Village Affairs

by Cassandra Chan

  “And?”

  “Her girlfriend is literally just that,” said Gibbons with a chuckle. “They’ve been living together for five years and have just adopted a baby—that’s what the trip to the Cotswolds was, one last fling before they were tied down by parenthood.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Bethancourt. “I wonder how Constable Stikes missed that.”

  “She probably never spoke to either woman herself.”

  “Probably,” agreed Bethancourt. “Ah, here we go—the trunk road at last. The traffic will start thinning out now.”

  They drove on in silence for a bit, each lost in his own thoughts, until at last Gibbons said, “I wanted to ask you, Phillip—do you think my manner when I’m interviewing a witness is too friendly?”

  Bethancourt’s brows shot up over the rims of his glasses.

  “Friendly?” he repeated.

  “Yes, you know, when I’m trying to put someone at ease. Do you think I overdo it? I’ve watched Carmichael, and he always tries to make a connection with the witness and it works very well when it can be managed. I try to do the same, but I’ve been thinking that perhaps I go too far sometimes. What do you think?”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Bethancourt, mildly exasperated. “Look here, Jack, I know you work hard at your career, but this kind of nitpicking is more likely to harm than help.”

  “It’s not that,” said Gibbons. “I was just thinking of Eve Bingham, and wondering what in my manner had led her to try it on like that. And even with Annette, at the beginning,” he added in a lower voice.

  “Oh.” Bethancourt’s exasperation vanished, replaced by a desire to strangle Eve Bingham. “They’re two different things, Jack,” he said more gently. “Annette came to care for you as she got to know you. Eve would have tried it on with anyone who was reasonably attractive that night. It had nothing to do with your manner.”

  “Annette didn’t care much,” said Gibbons bitterly.

  “She did,” said Bethancourt. “Just not enough.”

  He cursed silently, his thoughts returning to the hot August day when he had returned home from a polo match to find Gibbons sitting on his doorstep. He had been pleased at first, since he had seen much less of Gibbons that summer than was usual; between his job and his relationship with Annette Berowne, Gibbons had had little spare time. He had spent the spring and summer walking on air, having at last, he believed, found the woman he would marry. He had been head over heels in love.

  Bethancourt had never taken such an optimistic view of the romance, feeling from the very start that Annette was not the right woman for his friend. He had tried to convince himself that this belief was merely a reaction to the fact that he did not find Annette attractive, but in his heart he had always had his doubts.

  And on that hot August day, sweaty and smelling of horses, he had met Gibbons’s eyes and known he had been right. It had been no consolation at all.

  In the months since then, he had watched Gibbons struggle to mend the wound that had been torn in his sense of self-worth. It would have been easier if Annette had deliberately used and deceived him for her own ends, her true character only unmasked in the act of desertion, but in fact she had not meant to be cruel. Gibbons knew he had been deceived in nothing about her with the single exception of the depth of her feeling for himself. What it came down to, in the end, was the fact that she had not wanted him.

  “Different people mean different things by love,” said Bethancourt now, “and some are capable of a more profound feeling than others. Annette isn’t, and ultimately you could never have been happy with her, because somewhere down the line, you would have felt the lack. But you’re luckier than she is, because when you do find someone who means what you do by love, your relationship will be a greater one than Annette can ever have.”

  It was true, but he knew it did not help very much.

  Christopher Macklin was at least ten years older than his cousin Eve, a thin, stoop-shouldered man with gray already speckling his fair hair.

  They found him at Lincoln Park Grammar School, where he taught mathematics. He was surprised by their visit, but ushered them into his office with good grace. This was a small, windowless affair off his classroom, barely large enough to hold a desk, filing cabinet, and two chairs obviously borrowed from the classroom itself. Shelves ran along two of the walls and were crammed with books on higher mathematics, making the little room even more claustrophobic. Bethancourt leaned up against the filing cabinet while Gibbons took the chair usually reserved for students.

  “I haven’t heard a word from my uncle in years,” said Macklin. “I didn’t even know he was back in England until the solicitors rang to say he was dead. He’d left me a small legacy, you see. I thought it was rather kind of him, especially since we haven’t had anything to do with each other in years.”

  It was certainly possible, thought Bethancourt, that this unassuming math teacher had plotted to murder his uncle and cousin for the fortune that would come to him. But it seemed wholly unlikely on the face of it. Macklin appeared genuinely grateful for the small remembrance Charles Bingham had left him.

  “Did he keep in contact with your mother while she was alive?” asked Gibbons.

  “Only very occasionally since Eve left school.”

  “What about Eve herself ?”

  Macklin shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since she was a girl. She and Mother didn’t get on very well. They were rather opposite characters—but I don’t expect you want to hear about that.”

  “Yes, we do,” put in Bethancourt.

  Gibbons smiled. “We’re interested in anything at all pertaining to your uncle and cousin. How were Eve and your mother different?”

  Macklin was a little taken aback, but obligingly ransacked his memories. “Well,” he said, “Eve as a girl was rather impulsive, even reckless at times. Uncle Charlie had a bit of the devil in him, too, but my mother missed that gene. She had a sense of humor, but she was strict and didn’t approve of cheeky children. She tried to stand in for Eve’s mother when she could, but it never worked out well. And then, of course, there was the money. My mother simply didn’t know how to handle a child who could buy whatever she liked. My mother and uncle fought constantly about the amount of money he let Eve have. On Eve’s side, I think she always blamed my mother for separating her from her father. Which was quite true.”

  “How so?” asked Gibbons.

  “Well,” said Macklin, “you have to understand that after her mother’s death, Evie and Uncle Charlie were inseparable. He took her everywhere with him—if he went to the office, so did she, and if he went out to dinner, Eve was brought along. She had a nanny, of course, but Uncle Charlie was always giving her the evening off, or the afternoon, or even the whole day. It was Uncle Charlie who took care of her, and things went on that way for years.”

  “Until,” said Gibbons, “Eve was old enough to go to school.”

  Macklin smiled at him, as if at a particularly bright pupil. “Exactly,” he said, and then the smile faded. “I was about sixteen,” he continued, “and although I was mostly interested in girls and getting a place at University, I do remember it was a difficult time. At first, Eve wasn’t sent to school at all. My uncle hired various tutors, but none of them were very satisfactory, and of course Eve had very few playmates. At last, my mother absolutely insisted that Uncle Charlie settle down in one place—he had been travelling a good deal and so, of course, was Eve—and put her in a school. Uncle Charlie agreed and that was tried, but he was always taking her out for one thing or another. He had begun to get interested in archeology by then, and at the end of her first year, he took her out of school a month early to go to China with him.”

  “I suppose,” said Gibbons, “it could be argued that that was another kind of education.”

  “I believe Uncle Charlie said something like that at the time,” agreed Macklin. “My mother, needless to say, didn’t see it in that light. I think it was about that time that sh
e began to talk of boarding school. Uncle Charlie was going out to a different dig in Egypt that winter, and he planned to take Eve and hire another tutor. He and my mother had a tremendous row over that. Evie must have been about nine by then—at any rate, I think I was in my first year at Cambridge. Mother insisted that Uncle Charlie wasn’t considering Eve at all and that it was high time he did so. Her point was that Eve might be enjoying herself, but she wasn’t making friends her own age or learning to live in the world. She was quite right, I suppose.”

  “She convinced your uncle?”

  “She was wearing him down. I believe he was coming to wonder if he was, in fact, being selfish where Eve was concerned. He’d had the same conservative upbringing as my mother, after all. In any case, something happened that summer—I forget now what it was, some quite small incident with another child—but it rather proved my mother’s point. And the end of the whole thing was that Eve went into boarding school that fall and Uncle Charlie went to Africa without her.”

  Gibbons was silent a moment.

  “I think it’s a rather sad story,” said Bethancourt.

  “Yes.” Macklin nodded. “I’ve always thought so myself. My mother meant well, she was truly trying to do her best for Evie, but I think now she was wrong. Eve was terribly traumatized by being separated from her father. And Uncle Charlie was never quite the same.”

  “But he would have had her with him during the holidays, wouldn’t he?” asked Gibbons.

  “At the beginning, yes,” replied Macklin. “But they were living in different worlds, and it drove them apart. As you know, my uncle was a very wealthy man, but he didn’t live like one. The money really meant nothing to him, beyond letting him do as he liked. He was off living in a tent in Egypt and Eve was at school where they made a lot of her because she was rich. And, of course, she was growing up. She adored her father, but there came a time when she didn’t want to spend her vacations in the middle of nowhere; she wanted to have party dresses and meet boys with her friends. I don’t really know what happened during that period, because by then I had finished school and moved away. I remember my mother mentioning one year that Eve was going to Italy with a friend’s family for the summer holidays. Eve must have been well into her teens by then, but I don’t remember precisely when it was.”

  “I see,” said Gibbons meditatively. “Well, this has been a great help, Mr. Macklin. Thank you for speaking so freely.”

  “I didn’t mind,” answered Macklin. “Though it’s beyond me how this sort of ancient history is a help to you.”

  “It’s a matter of understanding people’s characters,” explained Gibbons. “People’s relationships are often very illuminating.”

  “I suppose so.” Macklin hesitated. “Sergeant,” he said, “can you tell me if there is any truth to what I’ve been hearing? That you suspect my cousin of murdering her father?”

  “She’s only one suspect in a very wide field at this point,” said Gibbons. “We’re still getting it all sorted out at present. Speaking of which, could you tell me what you were doing on the Sunday evening your uncle died?”

  Macklin was astonished. “Me?” he said. “But why in the world should I want to kill Uncle Charlie? I haven’t heard from him in years. I didn’t even know he was in England.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Macklin,” said Gibbons. “It’s just a routine question. You were related to the victim, after all, and there is the matter of the money.”

  “Money? You mean the bequest he left me?”

  “That, and the fact that if anything had happened to Eve Bingham before her father’s death, you would now be an exceedingly wealthy man.”

  “I would?” Macklin looked amazed. “Do you mean Uncle Charlie left it all to me if Eve died before him?” He shook his head. “That was awfully decent of him. I never knew …”

  “So,” prompted Gibbons, “you can see that I have to ask—”

  “What? Oh, yes, quite. I don’t really mind telling you; I was just surprised at your asking. My wife and I had some friends in to dinner on Sunday. They came at about seven and left at about eleven, or perhaps just a bit later. I expect you want their names?”

  “It would be helpful.”

  Macklin produced a notebook and wrote down the names and addresses of his friends. He tore the page out and handed it to Gibbons.

  “John Beltock,” he said, indicating the first name, “is the biology teacher here. I think he has a class at the moment, but you can probably catch him afterward.”

  “Thank you,” said Gibbons, rising. “You’ve been very helpful indeed, Mr. Macklin. I hope we won’t have to trouble you again.”

  “I just hope Eve didn’t do it,” said Macklin.

  “There’s every possibility she will be cleared completely,” Gibbons assured him. “Thank you again for your time.”

  “If he had anything to do with it, then I’m a blind fool,” said Gibbons as they returned to the car.

  “He seemed the very picture of innocence to me,” agreed Bethancourt. “And his alibi holds up.”

  “At least as far as we’ve checked it,” said Gibbons cautiously. “But I didn’t see the point of tracking down all the rest of those people.” He sighed. “Not that I ever thought it terribly likely a respectable, middle-aged math teacher had suddenly taken it into his head to kill his uncle, whom he hadn’t seen in years. From all the accounts we have of Bingham, he would have given Macklin money if he’d needed it.”

  “True,” agreed Bethancourt absently. “Where the devil is the A57? Get out the map, will you, Jack?”

  “We’re on the A57,” replied Gibbons.

  “We are? Well, how did that happen?”

  “The school was just off it.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s good, at any rate. And we must be heading west, as I turned right back there. All’s well then.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “A long day’s work,” grumbled Carmichael. “And nothing to show for it.”

  “No, sir,” said Gibbons, stifling a yawn. It was late when he and Bethancourt had finally returned to the Cotswolds, and all he had wanted was his bed, but he had found the chief inspector waiting up for him in the darkened bar of the pub, a bottle of scotch thoughtfully purchased before time had been called. Gibbons could hardly refuse his superior’s offer of a drink. “How did you make out?” he asked, though he thought he knew the answer; Carmichael looked distinctly disgruntled and a significant portion of the scotch bottle had been consumed before he arrived.

  Carmichael grunted for reply and shifted in his chair. “Inquest was adjourned,” he said shortly. “By the time it was over, it was raining, so I drove to Somerset and back in a downpour.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Potts’s sister?”

  “I saw more of her than I would have liked,” answered Carmichael. “She’s an aggravating woman—very voluble without ever saying anything. It took me forty-five minutes to discover that when Mrs. Potts visits her, she’s ‘regular as clockwork,’ inevitably arriving after lunch and before tea. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get her to be more specific, or to address herself to the particular Sunday in question.”

  Gibbons, having seen the skill with which the chief inspector was accustomed to winkle out information from the most unlikely witnesses, was surprised and sympathetic all at once.

  “It must have been very frustrating for you, sir,” he said.

  Carmichael heaved a sigh. “Frustrating doesn’t begin to express it,” he said. “At least,” he added, brightening, “I did manage to get her chemist to admit he has no customers with a regular prescription for Seconal.”

  Gibbons was surprised again. “That was good work, sir,” he said. “How did you manage it?”

  “It was easy enough to find out which chemist she used,” Carmichael answered with a shrug. “As I say, the problem was not to get her talking, but to stem the flow. I only had to mention that I needed to call at a reliable chemist’s to get the whole history of her medicati
ons. The chemist himself was a bit trickier, but since he does not, in fact, regularly fill a prescription for Seconal, he was willing to own up to that in the end.”

  “Well done, sir,” said Gibbons, and then had to stifle another yawn; he had been sleepy to begin with and the scotch seemed to be making it worse. “So do you think we can rule Mrs. Potts out?”

  “Tentatively, at least,” said Carmichael. “There’s no doubt in my mind her sister would lie for her, but I can’t think where she would have laid hands on the Seconal.”

  “But so far we haven’t found any Seconal anywhere,” said Gibbons.

  “True enough,” agreed Carmichael, scowling. “And until we do, we’re no closer to tying this up.” He drained his glass and then sighed. “I’ve just had a bad day, that’s all. At my age, long drives in the rain are no treat, especially when there’s nothing at the end of them. And then there were the reporters on top of that.”

  “Reporters?” asked Gibbons.

  “Yes, the media has finally twigged to the fact that Charles Bingham, inventor, was the father of Eve Bingham, socialite. They’re camped out at her hotel this minute, and they pestered me here until our landlord kicked them out.”

  “Maybe they’ll find out who Bingham’s mistress was,” suggested Gibbons. “It’s their line of country.”

  Carmichael laughed. “It is that, isn’t it? Well, so long as somebody finds her, I won’t complain. Because, even if we believe there was a murder committed here, we’ll never get it to court until we’ve brought this mystery woman out into the light of day.”

  Astley-Cooper was also waiting up for his houseguest.

  “It’s awfully good of you to have me back, Clarence,” said Bethancourt, stripping off his jacket in the entry. “I could have gone to a hotel, you know.”

  Astley-Cooper looked up from petting Cerberus and snorted. “Hotels are nonsense,” he said. “Besides, how am I to find out anything if you’re not here? Come into the sitting room—I was just having a brandy.”