Authors: Cassandra Chan

The Young Widow (10 page)

BOOK: The Young Widow

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Bethancourt pulled the clock from the nightstand and held it six inches in front of his newly opened, still blinking eyes. It appeared to be eight o'clock.

“It is like me,” he agreed, and closed his eyes.

“Well, I did wait till I got to Town to ring you,” she continued.

“Town?” repeated Bethancourt, his eyes flying open once again. “You're in Town?”

“That's what I'm trying to explain,” she said patiently. “I've had the most frightful morning, what with Clara breaking an ankle and the dogs getting into Mrs. Garvin's gardenâI nearly missed my train. However, it's all right now, since I've found you in.”

“It is?” asked Bethancourt doubtfully.

“Yes, indeed,” she replied decisively. “I want you to look after Denis for an hour or two.”

Bethancourt called to mind the fact that he was due to pick Gibbons up in two hours to aid in a murder investigation. It did not seem a very appropriate activity for a boy of five. “I really don't thinkâ” he began.

“You really must help me out today, Phillip,” she said firmly. “I'm at my wit's end. We'll just get a taxi and be round in twenty minutes. You're a darling, Phillip.”

“Margaretâ” said Bethancourt, but she had rung off. “Oh, Lord,” he groaned, and propped himself up on the pillows.

He knew from past experience that he was probably doomed to baby-sit his nephew. Margaret, four years his senior, was like a steamroller once she got started, and no excuse he put forward would be tolerated. Even as children, they had not got on well, and their differing personalities as adults had done nothing to bring them closer. Margaret led a very busy, well-arranged life, doing a great deal of work for various charities whilst running an immaculate household. Bethancourt was essentially lazy and had never won an argument with her. His only chance, he realized, of avoiding the plans she had made for him was to leave the flat before she arrived. And if he did that, he would be hearing from his mother in no time at all, and the incident would be repeated down through the years as evidence of his irresponsibility.

While he was cleaning his teeth, it occurred to him that the presence of his nephew might not actually spell disaster. There was no real reason he shouldn't take the boy along and let him play in the kitchen while he was talking to Kitty. Denis might even provide an easy excuse to visit Marion Berowne again. Her son, he recollected, was near Denis's age.

When Margaret Sinclair-Firthing arrived at her brother's flat, she found him drinking coffee. He had showered and shaved, but was still clothed in an elegant silk dressing gown embroidered with cattails. Margaret recognized it as one she had given him for Christmas two years ago.

“I'm glad you still like that,” she said, kissing his cheek.

“I certainly do,” responded Bethancourt. He was not lying; he might feel that his sister had many flaws, but there was no denying she had excellent taste.

There was a strong family resemblance between them. Like her brother, Margaret was tall and slender with a delicately shaped nose, a firm jaw, and thick, straight hair just a shade lighter than Bethancourt's. Her eyes were blue rather than hazel and there was
no humor in them whatsoever. She was beautifully turned out in a periwinkle silk suit.

Her son was a skinny, tow-headed child with his mother's blue eyes.

“Hello, Uncle Phillip,” he said, as a politely brought-up child should, and then abandoned his relative in favor of the said relative's dog. “Cerberus!”

“Denis,” said his mother, “you're going to get all over dog hair.”

“He's going to anyway, if he's spending the day with me,” pointed out Bethancourt.

“I expect so.” Margaret sighed and cast a disapproving glance at the dog. “Better you than me,” she added, brightening.

“So you pointed out when you gave him to me,” said Bethancourt dryly.

“Good heavens,” said Margaret, coming into the living room. “You've got another coffee table.”

“Rather a nice one, don't you think?” said Bethancourt.

“It's very nice, but you have four others,” she answered. “Most people have one at maximum.”

“Really? How odd.”

“Don't be sarcastic, Phillip.” She looked about the room. “There is absolutely no cohesion in this room,” she said severely. “You really should have had a decorator in.”

“I like it the way it is.”

“You might like it just as well if it looked nice.”

Bethancourt gave up. “What charity is it today, Margaret?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Orphans,” she answered succinctly. “And then I'm lunching with Sir Rodney and Mrs. Chilton. I should be done by one-thirty or two.”

“Rosemary Chilton? Is she Sir Rodney's latest?” asked Bethancourt, who much enjoyed twitting his sister about her aristocratic
friends. There was nothing Margaret loved so much as a title, even those belonging to people who were less than admirable. “Good gracious, at the rate he's going, he'll have run through the entire charity committee by midsummer.”

Margaret frowned at him. “I don't know and I don't want to know,” she answered firmly. “What Sir Rodney does in his private life is no concern of mineâor yours.”

“If Rodney didn't want people to gossip about his private life, he should leave other men's wives alone,” retorted Bethancourt. “He's a toad, Margaret, and you think so yourself.”

“Sir Rodney is the guiding force behind a very worthwhile cause,” said Margaret primly.

“Ah,” said Bethancourt, suddenly enlightened. “I see. That diatribe you spouted off about him last month was only a reaction to his chatting you up.”

“It was no such thing,” snapped Margaret, her outrage merely confirming her brother's hypothesis. “I was merely distressed about Claire Lyndhurst, who, after all, should have known better.”

“Well, at least Frasier Lyndhurst never found out about it,” said Bethancourt. “It could have been worse.”

Margaret's only reply was frosty silence and Bethancourt relented.

“So what time did you say you'd be done?” he asked.

“One-thirty or two.”

“I have to drive Jack Gibbons down to Surrey,” said Bethancourt firmly. “I can take Denis with me, but I don't know when I shall be back.”

A gleam appeared in Margaret's eyes. “But that works out wonderfully,” she said quickly. “I was going to do some shopping after lunch. I'll ring you when I'm done to see if you're backâaround four or five?”

“I supposeâ” began Bethancourt.

“Now, Denis,” she continued, turning away from her brother, “you be a good boy and mind your uncle.”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“And, Phillip, make sure you don't forget to give him some lunch. Oh, and hereâ” she handed Bethancourt a canvas bag. “There are some of his toys in here. All right, darling, give me a kiss. You have a nice time with your uncle. And thank you, Phillip. You've saved my life.”

Left alone together, man and boy stared at each other for a long moment. Cerberus panted happily. Then, “I've got to dress,” said Bethancourt, stubbing out his cigarette. “Then we'll go for a drive in the country.”

“I just came in from the country,” said Denis.

“I can't help that,” answered Bethancourt. “Anyway, this will be different country and you can ride in the back with Cerberus.”

He fled to his bedroom.

Gibbons was incredulous
.

“You can't be serious, Phillip,” he said.

“Shh. You'll make him feel unwanted and then he'll have to spend his adult life in therapy working it out.”

“But, Phillipâ”

“He'll develop a complex about policemen,” warned Bethancourt. “It'll be all right, Jack,” he added. “I'll slip round the back with him and Cerberus. Kitty won't mind.”

The drive down was principally marked by the fact that there was barely enough room in the back seat for both boy and dog, a situation which was aggravated by Cerberus's objection to acting as a roadway for Denis's toy lorry. He was far too well bred a dog to bark or even growl at a diminutive member of his master's family, especially not when he outweighed him. He pushed.

“Hey! Cerberus!”

“What is going on back there?” demanded Bethancourt. “Jack, can't you cope with a small boy and a dog?”

Gibbons obligingly twisted around in his seat. “What's wrong, Denis? Oh, dear.” Gibbons tried to reach into the back, but was somewhat hampered by his safety belt. “Move, Cerberus. Over, boy. Here, Denis, sit up.”

“My lorry!”

“What lorry? Oh, I see.”

The lorry proved to be elusive. Gibbons swore and released the belt.

“Watch it, Jack!” said Bethancourt, grabbing for the gear shift. “You almost knocked her out of gear. What on earth are you doing?”

“Getting the damn lorry,” said Gibbons in a muffled voice.

“Don't swear, Jack. Denis is only five.”

“All settled now,” said Gibbons, righting himself and refastening the safety belt.

“Good,” said Bethancourt.

“Vroom!' said Denis. “VrooâCerberus!”

“Denis,” said Bethancourt, “don't yell at the dog. His hearing is roughly a million times better than yours, so that actually he could hear you perfectly well if you spoke in a whisper.”

“Oomph!” replied Denis. Then, in a strangled voice, “Uncle Phillip!”

“What is it now?” said Bethancourt sharply. “Jack â¦”

“Oh, dear,” said Gibbons, twisting round again.

“Jack, watch the gear shift!”

“I can't see Denis at all.”

“What?” Bethancourt immediately slackened speed and began to pull over. “The windows were closed â¦”

“Cerberus is lying on him,” explained Gibbons, reaching to release his belt again.

“Christ, Jack!” said Bethancourt, swerving back onto the road.

“Don't swear, Phillip. Denis is only five. Cerberus, move!” Gibbons tugged on the dog's collar. Unwillingly, Cerberus shifted, revealing
Denis still clutching his toy. “Good boy,” said Gibbons, although whether to dog or child was not clear. “There you go, Denis. Cerberus, stay.”

“Say thank you to Mr. Gibbons,” said Bethancourt.

“Thank you, Mr. Gibbons.”

Peace reigned for several moments. Then Denis, recovered, again attempted to pretend Cerberus's flank was a motorway. This time, the dog had had enough. He gave up trying to control the situation, since every time he gained the upper hand, Gibbons made him relinquish it. Clearly the thing to do was to escape altogether. He tried to bolt into the front seat.

Since both bucket seats were fully occupied by grown men who were not prepared to have 110 pounds of dog in their laps, this maneuver was not entirely successful.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Bethancourt, stamping on the clutch as the shift was knocked out of gear and a plumy tail blinded him.

“Mmpf!” agreed Gibbons, whose abdomen had taken most of the impact of the Borzoi's leap and who now found his arms unexpectedly full of dog and his face full of fur.

“Ooh, Uncle Phillip,” came from the back seat as the Jaguar swerved sharply and then came to an abrupt and sharp stop, its nose in a hedge. Bethancourt switched off the engine and fumbled for the break, at present buried beneath his dog.

“Off, Cerberus,” Gibbons was saying feebly, but the big dog had insufficient room to turn.

Bethancourt pulled up the brake with a jerk and flung out of the car, slamming the door behind him. In a moment, he appeared at the passenger door and opened it, ordering the dog out. Cerberus climbed off Gibbons's lap with a guilty air. Gibbons followed, wiping stray hairs from his face.

“Denis,” said Bethancourt, in a remarkably controlled voice, “get back on your side of the seat. And put that filthy lorry away.” He
flipped up the passenger seat, and reintroduced Cerberus into the back. Gibbons got back in while Bethancourt walked around the car to the driver's side.

“Now, he said, resuming his own seat,”Cerberus, you will lie down and stay that way. You, Denis, will refrain from upsetting him with that toy. It is not polite to bore other peopleâor, in this case, dogâwith your own interests when they do not care for them. Is that all clear?”

“Yes, Uncle Phillip.”

Cerberus wagged his tail.

BOOK: The Young Widow

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