Village Affairs

by Cassandra Chan

  “Dear God.”

  “She’s not speaking to me,” continued Bethancourt. “After she’d finished her tirade and hung up on me, I tried to ring her back. She hung up on me again.”

  “Did you try more than once?”

  “Yes. Same result. Then she just stopped answering—probably unplugged the phone.”

  “Well,” said Gibbons, “I don’t know as there’s much to keep you there; we seem to have struck a dead end. You could probably come back and try to make it up to her. By the time you get here, she may have cooled off a bit.”

  “Maybe,” said Bethancourt doubtfully. “When’s the inquest?”

  “On Saturday. We’ll get it adjourned, of course, but I can’t see that we’ll have much more for them when it comes up again.”

  “No,” agreed Bethancourt with a sigh.

  There was a long, dispirited silence.

  “So,” said Bethancourt at last, trying to recover a positive attitude, “are you coming back here today?”

  “After the press conference, Carmichael says,” answered Gibbons. “I’ve got no notion what he plans to do once we arrive,” he added glumly.

  “Well, why don’t you come ’round here for dinner if you’re free?” suggested Bethancourt. “It’s Clarence’s night to cook, and I’m sure he’d be pleased if you joined us.”

  In truth, Bethancourt did not much relish the prospect of facing one of Astley-Cooper’s elaborate creations alone.

  “Thanks,” said Gibbons, a little surprised by the invitation. “If nothing comes up, I’d love to come.”

  “Then turn up ’round six or sevenish—and do ring if anything happens.”

  “You, too,” said Gibbons. “After all, you’re the one who’s Johnny-on-the-spot at the moment.”

  “Righto,” said Bethancourt, and rang off. He lit yet another cigarette, glanced balefully out at the rain, and went to tell Astley-Cooper he would have an additional guest for dinner.

  “I feel guilty saying it,” said the vicar, “but I’ve never been so relieved in my life as when Julie Benson told me her mother had already arranged to be buried in London, next to Eugene Sinclair. After Charlie’s funeral, I was really dreading the idea of having to preside over Joan Bonnar’s interment.”

  He was ensconced on the couch with his wife, enjoying an after-dinner cup of coffee before she went off to the Women’s Institute meeting and he was called to the Parish Council meeting.

  “Well, I don’t think you ought to feel guilty the least bit,” said Leandra. “One’s got to be practical, dearest, and Joan Bonnar’s funeral would have been ten times worse than Charlie’s.” She paused, setting down her cup, and asked, “How are they up at the farmhouse?”

  “Pretty well, really,” Tothill responded. “Julie and James are dreading the funeral and all the media, but they’re bearing up remarkably well otherwise. And Martha’s keeping herself busy fussing over them—oh, and she’s rather upset about that ring of hers. Apparently it wasn’t at her sister’s after all.”

  Leandra frowned. “But I thought Derek Towser had it,” she said. “In fact, I’m sure he mentioned finding it a few days ago.”

  “Really?” said Tothill, surprised. “Well, I expect he forgot to return it in all the excitement. I’ll just ring Martha before I go off and let her know he has it. She’ll be glad to get it back—she was really distressed to think it might have gone for good.” He chuckled. “Remember the Sunday before last, when she dropped it in the collection plate? Made a noise quite unlike a coin, but she never noticed.”

  “That’s right,” said his wife, smiling. “I think it was James who fished it back out when the plate got to him. She was quite surprised when he handed it back. Looked at her finger as if she couldn’t believe it wasn’t still there.”

  “That’s what’s so amusing,” said Tothill. “The fact that she’s always losing it and yet is always surprised to find it gone.”

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed softly and Tothill hurriedly drained his coffee cup.

  “I’d better be off,” he said. “You’d better, too.”

  “Yes,” said Leandra. “I’ll just clear away the coffee things while you call Martha.”

  “Very well.”

  But she sat still after he had left her. She heard his voice in the next room, evidently speaking to James. She did not really want to go to the meeting tonight, a sentiment that was not helped by the weather. The rain seemed to have tapered off, but it was still a dank, dismal sort of evening, not at all a good time for venturing out to be plagued by everyone’s suspicions and questions about the latest celebrity murder.

  She sighed and thought of dear Charlie Bingham. She had missed him last night at the pub; in fact, she had noticed that she seemed to miss him more, rather than less, as time went on. He would have enjoyed Martha dropping her ring in the collection plate, but of course that had been the Sunday that he died, and they had never had the chance to tell him of it.

  In the next room, Tothill was saying good-bye. Rousing herself, Leandra leaned forward to place the coffee mugs and spoons on the tray, and then stopped all at once, turning pale as a thought struck her.

  “That was James,” said the vicar, coming back in. “He said he’d pass the message on to Martha. Why, what is it, my dear? You look upset.”

  “I just—that is, I can’t believe …” She shook her head firmly and began to busy herself with the coffee things. “It’s nothing,” she said, “I’ll tell you later—you’ll be late if you don’t get off at once.”

  “I know, I know,” he replied. He reached out to embrace her gently and she rested her head on his shoulder. “Oh dear,” he said regretfully in another moment, “I really must go.”

  “I’m right behind you,” said his wife, lifting her face up to be kissed. “I’ll just take care of these things and then go.”

  “All right, darling.” He kissed her tenderly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Tonight,” she echoed, squeezing his hand.

  After he had gone, she carried the tray into the kitchen and stood indecisively for a moment. Outside, she heard the car start up and slowly move off; Tothill was a cautious driver. She shook her head as if to clear it, and then moved toward the phone.

  As Bethancourt had anticipated, Astley-Cooper was thrilled to have an extra guest on whom to test his culinary skills. He stood with Gibbons in the ancient kitchen, watching while their host tried to skin a chicken with a large carving knife.

  “What’s he doing?” whispered Gibbons.

  “It’s going to be poularde a la D’albufera,” replied Bethancourt placidly. He glanced at his watch. “If we’re lucky, it should be done by midnight.”

  “But it’s only seven thirty.”

  “Have some cheese and biscuits,” advised Bethancourt. His mood had improved since the afternoon, and he was watching Astley-Cooper with an air of amusement.

  “Now for the breast,” said that gentleman cheerfully. “I just slice it carefully off the ribs.”

  This apparently was easier said than done. Bethancourt and Gibbons watched, fascinated, as he attacked the bird, awkwardly chopping off bits of the breast meat. “It gets cut up later, anyway,” he said.

  “Of course,” murmured Bethancourt.

  “Here,” said Astley-Cooper, waving a strip of breast meat at them. “Can you bring the marinade over? It’s there in that dish.”

  Bethancourt looked at the dish on the sideboard. “It doesn’t have anything in it,” he said.

  “Oh dear,” said Astley-Cooper, not at all deterred. “Could you just empty that can of truffles into it then? And just a splash of port and cognac? Oh, and I think you need to chop up a shallot.”

  Bethancourt pushed up his sleeves while Astley-Cooper returned to the chicken. Gibbons munched cheese and biscuits and admired the massive fireplace.

  “There,” said Astley-Cooper, after several moments of silent struggle with the chicken breast. “Now for the shears.” He set to
work with them, happily sawing at the rib bones.

  “Good lord,” muttered Gibbons. He edged his way over to where Bethancourt was competently chopping shallots. “What’s he doing?” he asked again.

  “According to the recipe,” said Bethancourt instructively, “poularde a la D’albufera is traditionally served as a half-boned chicken. It makes carving at the table easier, you see.”

  “Carving isn’t all that difficult,” said Gibbons, watching Astley-Cooper’s ministrations.

  “The breast meat also picks up additional flavor from the stuffing,” went on Bethancourt serenely. “Actually, I think my mother served something like it once and it was really very nice. At least,” he added, glancing at his host doubtfully, “I think it was.”

  Astley-Cooper appeared to have hit a snag in removing the breastbone from the carcass. He was still working with the shears, but his enthusiasm had abated, and he kept casting quizzical glances at the instructions in his cookbook.

  He was muttering to himself and peering uncertainly at the badly mauled chicken when the sound of the telephone reached their ears.

  “Ah!” he said brightly, abandoning the shears. “I’ll just answer that—could be Mullet about the sheep.”

  He returned in a moment, however, to announce that it was Derek Towser, asking for Bethancourt.

  Behind his glasses, there was a gleam of interest in Bethancourt’s eyes. “Very well,” he said, wiping his hands. “I’ve finished your marinade, Clarence.”

  Derek Towser sounded agitated.

  “Is that you, Phillip?” he asked. “I’ve rung you because I know Leandra spoke to you, but really I think it should be the police.”

  “What’s happened?” asked Bethancourt.

  “I’ve just got home to find the place ransacked, with Leandra’s bicycle out front and no sign of her. She must have walked in on a burglar. I don’t know what to do—I should ring the police, but I promised her I wouldn’t. Can you come?”

  “Yes,” said Bethancourt, thoroughly alarmed. “But I’m afraid the police will have to come into it now. Jack Gibbons is here and he knows it’s you on the phone. We’ll be right over.”

  “Thank God.”

  Bethancourt rang off and hastily made his way back to the kitchen. Knowing Gibbons would not welcome Astley-Cooper’s help, he kept his voice deliberately cheerful as he caught Gibbons’s eye and said, “Jack and I will have to step out for a moment, Clarence. You carry on, and we’ll be right back.”

  “Wha—?” said Astley-Cooper, swiveling round. “Why? What’s happened?”

  Bethancourt waved aside his questions, already retreating. “We’ll tell you all about it over dinner,” he said. “Cerberus, come, lad.”

  Gibbons, who had taken his warning from the look in Bethancourt’s eyes, slipped out after him.

  “What is it?” he asked in a low voice as Bethancourt led the way out of the house.

  “Towser just arrived home, expecting to meet Leandra Tothill there. Her bicycle’s out front, but there’s no sign of her and apparently his cottage has been searched. I’ve no idea what it’s all about, but it sounded bad to me.”

  “So it does,” replied Gibbons, frowning and reaching for his mobile. “I’d better ring Carmichael—he was cadging a lift back from Stow with PC Stikes, but I don’t know whether they’ve left yet or not.”

  “Do you want to take the Jaguar or the Rover?” asked Bethancourt, pausing outside the front door.

  “I’d better drive,” said Gibbons, dialing. “The Rover.”

  He spoke with Carmichael while he settled himself in the driver’s seat and Bethancourt put Cerberus in the back.

  “Carmichael and Stikes are on their way from Stow,” said Gibbons, punching off his phone and starting up the car. He let in the clutch and took off with a spray of gravel. “Bloody hell. I had given up on the Towser angle. My God, Phillip, you don’t think Leandra knew something and he’s killed her for it? This could all be a blind on his part.”

  “No,” answered Bethancourt. “You see, Jack, Leandra had given Towser an alibi for Bingham’s murder.”

  “What?” Gibbons jerked his attention from the road and stared at his friend.

  Succinctly, Bethancourt outlined what Leandra had told him, stressing the fact that she had gone to Towser’s merely to look at pictures. Gibbons frowned.

  “And you weren’t going to tell me this?” he demanded.

  “I was going to,” answered Bethancourt, not entirely truthfully. “It just didn’t seem very pertinent.” They rounded a curve, the Rover swinging into the middle of the road, and Bethancourt grabbed the armrest. On either side, the trees rushed by like the wind. “The point is, if she was telling the truth, Towser’s out of it.”

  Gibbons was silent for a moment. “We thought he was out of it anyway,” he said. “He’s still a very dark horse. And yet—if Leandra lied for some reason to protect him and decided to go back on her story, well, that doesn’t look very good for him, does it?”

  “No. Though, as you say, it’s a rather remote possibility.”

  They fell silent as they swept through the village, barely slackening speed, and then began to climb the hill that led to the cottages.

  Towser looked almost frantic. He threw open the door before they were out of the car and motioned them inside. The studio did not look unduly disturbed, although the drawers of the taboret had been turned out, their contents scattered on the floor by the easel. Cerberus moved to investigate it all, apparently picking up an interesting scent.

  “I’ve no idea what’s going on,” said Towser, wild-eyed. “You’ve got to believe that, Sergeant. This is all mad.”

  “Just start at the beginning,” said Gibbons, soothingly. “You were expecting Mrs. Tothill to come by?”

  “Yes, yes.” Towser ran a hand through his hair. “She rang earlier, about Martha’s ring. She was quite upset, said I mustn’t on any account give it back, and perhaps we could say I had found it. She was coming up to talk it over and decide the best thing to do.”

  “But you weren’t here when she arrived?” asked Gibbons, resisting the urge to ask about the ring. The important thing now was Leandra.

  “No,” replied Towser. “Steve Eberhart rang just before she did. He had an emergency call out to the Whitley farm and couldn’t get his car to go. I said I’d drive him over. I told Leandra that, but that it shouldn’t take long and I’d leave the door open for her. It did take a little longer than I’d thought,” he added. “I was gone for a good forty-five minutes altogether, and I told Leandra I’d be back in half an hour. Steve only had to give this cow a shot as it turned out, and he asked if I’d wait and bring him back. I couldn’t very well refuse.”

  “No, of course not,” said Gibbons, glancing about the room. “Have you looked for Mrs. Tothill? Checked the other rooms?”

  “Yes, yes.” Towser was impatient. “I’ve even checked the garden, but she’s nowhere. And why would she have left without her bicycle, or without leaving me a note? Something’s happened to her.”

  Gibbons privately agreed.

  “Jack,” interrupted Bethancourt. “Come look at this.”

  Bethancourt had gone to see what Cerberus found so interesting on the floor and now he beckoned his friend over urgently.

  “It looks like a smear of blood to me,” he said, pointing and holding his dog back from the spot.

  Gibbons frowned and bent to examine it, careful not to touch the slight stain. “It does,” he agreed, “but we’ll have to wait for forensics to be sure. Anyway, it’s a fresh stain.”

  “Blood?” echoed Towser, alarmed.

  Bethancourt looked up at him. “You mentioned Mrs. Potts’s signet ring,” he said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It was the night Leandra was here,” answered Towser. “The night Charlie died. Leandra took my bicycle to go home and got a puncture just by his place. When she got off to look at the tire, she found Martha’s ring there on the grou
nd. She picked it up and gave it to me the next time we saw each other to give back. You see, there was always the chance Martha would remember where she’d dropped it, and then Leandra would have to explain how she’d happened to be in Charlie’s driveway. Only after she gave it to me, I forgot all about it.”

  Gibbons nodded. “But what made Mrs. Tothill change her mind tonight and tell you to keep the ring?”

  Towser spread his hands helplessly. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “She said something about a collection plate, but that meant nothing to me.”

  Bethancourt, however, started and stared at him, drawing Gibbons’s attention.

  “What is it, Phillip?” he asked.

  “The collection plate,” echoed Bethancourt. “Mrs. Potts dropped her ring into it and didn’t notice. James had to fish it out for her when the plate got to him.”

  “So?” demanded Gibbons.

  “I think—yes, I’m sure—it was the Sunday of Bingham’s death,” said Bethancourt.

  “When Mrs. Potts went straight off to visit her sister,” Gibbons finished the thought. He turned back to Towser. “Mrs. Tothill didn’t say anything about that? About Mrs. Potts?”

  Towser was looking confused. “No,” he answered. “Leandra’s main point was that we should have to hand the ring over to the police and whether or not we could say I had found it instead of her. I wasn’t sure I liked that idea, and we agreed she should come ’round and talk it over. Here it is,” he added, pulling a gold signet ring out of his pocket. “I went to look for it after Leandra rang because I couldn’t remember what I’d done with it. You’d best take it now, I expect.”

  Gibbons accepted the ring automatically, while Bethancourt asked, “So Mrs. Potts doesn’t know you have it?” There was a kind of desperation in his voice.

  “Well, I’m not sure,” said Towser. “Leandra did say something about her coming to get it.”

  The sick feeling in Bethancourt’s stomach got worse.