He led the way, pausing just outside the door to survey the well-tended garden and the freshly mown grass, and giving a cursory glance at the old Morris; the forensics report on the car was already in his case file.
“They found several nails scattered at the edge of the road,” he said, pointing. “Constable Stikes thinks they were probably dropped by Bob Ambler, the local handyman, who put up some shelves for Mrs. Eberhart last week. She says he’s a very reliable workman, but not very neat, and he’s always dropping things off his van, or leaving his tools behind. In any case, there were four or five of them just about here, and forensics says one of the tires on the Morris has been recently patched.”
“And here is where they found the bicycle marks,” called Gibbons.
He had moved to the bottom of the property, by the hedge that ran along the road. There was a large lilac bush growing there and, although it had been trimmed, it still overhung the hedge in places. In the soft earth between the two were the marks of a bicycle tire.
“Some bright lad from forensics found these,” Carmichael told Bethancourt as he moved to join his sergeant. “The marks are recent—it hasn’t rained here since the weekend—and you can see the leaves that have been torn off are barely dead.” He straightened and gave a last glance about. “We’d best get on. Let’s have a chat with Mrs. Eberhart and this fellow Towser, if he’s at home. Then we can head back to the village for lunch.”
“Who’s Towser?” asked Bethancourt.
“Derek Towser,” supplied Gibbons as they made their way toward the Eberhart cottage. “He’s a painter and is only a temporary resident. He’s been staying in the third cottage. You can’t see it from here—it’s ’round the bend in the road, along the lane that leads up to the old farmhouse. Originally, this all belonged to the farm, and the cottages were for the farm hands and their families. Towser’s, I understand, is newer than these.”
“Is it still a working farm?”
“No, no. Twenty or thirty years ago the farmers sold it to Joan Bonnar, the actress. They kept the cottages for themselves, but they’ve since died and their heirs rent them out.”
“Does Joan Bonnar still own the farmhouse?” asked Bethancourt, vaguely intrigued by this celebrity.
“Yes, but they say she’s seldom here. Her children live there. We’ll have to see them, too, of course, although it’s doubtful that either they or Towser saw anything.”
Carmichael was already knocking on the cottage door. Mrs. Eberhart appeared and ushered them in, serving up coffee in the kitchen as a matter of course. Bethancourt sipped his second cup appreciatively while he listened to Carmichael skillfully draw from Mrs. Eberhart all knowledge of Bingham and his habits, as well as the admission that she had picked up several nails in the lane after Ambler’s visit the previous Saturday. Bethancourt could not help but notice how much more information the chief inspector elicited than he himself had done, and in less time. On the other hand, he thought, he had had a far more pleasant chat. It was yet another good reason for not getting a proper job on the police force.
CHAPTER 4
When they were done with Peg Eberhart, they went off to find the third cottage, which was done easily enough, but Derek Towser was not at home. Bethancourt, increasingly nervous about the time, left the two detectives then, making a quick stop at the vet’s surgery for verisimilitude before racing back to Stutely Manor to take Marla to lunch.
Carmichael and Gibbons returned to the village High Street where they had arranged to meet Constable Stikes for lunch. She had been rushing off when they arrived that morning, called out to see to a stray dog chasing a farmer’s sheep, and had had no time to do anything but point out the way to Bingham’s cottage.
Gibbons had been secretly relieved to find that the constable was not a flirtatious type, and perversely annoyed to see that she was very nearly his own height. She was also his senior by four or five years, but gave due respect to his superior rank, something that could not fail to impress him favorably.
She was waiting for them at the Deer and Hounds, the seventeenth-century pub at one end of the market square. It was as picturesque as the rest of Chipping Chedding, with flagstone floors and a low-beamed ceiling, its décor showing signs of recent renovation.
“The owners are new,” Stikes told them. “Martin Winslow and his wife Maggie; they’re good folks. They bought the place a couple of years ago and did it all up. And brought in a top-notch chef from London—the grub’s real good these days.”
Carmichael nodded as he settled himself at the table by the window.
“Can we stay here?” he asked. “We haven’t booked into anywhere yet. DIC Darren said to speak to you.”
Stikes smiled. “I’d already reserved you two rooms, sir,” she said. “I just didn’t get a chance to say so this morning.”
“Ah, yes. How are the sheep, Constable?”
Stikes sighed. “The sheep are fine, sir. But the dog wasn’t a stray, strictly speaking. It belongs to Mr. Gamham and there’s been trouble over it before. I had a word with him, but it won’t do any good. But you can’t be interested in any of that.” She straightened alertly. “What can I tell you, sir?”
Carmichael had set the case file beside his place setting, and now he opened it.
“I take it these people you interviewed are the ones who were closest to Bingham?” he asked.
“That’s right, sir. He hadn’t been here long, but he was already one of the village characters. People liked him, but his social life mostly revolved around the pub here, and the other regulars. Well, except for the Eberharts—they’re not part of the pub crowd.”
Carmichael raised an eyebrow. “But the vicar is?” he asked.
Stikes grinned. “Oh, yes sir. At least, he is since he got married. They’re in every Wednesday night after choir practice, and they drop by at other times, too. They’ve had Mr. Bingham over for dinner a few times, even though he’s not a regular churchgoer.”
“Well, well,” said Carmichael. “That’s certainly unusual.”
Stikes smiled slyly. “Changing times, sir. If it comes to that, I’m unusual myself. Not many women doing rural police officer duty.”
Carmichael rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Well, no,” he said.
“We were tactfully not mentioning it,” put in Gibbons.
Stikes laughed. “That’s all right, sir. Don’t know as it would have worked if everyone hadn’t already known me so well. Oh, here’s Marcie to take our orders.”
The ordering accomplished, Carmichael returned to the case file.
“Well, let’s see about the rest of these people,” he said. “It says Derek Towser is only a temporary resident?”
“That’s right, sir. He’s the one person I can’t tell you much about—he’s only been here three weeks or so. The only things I know about him are that he’s a painter, he’s incredibly handsome, and rumor has it he’s quite a ladies’ man.”
“Only rumor?” asked Gibbons. “He’s not chatted you up, then?”
Stikes looked amused. “No, sir, but I’m hardly the pick of the litter. Only he hasn’t chatted up anyone else, either, at least not that I’ve heard about.”
“But he was friendly with Mr. Bingham?” said Carmichael.
“Yes, sir. They struck up a friendship soon after Mr. Towser arrived. Started coming in to the pub together most evenings, had each other over for fry-ups occasionally. That sort of thing.”
“All boys together?” suggested Gibbons.
“That’s about the size of it, sir,” agreed Stikes.
Carmichael perused his file. “James and Julie Benson,” he read off. “Those are Joan Bonnar’s children?”
“Yes, sir, and Martha Potts is their housekeeper. They’re Wednesday night regulars here, too, though they don’t come in much otherwise. They keep to themselves more than the rest of the villagers, but they got on with Mr. Bingham. He’s been up to the old farmhouse for dinner a few times.”
“Bu
t he and Mr. Benson aren’t boys together, as the sergeant so eloquently puts it?”
“No.” Stikes shook her head. “Mr. Benson doesn’t make a move without his sister. They’re joined at the hip, those two. Twins, you know.”
Carmichael hadn’t known, but he passed it over.
“Then there’s Clarence Astley-Cooper,” he said.
“I wouldn’t call him a particular friend of Mr. Bingham’s,” said Stikes, “though they got on well enough whenever they met. But I don’t think Mr. Astley-Cooper has ever invited Mr. Bingham up to the manor or anything like that. I mostly put him into the report because he verified the vicar’s alibi.”
Carmichael raised his brows. “And did you seriously suspect the vicar of having murdered Mr. Bingham?”
“I didn’t figure it was my job to do the suspecting, sir,” said Stikes with spirit.
“Neither is it, Constable,” said Carmichael genially. “I just wondered, that’s all. I think that’s everyone you mentioned. Now, is there anyone you didn’t put in the report?”
“There’s Mr. and Mrs. Winslow,” said Stikes at once, nodding toward the bar where the couple in question were working. “Mr. Bingham was quite friendly with them, as he spent so much time in the pub here. But they were here all evening, with plenty of people to witness it if it was needed.”
Carmichael nodded his acceptance of this omission, but Stikes hesitated before going on.
“I don’t know if you’d want to hear about rumors …” she said tentatively.
“Indeed I would, Constable.”
“Then word has it Mr. Bingham had a girlfriend, but nobody knows who it might have been. I don’t think it was anyone in the village—someone would have been bound to twig that. Only I can’t make out where else he could have met her since he was seldom away. My best guess is that it was one of the tourists at the beginning of last summer, someone who didn’t live here, but whom he kept up with after she left.”
“That’s a very clever idea, Constable,” said Carmichael, exchanging glances with his sergeant. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to follow up on it by checking the Winslows’ guest bookings for the period in question.”
Stikes looked delighted with this assignment. “I’d be happy to, sir. Only, of course, she mightn’t have been staying here. They only have the four rooms, and lots of people come through that are staying in one of the other villages.”
“Start here,” instructed Carmichael, “and then go on to wherever else you think is a likely spot. Don’t overdo it, though—I don’t want the guest list from every hotel and inn in the Cotswolds.”
“No, sir.”
Carmichael considered. “Would you have said,” he asked, “that this mysterious girlfriend had ever stayed at Bingham’s cottage?”
Stikes shook her head at once. “No, sir,” she answered. “At least, not on a regular basis. The Eberharts would have been sure to notice, even if nobody else did.”
“And yet we found a woman’s outfit hanging in his closet.”
“Really?” Stikes was surprised. “Well, I don’t know what to say to that, sir, except it’s very curious.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” murmured Gibbons under his breath. “You haven’t said,” he added aloud, “if there was anyone in the village who bore Mr. Bingham any ill will. Any little disputes over Mr. Gamham’s dog, perhaps?”
Stikes shook her head. “Truthfully, no, sir,” she answered. “Mr. Bingham was an easygoing sort. He did like to tease—he had quite a devilish sense of humor—but I can’t recall that anyone was ever offended. People thought he was a bit peculiar, but on the whole they liked him.”
“Well, Gloucestershire seems to think he was murdered in London,” said Carmichael, “and it may be they’re right, although as far as I can make out their only reason for thinking so is that comment he made to Mrs. Eberhart. And, since he was clearly lying to her about the purpose of his trip, I can’t see why we should take the destination on faith. In truth, Constable, I’m not entirely certain it was murder. It strikes me as far more likely that his lady friend is married and that he died in an inconvenient place. If we can lay hands on her, I think we can clear this up quickly.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Nevertheless,” added Carmichael, “Gibbons and I will continue to interview these people on your list—you never can tell. But no matter—here’s the food coming. Let’s tuck in.”
“Now, Marla,” said Bethancourt placatingly into the telephone.
Stutely Manor had been deserted when he returned, and Mrs. Leggett could only tell him that Astley-Cooper and Marla had gone to lunch, she knew not where. Any hope Bethancourt had of this being simple miscommunication was crushed when he found Marla’s mobile phone on the dresser in their room, left there deliberately, he was certain, to ensure he could not reach her and try to put matters right.
He elected to eat at the house in the hopes they would return, but when they had not done so by the time he was finished, he decided to rejoin the police investigation and just caught Carmichael and Gibbons at the end of their meal. They were planning to visit the vicarage next, and Bethancourt had slipped out to ring the manor one more time before they set out. He knew if Marla did not hear from him shortly after she returned, all might be lost. In fact, finding him waiting for her at the manor was the only thing guaranteed to make her happy, but he had persuaded himself a phone call would do.
He knew he had been mistaken as soon as he heard her voice and realized she now knew a murder investigation was in progress.
“Dear God,” she said now, “it’s like going out with Dracula—you just never know when another dead body is going to pop up.”
“Marla—”
“I really don’t want a relationship littered with corpses. Believe it or not, Phillip, most women do not find dead bodies romantic.”
“Marla,” Bethancourt tried again, “it’s not my fault I ran into Jack and the chief inspector. And I’ll be back in half an hour. I did look for you to have lunch.”
“Looking is not the same as finding. And I doubt you looked very hard.”
“Well, I was a little hampered by not knowing where to start. You might have left a note or taken your phone.”
“Oh, I see. So now this is my fault?”
“Of course not. Did I say that? Look here, I’ll be back shortly and we can have drinks and go somewhere lovely for dinner.”
Marla gave in grudgingly. “Very well,” she said. “But if you’re not back here in half an hour, I shall be on the next train to London.”
“I will be,” he promised.
Bethancourt heaved a deep sigh and rang off just as Gibbons and Carmichael emerged from the pub.
“You can see the church from here,” said Carmichael, pointing at the steeple that rose from among the trees. “The vicarage is just beyond it, I believe. We’ll walk, Gibbons.”
The vicarage was a large, late-Victorian house with a well-tended garden in front. They let themselves in at the gate, and walked up the path to ring the bell.
“Hullo?” came a voice from above them, and Carmichael hastily came out of the porch to look up at the first floor. A dark-haired man in his early thirties was hanging bare-chested out of an upstairs window. He looked a little startled not to recognize his visitors, but called amiably, “Were you looking for me?”
“We’re looking for the vicar and his wife,” replied Carmichael, shading his eyes against the sun. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Carmichael from Scotland Yard.”
“Oh!” said the man, pulling on a black T-shirt that someone in the room behind tossed at him. “I’m Richard Tothill. Is this about Charlie Bingham, then?”
“Yes, sir,” said Carmichael. “If this is an inconvenient time—”
“No, no, not at all. We’ll be right down.”
He disappeared and Carmichael returned to the porch.
“We seem to have caught the vicar changing,” he said.
But when t
he door opened, it was a woman who stood there. She was remarkably beautiful, her cornflower-blue eyes and ebony hair set off by a pale, creamy complexion. The sweater she wore fit closely enough to reveal a full bosom and slender waist, and her bare legs beneath the hem of her skirt were long and shapely. They paused, a little startled by this vision, and the thought popped into all their minds that perhaps the vicar had not been merely changing after all.
She smiled and held the door open for them.
“I’m Leandra Tothill,” she said. “Richard will be right down—he’s doing up his buttons. Do come in and sit down. Oh, what a beautiful dog.”
“He’s mine,” said Bethancourt. “He can wait outside if you’d rather.”
“No, of course not. I love dogs.”
She ushered them into the front parlor, giving Cerberus a last pat before excusing herself to fetch some coffee.
“She doesn’t look much like a vicar’s wife,” whispered Gibbons.
“No,” agreed Carmichael. “She doesn’t, does she?”
“Not like any vicar’s wife I’ve ever seen,” said Bethancourt. “I wonder what he’s like—oh, here they come.”
Richard Tothill, suitably attired in a worn black cassock, entered carrying the coffee tray with his wife bringing up the rear. He was a tall, thin man with a pleasant face and a quiet manner; there was nothing about him to indicate how he had come by such an extraordinary wife.
He and Leandra sat together on the sofa, and Bethancourt was struck by how natural they seemed with each other, as if they belonged together and knew it. It was clear, from the glances they exchanged, that they adored each other, and Bethancourt wondered how long they had been married.
“Yes, it was very distressing,” the vicar was saying in a calm, deep voice that seemed made for the pulpit. “Charlie wasn’t a churchgoer, but he was a sociable man and had become a friend. And he did like music—I was sure he’d be good for a subscription to our Christmas concert. So I went along there on Monday morning to ask him, but right away I knew something was wrong. I could see the sitting room lights were on as I came up the drive, which struck me as odd, the more so when I knocked and got no answer.”
Village Affairs Page 4