Authors: Cassandra Chan
The Young Widow (2 page)
“My,” said Bethancourt. “They must all hate each other like poison.
Gibbons raised an eyebrow. “And how do you work that out?”
“Well, isn't it obvious?” replied Bethancourt. “If the estate was a bastion of brotherly love, he'd just leave it to whomever he liked and assume they'd take care of the others. Instead, what he's tried to do is ensure that no one will be kicked out of their home once he's dead. Clearly that means he was worried that someone would be booted out.”
Gibbons considered. “I hadn't thought of it like that,” he admitted.
“But what's most interesting is that the son isn't mentioned at all.”
“Oh, yes, he is,” said Gibbons. “He inherits his father's shares in Berowne Biscuits, and it mentions that nothing more is left to him now because of his interest in the company and the amount settled on him at the time of his son's birth. There's also, if you want to know, a bequest of a hundred thousand pounds to Madeleine Wellmanâthat's the sister-in-lawâand another of the same amount to his daughter-in-law.”
Bethancourt shrugged this away. “That's nothing,” he said. “People often leave bequests to their favorite relatives. My grandfather did to me, which made my sister furious. Well, it might turn out to be an interesting case at that. You've no idea why the Yard's been asked to lend a hand?”
Gibbons shook his head. “Perhaps they think it's the son,” he suggested. “He's taken Berowne Biscuits over from his father and the offices are in London. If they found this murder connecting up with another crime here, they might want us in on it. Anyway, I'll find out tomorrow. I'm meeting Carmichael in Guildford after he's seen the chief constable.”
“Are you?” asked Bethancourt. His hazel eyes were bright behind his glasses. “You wouldn't want a lift down, would you?”
Gibbons smiled. “I thought you might offer,” he said.
“You can fill me in on the rest then,” said Bethancourt, rising rather reluctantly. “Right now, I had better get back before Marla notices I'm gone.”
“All right.” Gibbons turned over the report on the will and gave his attention to the next item. Then he looked up. “Phillip,” he called, “you won't be late, will you? I've got to be in Guildford at ten-thirty.”
Bethancourt waved a hand airily. “Don't worry,” he said.
Gibbons did not feel reassured; Bethancourt was nearly always late.
D
etective Chief Inspector Wallace Carmichael of New Scotland Yard sat in the chief constable's office in Guildford the next morning with an impassive expression on his face. He was an older man, growing heavier as he grew older, with thick gray hair and bushy white eyebrows. Seated around him were Edward Gorringe, the chief constable of Surrey, Divisional Commander Andrews, and Inspector Curry, who was Andrews's dogsbody. Andrews and Curry between them had gone over the basic facts of the case, the real problem of which seemed to be that both senior men had known the Berownes, had socialized with them, and were now understandably reluctant to accuse one of the family of murder.
etective Chief Inspector Wallace Carmichael of New Scotland Yard sat in the chief constable's office in Guildford the next morning with an impassive expression on his face. He was an older man, growing heavier as he grew older, with thick gray hair and bushy white eyebrows. Seated around him were Edward Gorringe, the chief constable of Surrey, Divisional Commander Andrews, and Inspector Curry, who was Andrews's dogsbody. Andrews and Curry between them had gone over the basic facts of the case, the real problem of which seemed to be that both senior men had known the Berownes, had socialized with them, and were now understandably reluctant to accuse one of the family of murder.
“Particularly since there's no evidence,” Andrews had said. “Mrs. Berowne is the obvious suspectâshe's the wife, her husband was wealthy, and she's thirty years younger. But any one of them could have done it, and you can't imagine how difficult it is to grill people with whom you dined last week. The whole thing is a nightmare.”
Carmichael sighed. He did not like this case. He was of the old school of detectives, who had worked his way up from uniformed constable to his present exalted position. He had never been very comfortable with wealthy, powerful people; after all, the majority of homicides did not occur within their ranks. There were men at the Yard who specialized in sensitive cases, but they were otherwise occupied, and Carmichael was an experienced, well-seasoned detective; the powers that be had decided that he could handle it. He knew he could, but he still didn't like it.
“So I'm rather afraid,” Gorringe was saying apologetically, “when the question of this rumor came up, I rather jumped at the chance to hand things over to you. Not that I believe it,” he added, “but it'll have to be looked into all the same, and that's out of my jurisdiction.”
“What rumor?” asked Carmichael, turning over a page of the case file.
“It's there,” said Curry. “That last statement. Actually, it took us a hell of a long time to dig it outânobody wanted to repeat it to policemen known to be friendly with the Berownes. You see how our hands are tied.”
“Yes, of course,” said Carmichael. “But the rumor?”
“It started with Mrs. Langstonâan old cat if ever there was one,” said Andrews.
“Quite a coincidence, really,” said Gorringe. “This Mrs. Langston only moved to Peaslake a year or so ago. Previously, she had lived in Kent, in Hawkhurst, I think. Anyway, it was the same town that Mrs. Berowne had come from, where she had been married to William Burton who died a couple of years before she married Geoff Berowne. That's common knowledge. What Mrs. Langston supplied was the fact that William Burton was an elderly man and that at the time of his death, there were rumors in the town that Mrs. Burton had killed him for his money. He was a well-to-do man, you see.”
Carmichael digested this in silence, not liking it very much.
“Well, we can certainly check into that,” he said. “Tell me, you all know Mrs. Berowne. Do you think she's guilty?”
“Well, we can certainly check into that,” he said. “Tell me, you all know Mrs. Berowne. Do you think she's guilty?”
There was dead silence. No one looked at him.
The pause was becoming awkward when at last the chief constable sighed. “I've always liked Mrs. Berowne very much,” he said slowly. “She's a charming woman and I thought she and her husband were a very affectionate couple. I find it difficult to believe she murdered him. But neither can I discount it.”
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Carmichael wasn't about to
discount it either, although he could see evidence was going to be hard to come by. Andrews had said as much, apologizing for handing Carmichael a probably unsolvable case. “There's nothing to get hold of, you see,” he had said. “Lilies of the valley bloom all over the estate. Any one of them could have picked some, put the water from the vase into a bottle, and tipped it into the coffeepot. We've got nothing to say it was more likely this person than that.”
discount it either, although he could see evidence was going to be hard to come by. Andrews had said as much, apologizing for handing Carmichael a probably unsolvable case. “There's nothing to get hold of, you see,” he had said. “Lilies of the valley bloom all over the estate. Any one of them could have picked some, put the water from the vase into a bottle, and tipped it into the coffeepot. We've got nothing to say it was more likely this person than that.”
Carmichael emerged slowly from the lift, the case file in one hand and his raincoat in the other. He spotted Gibbons lounging on a bench against the far wall of the lobby, reading a local paper. Somehow the sight of his sergeant cheered Carmichael up. He had a high opinion of Gibbons's talent and abilities, and it was a relief at his age to have a sergeant who could be depended on to follow things up properly and not miss anything along the way. He had not, many years ago, been too sure about the idea of university-educated policemen, but if ever there was justification for the notion, Gibbons was it.
He crossed the lobby briskly.
“Good morning, sir.” Gibbons folded the paper and set it aside. “How was your meeting?”
Carmichael snorted. “The case is a mess,” he said. He handed
Gibbons the case file and began struggling into his raincoat. “How was the train ride down?”
Gibbons the case file and began struggling into his raincoat. “How was the train ride down?”
“Well, actually, sir, I caught a lift.”
“A lift?” Carmichael paused in adjusting his collar.
“Yes, sir. Phillip Bethancourt brought me down.”
“Did he indeed?” Carmichael turned to peer out the glass doors into the car park, his eyes fixing accurately on the gray Jaguar and the tall, slender young man beside it, standing bareheaded in the drizzle and smoking a cigarette.
“I told him,” said Gibbons, “that you probably wouldn't want him along when we went to the Berownes', but he said he'd wait anyway. I think, sir, he's curious as to why we're being given the case at all.” Gibbons looked up hopefully, for he was at least as curious as Bethancourt, but Carmichael was staring outside and thinking.
Bethancourt's father had been to school with the chief commissioner and word had come down that, when it wasn't inconvenient, Bethancourt was to be allowed to look on during investigations. His father evidently cherished hopes that this would inspire his son to join the force, but these hopes had not thus far borne fruit. Mostly Carmichael hadn't minded. Bethancourt kept discreetly in the background and had even been quite helpful once or twice. And he came from a wealthy family, like the Berownes. Perhaps he would understand these people better than Carmichael or his middle-class sergeant ever could.
“Tell him he can come,” said Carmichael abruptly. He shrugged off the raincoat he had just donned. “We'll go down to the canteen and run over the case file briefly. I could use a cup of coffee anyway.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, surprised. He rose from the bench and went out in the rain to collect his friend.
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Peaslake was some miles
from Guildford. Gibbons drove the police Rover capably through the rain, while Carmichael puffed on a cigar and read over Mrs. Berowne's statement for a third time. Bethancourt followed them in the Jaguar.
from Guildford. Gibbons drove the police Rover capably through the rain, while Carmichael puffed on a cigar and read over Mrs. Berowne's statement for a third time. Bethancourt followed them in the Jaguar.
“Is this the turnoff, sir?” asked Gibbons.
Carmichael lifted the case file and glanced at the ordinance survey map underneath. “That's right.” He gazed out the windscreen while Gibbons negotiated the right-hand turn, and then asked, “Were you and Bethancourt roommates at Oxford?”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Gibbons, rather surprised. “He was at Merton.” Silence greeted this information, so Gibbons added, “I was at St. Johns. The buildings aren't even adjacent.”
“But you were close? Read the same subject, perhaps?” It had suddenly occurred to Carmichael to wonder how his brilliant, ambitious, hard-working sergeant had become such close friends with a man who, while brilliant in his own way, was anything but ambitious and hard-working. Lazy was a better adjective for Bethancourt.
“No, sir,” answered Gibbons, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure the Jaguar was still in sight. “Phillip read classics. We didn't really know each other very well then. We became friends in London, a year or so after we came down.”
“Oh,” said Carmichael, not much enlightened.
“We happened to run into each other during the Hopkins case,” explained Gibbons. “You remember it, sir?”
“Certainly, Sergeant. You were very clever over it, as I recall.”
Gibbons said nothing, merely nodding appreciation of this accolade. In fact, it had been his chance meeting with Bethancourt in a pub that had produced the clever idea which led to the case's solution. It had also resulted in Bethancourt's devouring interest in murder cases and had cemented the firm friendship between the two men. Sometimes, thought Gibbons, fortune smiled on you when you were least expecting it.
“So what's our line on this case, sir?” he asked.
Carmichael snorted. “The wife, of course,” he answered. “It's usually the spouse, and if you want my private opinion, Gibbons, the real reason Surrey CID called us in is because they couldn't find enough evidence for an arrest.” He sighed. “Let's hope we have better luck.”
“Yes, sir.” Gibbons slackened his speed as they approached a town. “Where to now, sir?”
“This must be Peaslake,” said Carmichael, referring to the map. “We go straight through.”
They drove through the townâstill referred to as “the village” by the inhabitants, but grown considerably beyond that in recent yearsâand came out again into the country. A mile or so out of the town, they turned off onto a narrow, winding country road with large houses set well back from the street and screened by trees and hedges. After another mile or so, a high redbrick wall sprang up on their right, and they followed its curve for some ways until both road and wall straightened out, and an opening appeared in the red brick marked by granite pillars with wrought-iron gates standing open.
“This is it,” said Carmichael, peering at a stone plaque set into the wall beside the gates. “Hurtwood Hall,” he read, and grunted. “Well, that's certainly descriptive.”
Gibbons turned into the drive, which was overhung on either side by large plane trees. The lane curved gently, leading them on, out from the trees, and ending in a sweeping circle before the house. This was a huge, redbrick Victorian monstrosity and Carmichael found himself thinking that if he had amassed a fortune, he would never by any chance spend it on a residence like this. Gibbons drew the car up to one side of the drive, and the gray Jaguar came to halt just behind it. Bethancourt got out and joined them, peering upward at the house through the fine rain.
“What on earth do you think they do with all the old servants' quarters?” he asked.
“It's pretty awful, isn't it?” said Gibbons in a low voice.
They climbed the steps to the front door, which was opened, after a little delay, by a middle-aged woman in a blue cleaning smock. She ushered them in, saying Mrs. Berowne was expecting them. “If you'll just come this way,” she said. Her voice was low, and she avoided meeting their eyes, as if their presence made her nervous.
Carmichael smiled genially. “Would you be Mrs. Mary Simmons?” he asked pleasantly.
“Yes, sir.”
“You live in, don't you?”
She shot him an anxious glance, as if this interest in her was somehow menacing. “Yes, sir,” she answered, and motioned with relief toward a large drawing room. “In here, please, sirs. I'll just tell Mrs. Berowne you're here.”
She beat a hasty retreat while Carmichael was saying thank you.
The decor of the room was unexpectedly pleasant and tasteful. Before the somewhat ornate mantelpiece were drawn up two comfortable-looking armchairs, patterned in a very faded medieval forest brocade. A little beyond them were gathered two more armchairs, a sofa, and a love seat in a bold flower pattern, all grouped about a deep green carpet and an oaken coffee table. The effect was cozy, and quite homey.
For all that, the house had a curiously empty feel to it. It had been built to house a large Victorian family with at least a dozen servants, and something in the silence of the room proclaimed that four women were not enough to fill it. It had the air of a home after all the children had left.
The three men divested themselves of their raincoats and settled themselves on the sofa and armchairs. Gibbons produced a notebook and pencil, while Bethancourt examined the coffee table. Carmichael leaned back in the very comfortable sofa and took in his surroundings with a sharp eye.
Then Annette Berowne came into the room.
She had an air about her that drew all their eyes and kept them. There was a peculiar kind of grace to her movements; she seemed to drift, rather than walk, into the room, and though her heart-shaped face was serious, there was an indefinable expression in her eyes that seemed to welcome them.
“Hello,” she said, and gave them a smile that warmed her brown eyes and made dimples flash in her cheeks. “I'm Annette Berowne.”
She came forward and offered Carmichael a small hand with rose-tipped nails, delicate but firm in its touch.
“Detective Chief Inspector Carmichael, ma'am,” he answered. “This is Detective Sergeant Gibbons, and our colleague, Phillip Bethancourt.”
She shook hands with all of them and then sank, rather than sat, into a chintz-covered chair and turned melting brown eyes expectantly toward Carmichael, who smiled neutrally at her.
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