less fine when they were little, but when they began to grow up! Well, there were fireworks. He positively tormented the oldest boy, David. Nothing the child did was good enough. He’s been a sore trial to his mother over the years, and it’s my belief that it was all his father’s doing. He wouldn’t let the boy marry the girl he wanted to—threatened to cut him off without a penny if he went ahead with the wedding. Didn’t think she was good enough for his son, although she was a decent, well-brought-up girl even if she wasn’t no more than the baker’s daughter. He forced David to join the navy, though he didn’t want to and didn’t stick it for very long. He tried to make his second son, Michael, join too, but Michael always had more spirit than David and he flat refused. Ran off to America, he did. But poor David was so muddled, he didn’t know what to do. He was very devoted to little Cathy, too, and it’s my belief he stuck it out so’s not to be separated from her.”

  “He must have been sad when she married and moved to Australia,” said Bethancourt, pouring more tea for them both.

  “Why, thank you, dear, that’s kind of you. David wasn’t just sad when she went, he nearly went out of his mind. He accused his father of driving her away, which was true enough. I’m not saying she doesn’t have a happy marriage, because to the best of my knowledge she does, but she told her mother at the time that she was going to get away from her father. And then she slipped off one night, without him knowing. And they weren’t married until they got to Melbourne. Mr. Bainbridge had old fashioned ideas about that sort of thing, and he refused ever to speak to her or have her in his house again. He said he would disinherit David for accusing him of driving her away, but he never did. I expect it was because David was the only one left, really. The two older girls were married and didn’t come home much, and if they wrote, it was to their mother. Michael was off in America, and Cathy in Australia. Anyway, they had a lot of trouble with David from then on. He started drinking too much and lost a couple of jobs because of it. Was taken up for being drunk and disorderly, and for fighting once, too. It went on for years. Then all at once he ran off—no news of him at all for more than a year—and when he turned up again, he was sober, hardly drinking at all, and had married a French girl. Mr. Bainbridge didn’t take to that much, but there wasn’t a thing he could do. David’s wife was already pregnant, and once the baby was born, David never looked back. He dotes on that child to this day, and so did his father.”

  “That’s a very interesting history,” said Bethancourt. “When did Mr. Bainbridge die?”

  “Oh, about ten years back. And things have been fine ever since. All the children come to visit their mother now, and she is so pleased to see them. They’ll be here for Christmas—all except for Michael and Cathy—and all the grandchildren, too. That’s why it’s such a pity their nice time has to be ruined by this dreadful body.”

  “It is indeed,” agreed Bethancourt. “Do your children come to you, too?”

  “No, no. I go up to Ken’s home in Bristol, ever since they had the baby.”

  Mrs. Tyzack chatted on about her grandchild for a few minutes, and then Bethancourt excused himself, saying he had better get back to the police.

  Bethancourt found Scotland Yard back at the pub, having a well-deserved pint before proceeding to Mrs. Bainbridge’s.

  “I want to get that in before supper,” said Carmichael, “because most of the old lady’s family hasn’t been here since August and if we can get their movements over that weekend clear, we may be able to eliminate the whole lot.”

  But the interview with Mrs. Bainbridge and her daughter, Clarissa North, was uncomfortable and unprofitable. Both women were alarmed, despite Carmichael’s reassurances, at having their family’s movements investigated, nor could they remember very accurately what had occurred. Gibbons took notes furiously, occasionally getting muddled among the different names and relationships. It seemed, once they had at last finished, that it would have been virtually impossible for anyone to sneak a body up to the attic at any time except at night when everyone was asleep. At night, it was perfectly possible since everyone had slept on the second floor, with the exception of the French boy, who had slept in a little room off the kitchen. Unfortunately, both Mrs. Bainbridge and her daughter were early risers and could shed no light on how late the others might have stayed up on any given night. They suggested that Maureen Bainbridge or her cousin Daniel North might know better.

  “And night is about the only time any of them could have committed the murder,” said Gibbons afterward in the pub, with his notes strewn about him. “None of them seems to have been alone for any appreciable time over the entire weekend. Although,” he added apologetically, “it was awfully hard to keep track.”

  “I can see that it was,” said Carmichael. “I’ve a large family
myself, but at least they don’t all mill about together over weekends, killing people. Well, never mind. We’ll just have to interview the family members to see if their accounts tally with what we’ve got here.”

  “It would be useful to know at what time people were getting to bed,” said Bethancourt. “If Mrs. Bainbridge and Mrs. North were rising between seven and eight every morning, and the younger members of the family were going to bed at four in the morning, well, it doesn’t leave much time.”

  “On the other hand,” put in Gibbons, “if they were going to bed virtuously before midnight, eight hours is plenty of time for any killer.”

  “It’ll have to be checked into,” sighed Carmichael. “And may have no bearing on the case at all, once we find out who the dead man was. Well, I’m for bed and start again tomorrow.”

  “Wake up, Phillip.”

  Bethancourt opened a bleary eye and reached for his glasses. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter past eight,” replied Gibbons.

  Bethancourt groaned and sat up slowly. “Why don’t you start without me?”

  “I couldn’t possibly. You’re driving me to Brighton. Here.” Gibbons picked up the dressing gown from the foot of the bed and threw it at his friend. “Mrs. Tyzack is bringing up early tea—you’d better put something on.” He grinned. “I gathered you’d told her to give breakfast a miss.”

  “Yes, I did,” said Bethancourt, flinging on his robe. “I loathe food first thing in the morning. Good morning, Cerberus.”

  Cerberus thumped his tail on the carpet, and Gibbons knelt to rub his chest.

  “I am going to brush my teeth,” announced Bethancourt. “When I return, I hope you will have devised a suitable explanation for your ill-considered phrase, ‘driving to Brighton.’ “

  Bethancourt took some time in the bathroom, and the tea had arrived by the time he emerged. He took the cup Gibbons poured for him and sipped cautiously at it. “Now then, Jack,” he said.

  “We are going to Brighton because we’ve had word that David Bainbridge has returned from France and I’ve been told to see him.”

  “When you put it like that,” said Bethancourt, “it seems more reasonable. I don’t suppose it’s more than a couple of hours anyway.”

  “That’s right,” said Gibbons. “I will even volunteer to drive there, if you will drive back. Now, do put on your clothes, there’s a good chap.”

  They arrived at the offices of David Bainbridge’s import-export business shortly before lunchtime and were shown into his office by a youthful, if severe, secretary. Bainbridge himself was a sober-faced man with dark circles beneath his eyes, dressed conservatively in a blue suit and unobtrusive tie. He greeted them quietly and offered them seats and coffee.

  “My wife told me the news last night,” he said. “It’s an appalling thing for my mother.”

  “It is indeed,” agreed Gibbons, “but she seems to be bearing up well. Your sister, Mrs. North, is with her.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “One can always count on Clarissa. Well, how may I help you gentlemen?”

  “First of all, Mr. Bainbridge, we’d like to know of any visit you’ve made to your mother’s house since August.”

  Bainbridge grimaced. “Only one,” he answered. “I usually go up more frequently, but various business emergencies have prevented me this fall. In fact, I planned to be there a week ago, to help with Christmas things, but just when I was ready to go, I got another call from France.” He sighed. “Well, let me see. I was there for the Bank Holiday in August, and then again about a month later.”

  “Were your family with you in September?”

  “No. No, I was alone that weekend.”

  “Did you go up to the third floor or attic on either of those occasions?”

  “Oh, I see,” said Bainbridge. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I can’t remember the last time I was up there, in fact.”

  “That’s all right, sir, no one else can either. Now, if you’d be so good as to go over with us how you spent the holiday weekend.”

  Bainbridge looked startled. “The holiday weekend?” he repeated. “Was that when—”

  “We’re not certain, sir,” replied Gibbons implacably, “but it is a possibility at this time.”

  Bainbridge’s account of the weekend did not measurably differ from his mother’s.

  “One last thing,” said Gibbons when he had done, “we’d appreciate it if you could give us Renaud Fibrier’s address.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sergeant. I don’t know it.”

  “Well then, the name and address of your partner.”

  “That I can give you, but I’m afraid he’ll be no help. You see, Renaud and his family are estranged.”

  Gibbons was surprised. “And yet you took him to your family reunion?” he said.

  “Oh, yes. I can explain that. You see, Renaud is his father’s eldest son, but I’m afraid they’ve never got on very well together. I’ve always found the boy most charming myself. Very polite and so on. Anyway, about a year or more ago, Renaud got himself into some scrape or another, and his father absolutely refused to help him again. Renaud ran off and ceased to communicate with his family at all. His father was very upset. Then last August I was in London and happened to run into him. It wasn’t the most congenial meeting—he wasn’t disposed to trust me at first, even though I had some sympathy for him.” Bainbridge smiled. “I had some differences with my own father in my youth, so I wasn’t prepared to lay quite all the blame at Renaud’s door. At any rate, I managed to make sure he was all right for money and to get his phone number, although he wouldn’t tell me where he was staying. I called his father, and it was he who suggested I invite Renaud to our family gathering. He hoped, I suppose, that seeing how happily my own situation had turned out would influence Renaud. But I’m afraid it didn’t.”

  “It was not a success?”

  Bainbridge sighed and rubbed his chin. “No.” he answered. “Family life bored Renaud. He was very pleasant, but he insisted on taking the first train on Monday morning, even though I had understood that he would stay until Tuesday. I had to get up to drive him, at some inconvenience to myself—no one else was even up yet. Still, I thought it better that he leave if he wished to. You can’t force family feeling on people.”

  “That’s true, sir.” Gibbons nodded and slowly closed his notebook. “Well, thank you very much, sir. That’s quite clear. We may call on you again once we discover who this unfortunate man was.”

  “Certainly, sergeant. I hope you clear it up quickly.”

  They took their leave and made their way back to the car where Cerberus waited for them with a doleful look on his face.

  “It’s all right, boy,” murmured Bethancourt a little absently.

  “Well,” said Gibbons, settling himself into his seat while Bethancourt maneuvered out of the parking space, “that was a fat lot of help. I wish to God they’d hurry up and identify the body. At this rate, I’m going to miss my Christmas Holidays altogether.”

  “There’s still a week to go, Jack. Who knows? Maybe there’ll be good news waiting for us when we get back to Dorset.”

  Gibbons grunted disconsolately, and they drove on in silence. In a few minutes, Gibbons roused himself to point out that Bethancourt had made a wrong turn.

  “You should have stayed on the A27,” he said.

  “Actually,” said Bethancourt, “I thought we’d run up to London.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I thought we’d see Maureen again. David Bainbridge was no help at all as to when they all went to bed over the weekend.”

  “Phillip, it’s perfectly likely that the body was put there after the weekend.”

  “If it was, that exonerates the family.”

  “Except for Cathy Dresler in Australia. We’ve only her word for it that there was no body there before the weekend.”

  “Yes, but it seems unlikely that she would have any motive. She’s been livin
g in Australia for years. Why should she go around murdering people in England?”

  “Maybe our corpse was Australian.”

  They wrangled comfortably over this point as the car shot northward to London.

  When they arrived, Maureen Bainbridge, to Bethancourt’s disappointment, had just begun a two hour lecture, so they sought out Daniel North instead. He seemed pleased at this distraction from his normal duties and insisted on giving them tea. Then he leaned his elbows on his desk and frowned in an effort to recall the Bank Holiday weekend.

  “Well, let’s see,” he said. “I went down on Friday with Dad—Mother was already there. We got a late start and were the last to arrive. There was dinner, of course... yes, and we all went up early, except for Maureen and Renaud. They stayed up talking for a bit, but it couldn’t have been long because I heard her come up just as I was turning out my light.”

  “They got on well, then?” asked Gibbons.

  North looked offended. “Renaud is certainly the type that women are attracted to,” he said, “but Maureen is hardly that superficial. She wouldn’t take up with someone like him.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Bethancourt tactfully, “their late chat was rather onesided?”

  North smiled, appeased. “I expect so,” he said.

  “You seem to have known Renaud prior to that weekend,” said Gibbons, “but the rest of the family had never met him before. How is that?”

  “Met him one evening at a club,” North said. “A friend of mine knew someone in his party, and after some talk, Renaud and I discovered our connection. He seemed quite pleasant at first, but I didn’t care for the whole crowd. I’m sure they were doing drugs, and their behavior, well, it left much to be desired.”

  “Then you wouldn’t know anything about his present whereabouts?”

  “Certainly not.” North was affronted again. “Uncle David should know, if that’s what you want.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Gibbons, “he doesn’t.”

  “Oh.” North paused thoughtfully. “Wait a moment,” he said slowly, “I believe Renaud did say something about where he was staying. Yes, Camden Town, I think it was. North London, anyhow.”