Village Affairs

by Cassandra Chan

  Gibbons and Carmichael had a less elaborate but timelier meal at the pub.

  “You did well today, lad,” said the chief inspector. “Very well indeed. Tactfully handled.”

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Gibbons, pleased. “I don’t know as it really gets us much further forward, though.”

  “Well, now, I don’t know about that, lad.” Carmichael swallowed the last bite of his steak-and-kidney pie and pushed the plate aside. “It’s true it looks more like accident than murder,” he said thoughtfully. “And I won’t be convinced it’s not until we find Bingham’s girlfriend with a cast-iron alibi.”

  “Just so, sir,” said Gibbons.

  “But,” and Carmichael held up a cautionary finger, “my instincts are beginning to stir, Sergeant. I don’t think this case is going to turn out to be as simple as we thought.”

  Gibbons considered this.

  “It’s true that the more we find out, the more complications there seem to be,” he said.

  Carmichael pulled out a cigar and bent to light it. He smoked meditatively for several minutes while Gibbons finished his meal and drank off the last of his pint.

  “I think we had better do a bit of digging,” Carmichael said at last. “Let’s assume, for the moment, that Bingham was very cleverly murdered, the whole thing set up to look natural, or at least like an accident. We’ve no idea about the girlfriend, but Andrew Sealingham is nobody’s fool, and according to her solicitors, neither is Eve Bingham.”

  He raised a brow in question.

  “No, sir,” agreed Gibbons. “She has brains, even if she sometimes seems not to use them.”

  Carmichael nodded, and paused a moment, thinking it through.

  “Constable Stikes has finished compiling her list of possible tourists Bingham might be dating,” he said.

  “That was quick work, sir.”

  “Indeed. Very industrious, our constable. She’s put the women who live in and around London at the top of the list. I’m thinking we can leave it to our colleagues at the Yard to check up on them while we tie up all the rest of the loose ends and see how our suspects look after that.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. “Will you want me to check up on St. Martin’s Lane then?”

  “I think so,” answered Carmichael. He blew out a stream of smoke, aiming it toward the raftered ceiling. “But it might be a good idea to keep an eye on Miss Bingham in the meantime. She may have been estranged from her father, the money gives her a solid motive, and she certainly had the opportunity. I think, Sergeant, you might pay another visit to Miss Bingham tonight. Bethancourt’s idea makes a good excuse; you can ask her who her beneficiary is and whether or not she’s planning to marry. And meanwhile you can see if the penny’s dropped about her lack of alibi, as well as putting her on notice that the police have their eye on her.”

  Gibbons was surprised.

  “Certainly, sir. Won’t you be coming along?”

  Carmichael lit his cigar. “No, no, I think this has all worked out for the best. We can save the big, bad chief inspector for later if she turns into our prime suspect. Then I can go along and try to be intimidating.”

  “That makes sense,” agreed Gibbons. “After all, we may find tomorrow that she’s got a cast-iron alibi at that hotel in London.”

  “We may, we may. Have a coffee before you go, Gibbons. It’s early yet.”

  So Gibbons had his coffee and then drove into Cheltenham alone. Queen’s Hotel sat at the edge of the Imperial Gardens, a large, gracious building of Victorian vintage which Gibbons found without difficulty. He announced himself at the front desk and then ascended to Eve Bingham’s suite, one on an upper floor with a view looking over the gardens. The curtains were open when Gibbons came in, but there was not much to see in the dark.

  Eve’s brisk, businesslike attitude of the morning had changed; she looked utterly weary, but invited him in politely enough.

  “I’m having a nightcap,” she told him. “Won’t you join me?”

  “Thank you,” said Gibbons, divesting himself of his raincoat.

  He followed her over to the windows where there was an arrangement of two easy chairs and a table. This room was the sitting room; the doorways to the bathroom and bedroom stood ajar on the farther wall.

  Eve motioned to one of the chairs while she poured generously from a bottle of twenty-four-year-old single malt scotch. Gibbons sat and took up the glass she pushed toward him, waiting until she had seated herself before raising it and saying, “Cheers.” He sipped judiciously and added, “That’s very good.”

  Eve shrugged and set her own glass down, empty. She was wrapped in a heavy silk dressing gown and she smoothed the fabric over her knees, tracing the embroidered pattern over and over again with her fingers.

  “I expect the fact that you’re having a drink with me means you haven’t come to arrest me?” she said, her attention still fastened on her knees.

  Clearly, Gibbons thought, the penny had indeed dropped about her lack of alibi.

  “No,” he answered, “I haven’t. I’ve only come to ask you one or two more questions.”

  “You keep long hours, Inspector.” She poured another measure into her glass and this time sipped it. “Do you like good whisky, then?”

  “I’m a sergeant, Miss. Yes, I do.”

  She glanced sideways at him, half-smiling. “But I suppose you can’t afford it often?”

  Gibbons’s ears perked up; this sounded remarkably like the beginning of a bribe. “No,” he said ruefully. “Only now and then, as a treat.”

  “And what would be your favorite?”

  “I like the Islay malts. Lagavulin or Laphroaig,” he answered, loyal to the whiskies to which Bethancourt had introduced him and which they often drank together. He waited for her to imply—subtly, of course—that in the near future he might be able to afford all the Lagavulin he liked.

  She leaned back and lit a cigarette. “Laphroaig,” she murmured. “Yes, that’s very good. Rich and smoky, as I remember it.”

  “Yes, it has a distinctive taste.”

  He was still waiting, but she disappointed him.

  “I’ll have to try it again sometime,” she said. Then, in a bitter tone as she glanced at the half-empty bottle on the table, “Maybe tomorrow. Bottles don’t seem to be lasting very long these days.”

  Gibbons relaxed, realizing he had misread her. She was not about to bribe him, she was only making conversation, any sort of conversation, to avoid the topic he had come about. He had seen people do it many times before, had seen the understandable reluctance to have a tender spot touched, but he had not expected it of her. She had seemed so unmoved about her father’s death that morning. Bethancourt, had he been there, would have told him that in the morning she had been prepared for their visit, whereas now she was not. Gibbons merely wondered if she had a different motive for avoiding the topic.

  He drank a little more of the whisky and said, “Well, I don’t want to keep you up, Miss. If you—”

  “Keep me up?” she echoed. “I doubt I shall be sleeping any time soon, Sergeant.”

  “You might,” he said gently, although in the back of his mind he was desperately curious as to whether it was guilt or grief that was keeping her up. “You try a hot bath after I’ve gone. That and a drink usually work.”

  “Perhaps,” she answered listlessly. “You know, I’ve just been thinking how funny life is. We must be about the same age, and yet we couldn’t be more different. You have a real job, a career, and I’ve never done anything at all.”

  “You didn’t have to,” replied Gibbons. “I might not have got a job, either, if I didn’t need one.”

  “But you have an interest, you see. I mean, you must. You’re not stupid—you could have done anything, but you chose the police. You must find the work interesting, or you wouldn’t have chosen it. Whereas if I lost all my money tomorrow, I haven’t a notion of what I might like to do.”

  Her mood was a curious one,
and Gibbons was not certain how to respond to it. Her life was one of luxury and comfort and glamour; he did not think she could seriously be regretting it.

  “It would be different,” he said, “if you had grown up knowing you would have to earn your living, and support a family one day. You would have spent your time in school looking at careers, thinking about what would suit you best. It doesn’t come on you all at once.”

  “I suppose not.” She frowned a little.

  “Now, then,” said Gibbons in his best police manner. “I’ve only got a couple of questions here, Miss Bingham. The first is: how have you left your money?”

  “Left it?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Yes, in your will.”

  “Oh,” she said, immediately losing interest. “Much as my father did, if I should predecease him.”

  “Could you tell me exactly how that is?”

  She stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Well, let’s see,” she said. “The patents and most of the capital goes to Christopher.”

  “That would be Christopher Macklin?”

  “Yes, my cousin—my father’s sister’s son.”

  “I see. Is he your only relative, by the way?”

  “Yes,” she said briefly. “My mother was an only child.”

  “And do you keep in touch with Mr. Macklin?”

  She laughed and took another sip of her drink. “Not in years. I don’t even have his address. In Lincoln somewhere, I think. The solicitors know.”

  “Very well. If you could go on with the other terms of the will, please.”

  “Hmmm.” She refilled her glass. “The stocks and company profits go back to Uncle Andrew, of course.”

  “That would be your father’s business partner?”

  “Yes—and I haven’t seen him in years, either. The rest goes to various charities and there are a few small bequests. I don’t think I can rattle those off the top of my head, although I remember there are a couple to archeologists my father knew, and I’ve put in one for my maid.”

  “A large one?”

  She shrugged. “Enough to make her comfortable. Five hundred thousand pounds or so.”

  “Do any of these people know about their bequests?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. The archeologists aren’t really likely to get anything unless I die very young—they’re all much older than I. But they’ll receive the bequests my father left them once his will goes through probate. I left them in my will because, well, I thought they might as well have it if I go early. My maid certainly doesn’t know, although I’m sure she hopes. Even Christopher isn’t sure what if anything he’ll come in for. Uncle Andrew is the only one who knows what he’ll get. He was very worried I might leave my shares to someone zany.” A smile touched her lips.

  “Thank you,” said Gibbons. “That’s very clear.”

  She looked at him curiously. “I can’t see what it matters,” she said. “Not unless you think someone’s planned a double murder. Shall I hire a bodyguard, Sergeant?”

  “I hardly think that will be necessary,” said Gibbons with a smile. “But you’ll understand that we have to investigate every possibility, no matter how remote.”

  “How dull for you,” she remarked sympathetically.

  “Sometimes,” he replied. “The next few questions are rather personal, and I want to assure you your answers will be kept in confidence. Do you take any prescription medications?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Like sleeping pills?” she said. “No, I don’t. If I had such a thing, I would hardly be resorting to this.” And she waved a hand at the whisky bottle.

  Gibbons smiled and nodded, though he had no intention of taking her word for it. “I’d also like to know,” he continued, “if you are even remotely considering marriage to anyone?”

  She laughed, truly amused. “Not unless you’re going to ask me, Sergeant,” she said.

  Her humor fell flat, although Gibbons tried to hide it. He had, in fact, asked a murder suspect to marry him, and not so very long ago. It had not turned out well. He summoned up a rather anemic smile and said, “I think that would be most inappropriate under the circumstances.”

  “Yes, I thought you would. What’s this other personal question?”

  “It’s one I really can’t expect you to answer,” he said earnestly, “but I can urge you to seriously consider it before you hide something. Is there anything at all in your past that anyone could possibly blackmail you about? Even something you think no one else knows? I can assure you,” he added, “that even if this information led to the discovery of your father’s killer, we would do our best to see it did not come out in open court.”

  “There’s nothing,” she said immediately, seriously. “Really and truly nothing, Sergeant. I admit I’ve done things in my life I’m ashamed of, but unfortunately those things are only too well known to a number of people. And there’s nothing else. Nothing illegal, I assure you.”

  Gibbons had not thought there would be. Her life was only too well-covered by the tabloids. It would be a miracle if she had managed to keep anything really juicy from them.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate your seeing me at such a difficult time.”

  “You haven’t finished your drink,” she said. “There’s really no reason to rush away, Sergeant. I won’t be going to bed for hours.”

  “Thank you,” he said again. “I’ll be going home directly, so I will finish it if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ve said I don’t. I rather wanted to be alone before you came, but now I’m not sure but what company is better for me.”

  Gibbons forbore to say that the company of a police sergeant was not the best he could think of under the circumstances.

  “I’m sure,” he said, “if you feel the need of company, Marla or Phillip—”

  “No,” she said quickly and firmly. “I don’t want sympathy. I want distraction. My father and I were not close, but, well, he was the only family I had. If ever I had needed family, I could have gone to him. Now I can’t. It’s like losing a crutch you didn’t know you were leaning on.” She frowned and tossed back half her whisky.

  She must, thought Gibbons, be fairly drunk by now, but it did not show. Her speech was clear and she lit another cigarette with perfect dexterity.

  “Tell me, Sergeant,” she said, “if you thought you knew who had killed my father, you wouldn’t possibly mention it to me, would you?”

  “Probably not,” he answered honestly. “But as we don’t yet have any firm suspicions, it’s pointless to speculate. It’s still very early in the investigation, and the possibility that he died by accident is still very much alive.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I expect you want it all resolved rather badly.”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” she said, watching the cigarette smoke as it curled away toward the window. “You see,” she continued, her tone uncertain now, “he’s gone. In a way it doesn’t matter how or why he went. We weren’t close, we had no chance to be, but there’s a hole where he used to be. When I saw him last year in Paris, I—” She broke off and shook her head. “I expect,” she added, “that later I shall feel quite angry with whoever took him from me. But I haven’t got as far as anger yet.”

  She seemed more vulnerable than Gibbons would ever have thought her to be, but he was suspicious, too. Arousing sympathy in Scotland Yard was not the worst ploy a suspect could make, and he had fallen for it once. Never again, he promised himself.

  He swallowed the last of the whisky in his glass and sat forward.

  “That was a treat,” he said. “Thank you. Might I use the toilet before I go?”

  “Of course. Through there.”

  She waved a hand and Gibbons rose, making his way to the door indicated and closing it firmly behind him.

  It was a large bathroom, with elaborate fixtures and large mirrors. Eve had not left much of a mark on it. Strewn over the counter were some cosmetics, as well as a toothbrush and to
othpaste, while in the bath itself were arrayed bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and soap, all of French manufacture. Gibbons quickly inspected the depleted makeup bag on the counter, and then looked into the cabinet, but in neither place did he find medications of any kind, prescription or otherwise. The bedside table might be a more likely place to find a bottle of sleeping tablets, but he could not possibly look in there. So he contented himself with flushing the toilet and washing his hands, and emerging with a smile.

  Eve still sat by the window; the glass beside her was empty again.

  “Thanks,” said Gibbons. “I’ll wish you good night and be on my way.”

  She looked up and then rose. “You’re welcome, Sergeant,” she said, leading the way toward the door. “No doubt I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

  “I’m afraid that will be unavoidable, Miss,” said Gibbons, trying to interject a note of sympathy into the words. “I hope we won’t have to bother you too much. Again, I’d like to offer my sympathies and thank you for bearing with us at such a difficult time.”

  “Yes, very good of you.” She turned to collect his raincoat.

  “Good night, then, Miss.”

  “Good night,” she replied and, turning back to him, she leaned forward and reached up to kiss him.

  Gibbons, taken completely by surprise, froze for a moment before recoiling in horror, catching her wrists more roughly than he meant to and pushing her away.

  “Sorry,” he said instantly. “Sorry—I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  She was eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “No,” she answered, rubbing her wrists. She continued to gaze at him for another moment, and he half-thought she would apologize. But she apparently felt no need to explain herself, for in the next moment she simply held out his raincoat with a small smile.

  “Thank you,” he said, seizing the coat and clutching it to him rather in the manner of a Victorian lady surprised en dishabille. “Good night again.”

  “Until next time,” she said.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” he said, reaching for the door. “Er, certainly.” And he was gone.

  He strode rapidly down the hallway and found he was trembling. In the lift, he stood for a moment before pressing the lobby button, breathing deeply. He knew, of course, exactly why he was so distressed. Only last spring he had sat in another room with another attractive murder suspect who had also offered to kiss him. But he had already been deeply in love with Annette Berowne, something he now bitterly regretted. Eve Bingham’s casual action had awoken nightmares in him.