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Authors: Cassandra Chan

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BOOK: The Young Widow
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“I'm afraid he did,” answered Gibbons. “He was very determined that Paul should fulfill his responsibilities.”
Annette bit her lip. “I know he didn't believe in divorce,” she said
in a small voice. “He did have strong opinions and a bit of a temper. Are you sure he didn't just say those things while he was angry?”
“I don't know,” said Gibbons. “Perhaps that's how it was. But Paul did take him seriously. He left home for a time and as I understand it, Geoffrey did cut off his allowance.”
Annette sighed and shook her head. “Geoffrey must have let his temper get the better of him. And if Paul took him at his word, I'm sure Geoffrey would have felt obliged to carry his threats out. But he would have relented in the end, I'm sure of that.”
Neither Gibbons nor Bethancourt thought so, but there was no point in poisoning her husband's memory for her. They acquiesced with murmurs of agreement.
“Still,” she said, “I can't see what it has to do with Geoffrey's murder. It seems a little odd to me that you think Paul would have waited all this time to take his revenge.”
“Not revenge,” said Gibbons. “Think—what would happen if Paul fell in love again?”
Her brown eyes went wide as realization struck. “And—was he in love?” she asked in a low voice.
“He was having an affair,” said Gibbons. This time he did reach out and pat her shoulder. “We'll see what he has to say for himself. This may yet all blow over—there's still very little to build a case on. But now I want you to think very carefully. Did you never suspect Paul might be guilty?”
“I suppose I've thought that of everyone at one time or another,” she said, “but only because I knew it had to be one of us. No, I never really believed it could be Paul. Although,” she added slowly, “I have thought how odd it was that Paul didn't go into work that morning. I remember another time, last year, when something went wrong with his car and he made a big fuss about being late for work. He finally took one of the other cars and Geoffrey said how silly he was to be so attached to the BMW.”
“I see,” said Gibbons. “But even though you thought that odd, you never seriously considered it might be Paul?”
“No,” she said a little bitterly. “After all, it's just as odd that I should walk to the village instead of driving.”
“Now, we've been over all that, Annette,” said Gibbons kindly. “You mustn't torture yourself with it. You've been very helpful. We'll just have a word with Kitty, and then I'm afraid I've got to get back to London. But I'll let you know how things go.”
Once again Bethancourt was left feeling confounded with Annette Berowne as they took their leave of her and made their way to the kitchen. If she was in love with Gibbons, she had shown very little sign of it to his mind, and yet she had seemed very sincere when she had declared she had never considered her stepson a serious suspect. Perhaps, he thought to himself, he had got it all wrong. Perhaps she did not care for Gibbons, had no intention of seducing him, and was innocent of murder as well. It was a happy thought, but one which he could not bring himself to place much confidence in.
 
 
The interview room was
bare and clinical, a room for facts, although Carmichael had heard more fabrications than facts here in his thirty-six years with the Yard.
He set the tape recorder going and regarded the man who had become his prime suspect with shrewd eyes. Paul Berowne was not a fool; he knew that his summons here boded ill for him, and yet he had not demanded a solicitor and Carmichael wondered why. He sat quietly on the opposite side of the table, his hands still in his lap, and watched Carmichael expectantly. If he was nervous, he did not show it.
“I'd like to go over the morning of the murder again,” began Carmichael. “You said, I believe, that you took a walk?”
“Yes,” answered Paul.
“Did you remain on the estate the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“You did not, for instance, walk into the village? Perhaps stop at the pub?”
The ghost of a smile touched Berowne's lips. “You've spoken to Mira,” he said quietly. Deep in his eyes was surprise. Not, thought Carmichael, surprise at the betrayal, for he had expected that, but surprise at how, even thus prepared, it still hurt.
“Yes,” agreed Carmichael, “we have. Her story of the morning differs from yours at several points, Mr. Berowne.”
“I think,” answered Berowne dryly, “you can easily see why. However, there's no point in trying to cover things up. I did lie to you, Chief Inspector. Whatever Mira's told you is the truth.”
“I would still like to have your version.”
“Very well.” Now that he had been discovered, Berowne seemed impatient. “The morning began just as I told you. Once I had phoned the office, I also phoned Mira and asked if I could come by. She wasn't awake yet and said to give her an hour to pull herself together. So,” his lips quirked in a sardonic smile, “I took a walk around the estate. I must have gotten to the pub at about half nine, perhaps a little after.”
“And what was the reason for your visit?”
“You know. I had gone to bed with Mira the night before and I was afraid Ken Mills, our chauffeur, had seen me leaving. I wanted to let Mira know so that she wouldn't be at a loss if it suddenly became common knowledge.”
“Was this an affair of long standing?”
“No. We had slept together once before, that's all.”
Carmichael's blue eyes were intent. “So your chief concern that morning was that Mira Fellows should not be taken unawares by gossip.”
“That's right. Once I'd spoken to her, I returned to the estate to
see how Mills was coming with the car. I was there when Maddie rang down with the news about my father.”
His tone was perfectly normal, even disinterested and his eyes gave nothing away.
“Weren't you just the least bit worried about how your father would take the news of your affair?” asked Carmichael.
Paul Berowne regarded him gravely for a long moment. “Why should I have been?” he asked quietly.
“You would do far better, Mr. Berowne,” said Carmichael severely, “to stop playing games with me and answer as forthrightly as you can. I ask you again, did you not fear your father's reaction to the news that you had been having an affair?”
Berowne let his eyes drop and moved restlessly in his chair. “I rather hoped he wouldn't find out,” he said. “Mills certainly wouldn't go to him with it—he's not that sort of man. And it was perfectly possible that I had been mistaken and Mills hadn't seen me at all.”
This was not a forthright answer, but Carmichael chose to ignore the fact. “Yet you were concerned enough to warn Miss Fellows.”
“It wouldn't have been right not to.”
“And if you were not mistaken, and the news became common knowledge in the village, did you really think your father wouldn't hear of it?”
“In that case, I suppose he eventually would.”
“And what do you think he would have done then?”
Berowne shrugged.
“Did you have any reason to believe his reaction would be any different than it was the last time you committed adultery?”
Berowne flinched at the bald words and paled, but he did not lose his composure. “No,” he answered.
“So what did you plan to do, Mr. Berowne, when he did find out and you lost your job and were disinherited?”
“I had no plans.”
“Perhaps because you had taken steps to ensure you wouldn't need any?”
“No,” said Berowne flatly.
“Surely facing all that again must have been a rather galling prospect.”
A faint, humorless smile touched Berowne's lips. “I'm long past feeling galled by anything, Chief Inspector.”
“Really? Even murder?”
Berowne started to reply and then closed his mouth tightly in a thin line.
“Let's see.” Carmichael consulted the papers on the table before him. “It was six years ago, wasn't it, that you left your wife and moved in with Amy Sullivan? How long was it before you returned?”
“Five months.”
“And why did you come back, Mr. Berowne?”
“Because I discovered Amy and I were not well-suited and I began to believe I had acted hastily.”
“Ah, so it wasn't because you couldn't find another job.”
“No.”
His voice was very low and Carmichael knew he was lying.
“What was wrong with Miss Sullivan?” he asked conversationally.
“Nothing was wrong with her. She and I just didn't get on when we had to be together all the time, that's all.”
“So you thought you might as well return to your wife, whom you no longer loved. That's a rather exceptional attitude, Mr. Berowne.”
Berowne hesitated. “It seemed the right thing to do,” he said. “Having been disappointed a second time in love, it didn't seem worthwhile to go on looking. And I was fond of Marion.”
“Of course. Earlier you mentioned your walk around the estate. Do you know very much about plants and trees?”
Berowne, though obviously relieved at the change of subject, nevertheless found it difficult to change gears so abruptly.
“I know something,” he said. “I'm not an expert like McAllister but I know a bit.”
“How about flowers, Mr. Berowne? Do you know much about them?”
“I know most of the ones that grow on the estate. I suppose, if McAllister suddenly gave notice, I could keep them pruned and alive if I had to.” He was clearly at a loss as to Carmichael's purpose and spread his hands. “Are you suggesting, Chief Inspector, that five years ago I should have become a gardener?”
“Of course not, Mr. Berowne. I was merely interested in your horticultural knowledge. Are you fond, for instance, of lilies of the valley?”
Berowne seemed honestly bewildered by this question, and if he was dissembling, Carmichael could not tell.
“They're very pretty,” he answered rather helplessly.
Carmichael leaned back in his chair. “Our neighbors,” he said conversationally, “planted some oleander last year. That's pretty, too. Have you ever seen it?”
“Yes,” answered Berowne. “We haven't any on the estate, but I've seen it elsewhere. It is, as you say, very attractive.”
Carmichael was shaking his head. “Their cat got into it, though.”
“Did it? We've never had a problem with pets—my father was allergic and we never had any.”
“Ah, so then likely you wouldn't know.”
“Know what?”
“That oleander is poisonous. The cat died.”
There was a long pause. Berowne watched his interrogator warily.
“No,” he said softly at last, “I didn't know.”
“So your knowledge of plants and flowers doesn't reach to which ones are poisonous and which aren't?”
“No, it doesn't.”
“I wouldn't like to have you in the garden, then. You might plant the lettuce next some nightshade.”
“I know about that, of course,” said Berowne impatiently. “Everyone knows about that one. It's been used in dozens of mystery stories.”
“So it has,” agreed Carmichael, who never read the genre. “Your father was fond of mysteries, I believe.”
“Yes, he was. I like them, too, or I used to do. He and I used to share them.”
There was something terribly sad in Berowne's tone.
“But not of late?” suggested Carmichael gently. “Not in the last five years or so?”
Berowne only shook his head.
“How did you feel,” asked Carmichael, “when your father tried to end your relationship with Amy Sullivan?”
“I was angry, of course.” But his tone was utterly devoid of emotion. “And hurt. I didn't realize until then that I'd never stood up for myself before. There were so many times I wanted something dif- ferent, but I always went along with what he suggested. Not because he forced me, but because his suggestions were always sensible and it seemed unreasonable to object. I was … shocked, I suppose is the word, to see what happened when I refused.”
“So you made up your mind to do without him.”
“I suppose.” He straightened and met Carmichael's eyes. “But it has nothing to do with this case, Chief Inspector. The two situations are completely different. I wanted to divorce my wife and marry Amy Sullivan, or I thought I did. I gave in to weakness and slept with Mira twice, but there was no question of marriage. Mira isn't in love with me and she wouldn't have me if I offered. My father could hardly threaten to disinherit me if I didn't break it off with Mira when there was nothing to break off to begin with.”
BOOK: The Young Widow
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