Village Affairs

by Cassandra Chan

  “You can’t blame them,” said Leandra fondly. “We don’t get many celebrities here, despite all the crowds in the summer.”

  “But you used to live in London yourself,” said Bethancourt.

  “Yes, but I grew up in a village like this.” She laughed, a musical peal that delighted his ear. “And I could hardly wait to leave—as soon as I was done with school, I was off to London like a shot.”

  “Didn’t you like it once you got there?”

  “Oh, I loved it,” she answered. “I never thought I’d go back to a small place. But then I met Richard and, well …”

  She shrugged and smiled.

  “Bowled over, were you?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Rather.” She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling at the recollection. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had the feeling, but we just seemed to fit together from the start. I really didn’t want to leave London, but it wasn’t as if I’d never lived in a village before. I knew I could manage, and Richard and I agreed I could always take the odd weekend in town—it’s not that far. But somehow I never do actually go.”

  Her expression had turned thoughtful now, as if she were thinking over the wisdom of this choice, if choice it was.

  “No doubt the parish keeps you busy here,” suggested Bethancourt.

  “Yes, it does.”

  They were interrupted by another woman whose name escaped Bethancourt, but whom he recognized from the choir.

  “There you are, Mrs. Tothill,” she said cheerfully. “The vicar’s looking for you.”

  “And I’m looking for him. Where has he got to? You will excuse me, Mr. Bethancourt, won’t you?”

  Bethancourt acceded to this request and resumed his course toward the bar. He found Marla there, still surrounded by her crowd of admirers and clearly enjoying herself, her jade eyes dancing and her full lips parted in a dazzling smile. The sight stirred Bethancourt as he joined her and was greeted affectionately with a kiss and a hand run through his hair. Envy abruptly appeared in many of her admirers’ eyes, but Bethancourt hardly noticed as he slipped an arm about her waist.

  She was going to be angry with him in the morning, he reminded himself, when he planned to leave her to her own devices so that he might run off with Gibbons. He toyed with the idea of hinting at his plans tonight, so as to relieve some of the abruptness of a morning announcement, but he caught a whiff of her scent as she turned to smile at him and decided that, after all, he might as well leave the evening unblemished.

  Upstairs, Carmichael and Gibbons were poring over an ordnance survey map spread open on the bed.

  “If we could just get a line on where Bingham was going that day,” said Carmichael, frowning fiercely. “It would give us a big clue as to where to look for this confounded woman.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. “If he was going to London, then he must have taken the A40.”

  “If that’s where he was going,” said Carmichael glumly. “And he needn’t have taken the A40, even if he was. He might have picked up the M4 at Swindon.”

  “He might, of course,” said Gibbons, “but Constable Stikes says most people use the A40. And,” he continued hastily, before Carmichael could interrupt with yet another gloomy prognostication, “even if he wasn’t actually going to London, he would still have taken the A40, since he’d told people he was going to London and it would have been remarked on if anyone had happened to see him off-course, so to speak.”

  “There is that,” admitted Carmichael, somewhat reluctantly. He was in a foul mood, having arrived back too late to ring his wife before she went to bed. He sighed. “We could have this case cleared up in no time, if we could just get the facts straight. Before we heard of this mysterious girlfriend, I had hopes that whoever Bingham had gone to see would turn up, but there’s not much chance of it now.”

  “No,” agreed Gibbons, “and that does make it look like it was the girlfriend he went to see. I suppose,” he said reflectively, “it’s possible she killed him deliberately, and that’s why he took a sleeping tablet before his dinner.”

  “Possible,” agreed Carmichael, beginning to fold up the map. “We won’t know until we find her. Well, we’ve got to finish up here, make sure none of these people know anything. I think I’ll let you do that tomorrow, Gibbons, and I’ll go have a word with Bingham’s business partner—what’s his name?”

  “Sealingham, sir. Andrew Sealingham.”

  “That’s it. You know, Bingham might equally well have been going to see him—the man lives in the London suburbs.”

  “That’s true, sir.”

  “And in any case, he’s got to be ticked off the list,” grumbled Carmichael, finishing with the map and tossing it aside. “They’ve all got to be ticked off, though what good it will do us, I don’t know. Oh, never mind me, Sergeant—you take yourself off and get some sleep. I’ll be in a better frame of mind tomorrow.”

  “No doubt, sir,” said Gibbons, rising with alacrity and making for the door. “Sleep well, sir.”

  Richard Tothill awoke from a sound sleep at two A.M. In the past, he had often been troubled with insomnia, but this malady had disappeared upon his marriage. In his few previous sexual encounters, he had always found the presence of a soundly sleeping person beside him an irritant rather than a cure for this condition, but from the moment Leandra had begun to share his bed, all sleeplessness had vanished.

  He was fondly contemplating her recumbent form, barely to be made out in the dim light, when the front door knocker sounded from below. That was what had awakened him, then. He slid from the bed and grabbed his dressing gown, thinking mournfully that someone must be dying for him to called out at this time of night. He hoped it wasn’t old Mrs. Cracy; she had looked a good deal better in church last Sunday. Or Mrs. Bosworth was due to have her baby any day now, and it had been a very difficult pregnancy. Oh, God, he thought, don’t let it be the baby. He hurried down the stairs, deciding in a very unclergymanlike manner that better Mrs. Cracy than Mrs. Bosworth and the baby.

  But the young woman on the doorstep was unknown to him. She was very pale, but fashionably turned out, even down to a small navy hat clinging to her fair hair.

  “I’m sorry to knock you up like this,” she began. “But I never dreamed this place was so small—there’s not a single light on, much less anything open. Your wife did say to call if I needed anything. This is the vicarage, isn’t it?”

  Dazed, he nodded.

  “Well, do you have a spare bed or even a spare couch? Oh, I’m sorry, I should have said—I’m Eve Bingham.”

  “Of course,” he said, enlightened. “I’m so sorry I didn’t realize who you were. Come in, please. We have plenty of rooms—this place is far too large for us.” He shepherded her along to the parlor and turned on the lights. “Do you have a bag or anything?”

  “It’s in the car,” she replied, looking about her.

  “I’ll fetch it in a moment,” he said. “Can I get you any thing?”

  “Is there any brandy?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Going to the glass-fronted cabinet, he poured out a goodly measure of cognac and handed it to her. “Please sit down,” he said. “I’ll just fetch in your bag and check on which bed my wife’s made up. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and sank down on the end of the sofa.

  A dark, nondescript car was parked in the drive. In it, he found not one but two good-sized suitcases. In his frail, newly awakened state, they seemed inordinately heavy, but he hauled them up the stairs and into the guest room which Leandra kept perpetually prepared. He checked to make certain the bed was made up, though he knew it would be, and then descended again.

  Eve Bingham had removed her jacket and was smoking, gazing abstractedly at the patterns the smoke made in lamplight. She roused herself at his entrance, however, and turned toward him. For just an instant, he thought her eyes held the pleading look of a lost dog.

&n
bsp; “Every thing’s settled,” he said gently. “Is there anything else you’d like? If you’re hungry—”

  “No,” she said. “No, I’m not hungry. It’s very good of you to bother.”

  “You came very quickly,” he said, knowing somehow that to mention her father would be a mistake. “We didn’t think you could arrive until tomorrow.”

  “I have a friend with a private plane. I got ahold of him and told him he’d have to fly me back to England.” She frowned. “It took him a little while to find the airstrip closest to this place. I drove from there,” she ended.

  “Well, I’m very glad you thought to come here.”

  She shook her head, as if to clear it. “I’m keeping you up,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “If you’ll show me my room, I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

  The vicar hesitated. It never did to push people, but she was such an unknown, he felt he had to offer. “If you’d prefer company,” he said, “I’m really quite awake now.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said, rising, “but I’m afraid I’m the one who’s tired.”

  “Of course,” he said sympathetically. “This way, then.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Bingham’s solicitors confirm that he was very wealthy indeed,” said Gibbons. “They also say he made very little demand on his income. Occasionally, he would ask them to wire him a sum, which they assumed was for the financing of archeological expeditions. Other than that, he lived very frugally, mostly on whatever he had in hand in the Far East. There were some expenses, of course, when he returned to this country.”

  He and Bethancourt were strolling down the High Street toward the vicarage, where Gibbons had been sent to meet the heiress. Bethancourt was pleased to see his friend in such good spirits; it was the cheeriest he’d been in more than a month, which Bethancourt put down to the country air and hoped the change of scene would continue to work its wonders.

  He was in excellent spirits himself; it was a perfect autumn day, and in the morning sunshine the limestone was truly golden. It was the kind of day that inhabitants of London dream of when they dream of the country. On such a day, it seemed perfectly reasonable that Carmichael should have sent Gibbons off on his own to interview a primary witness, and that Marla should unexpectedly agree to Bethancourt’s accompanying his friend, apparently wanting him to make first contact with Eve Bingham.

  “See how she is and who’s with her,” Marla had instructed him. “If you think I can do any good, let her know I’m available.”

  Bethancourt smiled as he recollected this, inhaling the fresh air deeply. Getting out of London for a few days had, he thought, been one of his better ideas.

  He turned to Gibbons and asked, “I expect the daughter gets every thing?”

  “What there is to get,” replied Gibbons. “All the patents are already in her name, as are most of the investments, and the bank accounts are joint ones. Bingham didn’t figure on her paying any more in death duties than she had to. Mostly what she inherits is his stock in the company that manufactures his flushing invention. Bingham was still a full partner, although he hadn’t anything to do with the business in years.”

  “So Eve Bingham has had a free hand with her father’s pile for some time?”

  “Yes, and her spending habits are the exact opposite of her father’s. But the solicitors say that although she spends it as if she were the Princess of Wales, she’s actually a very shrewd businesswoman. The impression we got from them is that she may like to pretend she hasn’t a thought in her head beyond her newest dress, but that she’s got a very able brain to use when it suits her.”

  “Interesting type,” mused Bethancourt.

  “You think all types are interesting.”

  “I suppose I do at that. Human nature is fascinating.”

  Eve Bingham was waiting for them in the vicarage parlor. She was a slender woman of about twenty-five, with straight blond hair cut simply in a bob. She appeared perfectly composed and was again very well turned out in a navy woolen sheath (which to Bethancourt smacked of Chanel) and a single strand of pearls (which Bethancourt estimated had cost her upward of £500). Dark smudges beneath her deep blues eyes denoted a sleepless night, but beyond that there was no sign of grief. Gibbons introduced himself and Bethancourt and conveyed his condolences on her father’s death.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce him?” she asked, pointing to Cerberus, who was sitting patiently at his master’s side.

  “He’s mine,” said Bethancourt. “His name’s Cerberus.”

  She raised an eyebrow at that, but Bethancourt merely smiled blandly at her and she returned her attention to Gibbons.

  “Mrs. Tothill said my father died of a heart attack,” she said. “Clearly the police wouldn’t be interested if that were the case. How did he die, Inspector?”

  “Sergeant, Miss,” corrected Gibbons, but Bethancourt thought to himself that the mistake had been a deliberate one. Any man with a sergeant’s rank has no objections to being taken for an inspector. But Bethancourt also knew that any flattery, no matter how subtle, would get her nowhere with his friend.

  He paid scant attention while Gibbons outlined their reasons for being interested in Bingham’s death and began to question her about her father’s habits and possible liaisons. She answered readily enough, but finally grew impatient.

  “Inspector—I mean, Sergeant—I tell you I haven’t the faintest idea about any of this. My father and I were not close. We used to correspond occasionally, but he certainly did not send me the details of his love life. I saw him last year on his way back to England, and before that I hadn’t seen him in five years. Good Lord, I was in London myself last weekend and it never even occurred to me to look him up.” She paused suddenly. “I’m sorry about that now, of course,” she murmured, half to herself. “But he’d been away for so long.”

  Gibbons, however, pricked up his ears, manifested to Bethancourt by a sharpened look in his blue eyes.

  “How long were you in London, Miss?” he asked.

  “Not long.” She waved a hand. “Roy and I flew in for a party on Saturday. We meant to go back on Sunday, but Roy was feeling under the weather, so we waited and flew over on Monday instead.”

  “Your father was not aware of this visit?”

  “Of course not. I’ve just finished telling you—look here, Sergeant, our lack of communication may seem strange to you, but if your father had been thousands of miles away for most of your life, it would take you more than a few months to get used to the idea that he was now just across the Channel.”

  “I only asked, Miss Bingham, because he obviously meant to visit someone on Sunday. If he knew of your trip, it might have been you. Tell me, did you stay in a hotel or with friends?”

  “A hotel,” she answered shortly. “St. Martin’s Lane.”

  “And you were there on Sunday?”

  “I was. Roy and I met for a late lunch, but apart from that I spent a quiet evening in my room with the telly and a magazine. So if my father had come to see me, he would have had no trouble finding me. Which only proves that he didn’t.”

  “I see,” said Gibbons, unmoved by her tone. “How was it that you didn’t receive our message until yesterday?”

  “Because we stopped in Normandy and spent two nights with friends there.” She lit a cigarette, snapping the lighter closed with finality.

  “Well,” said Gibbons, making a show of looking over his notebook, “I think that’s all for the moment, Miss. The keys to your father’s cottage are at the police station—you’ll have to sign for them. And we’d appreciate it if you could let us know whether you’ll be staying there or elsewhere.”

  “Just a moment,” she said. “You haven’t told me—where is my father? I want to see him.”

  “His body is at the police mortuary in Stow,” replied Gibbons. “That’s in the market lane just off the High Street. They won’t be releasing him just yet, but they will want your instruction
s for when the time comes.”

  “Yes, all right,” she said. “I don’t really know what he wanted. Perhaps in his will …”

  Bethancourt broke in. “My girlfriend, Marla Tate, is staying at Stutely Manor. I believe you know each other. She didn’t want to barge in on you, but if you’d like her to go with you to the mortuary, she’d be very happy to.”

  “You’re Marla’s boyfriend?” Eve asked, looking him over with new eyes.

  “Yes. I can ring her and ask her to come into Chipping Chedding.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I want to go alone. But …” She hesitated. “I’ve got to return the car and rent another one. There was nothing open when I came in last night, so I bribed the weatherman at the airport to let me borrow his. I promised to have it back today. Maybe Marla would come with me to do that? I’ll need a second person to drive from the rental agency to the airfield.”

  Bethancourt beamed. All of that, he estimated, would take several hours and keep Marla happy and out of the way.

  “She’d love to,” he said. “I’ll have her ring you here and arrange it.”

  Outside the vicarage, Bethancourt pounded Gibbons enthusiastically on the back.

  “You were brilliant, old boy, absolutely brilliant. Not a suspicion raised.”

  “She’ll tumble to it soon enough,” said Gibbons, grinning nevertheless. “She’s sharp—it won’t take her long to realize she has no alibi for her father’s murder.”

  “Yes, but now we know it, too. And you even got the name of the hotel from her.”

  “We’ll have to check there—and on whether she has a prescription for Seconal. But that can wait ’til Carmichael gets back tonight. After all, it’s still far more likely he died at his girlfriend’s. And Miss Bingham hasn’t much motive—most of the money was already hers.”

  “Nonsense,” said Bethancourt, eager for any complication that would keep Gibbons distracted from his woes. “She’s a dreadfully neglected and motherless child abandoned by her father. She’s probably wanted to kill him for years, only she didn’t fancy doing it in China or Tibet or wherever. Well, what next?”