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Authors: Cassandra Chan

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BOOK: The Young Widow
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“Oh, really,” he said, and rose to answer it.
Bethancourt appeared cheerful and rather tipsy. He tossed his raincoat onto a chair and sprawled comfortably in the second elderly armchair.
“How was your dinner?” asked Gibbons, picking up his potato.
“Excellent,” answered Bethancourt, eyeing the potato with distaste. “Escargot, and cold cream of vegetable soup, and veal medallions with madeira sauce. Raspberry sorbet for pudding. Very nice.”
“There's some more beer in the refrigerator,” said Gibbons.
Bethancourt put his head on one side. “I don't think that would be at all wise,” he said. “I've already had scotch and a good bit of wine, and a brandy. I think adding beer would be asking for trouble.”
“There's a bottle of Bells in the cupboard beside the refrigerator,” said Gibbons.
“That will do nicely, thank you,” said Bethancourt, rising to get it.
He returned with the bottle and two glasses. “In case you feel inclined,” he explained, “after you finish your beer and—er—snack.”
“This,” said Gibbons, indicating the half-eaten potato, “is not a snack. It is the second course of a meal begun with a ham sandwich in the canteen. I admit there was rather more time between courses than I would have liked.”
“Well, all I can say is I'm sorry for you,” said Bethancourt, resuming his seat and producing his cigarette case. “If that's the kind of food you eat, it's no wonder you're grumpy at the end of the day.”
“I'm only tired. I didn't have a nice, relaxing dinner. I was working.”
“Well, have a nice, relaxing drink now and tell me all about it,” said Bethancourt. He poured two drinks, set one beside Gibbons's chair and leaned back to light his cigarette. He looked, Gibbons thought, abominably comfortable and pleased with life.
Having finished the inside of the potato, Gibbons began tearing off pieces of the skin with his fingers. “Carmichael spent the afternoon talking to Switzerland and looking up Eric Threadgood's will. Threadgood died in a freak skiing accident at fifty-six years of age. Basically, he fell and broke his neck. There were no witnesses, but it was never considered anything but an accident. Annette was also out on the slopes at the time, but it's difficult to see how she could have arranged the accident, especially in view of the fact that she's not a very expert skier and was presumably on the beginner's slope while Threadgood was on the more dangerous runs.”
“What about the will?”
Gibbons popped another piece of potato skin into his mouth. “Before his marriage, Threadgood had left all his money to his niece and nephew. After he married, he made a new will dividing it up between them and his wife, unless he and Annette had children, in which case everything went to Annette.”
“So she only got a third share?” asked Bethancourt.
“That's right.” Gibbons washed the potato skin down with the last of his beer, and reached for the scotch. “It was still enough for her to live on, in a very modest way, if she sold the house he'd bought when they married and his boat. I expect she'd have sold the boat in any case since she didn't like sailing.”
“Still,” said Bethancourt thoughtfully, “it would mean a cutback in her lifestyle.”
“Most definitely,” agreed Gibbons. “Threadgood had been spending pretty freely—just a little bit more than he should have. He had
to dip into his capital to pay for that boat. So she might have married Burton for the money.”
“Still, it puts paid to my theory that she killed Threadgood impulsively, or even by accident,” said Bethancourt.
“Well, there's not really any evidence either way,” said Gibbons. “Your theory could still be true. And even if Threadgood's death was an accident, his death might have later led her to think how nice it would be if she could get rid of Burton, and from there to how easy it would be. Of course,” he added, “even if she's innocent of their deaths, that doesn't mean she didn't kill Berowne.”
“No,” agreed Bethancourt thoughtfully. But he was now conversely thinking of how it might have been if Annette were innocent. There she would be in Switzerland, having received the shock of her husband's death, and just beginning to realize how much her own life would change in consequence. Whether she had loved her first husband or not, she must surely have enjoyed the difference marriage made in her life. And now that would all be taken away. If she had been fond of Eric Threadgood, the whole situation would have been that much more devastating. And then there would be old William Burton, a kindly man, well-off and taken with her as nearly all men were. So easy to encourage him, and there would be no need to start counting the pennies. True, Burton was going to need a lot of time and care from her, but it wouldn't be for long and she was still young. All in all, Bethancourt decided, it had probably been a hasty decision on her part, but she could not have regretted it too much or she would not have gone through with the wedding.
“She inherited everything from Burton?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” answered Gibbons. “He really hadn't anyone else to leave it to.” He sighed. “But, as Carmichael pointed out this evening, it really doesn't matter. He's planning to spend tomorrow looking into Annette's contacts in London and getting hold of her credit card records and such. It's something Surrey CID never did, and it might lead somewhere. Carmichael's thinking is that she must have
had some motive for killing her husband beyond that she was bored with him.” “What about the vase and the poison book?” asked Bethancourt.
“Not back from the lab yet. We should hear next week,” answered Gibbons. “If they're clean, we're in real trouble because although it's well enough to find motive, other people had motives, too, and what we really need is hard evidence that she did it.”
“Cheer up, Jack,” said Bethancourt. “If you get motive, you might well be able to elicit a confession.”
“Here's to hope,” said Gibbons, tossing off the last of his whisky. He did not, however, sound very hopeful.
C
armichael sighed and picked up his cigar from the ashtray.
“I do wish,” he said, “that Surrey CID would keep their messes to themselves.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons.
They had been working on the case for a week and had turned up nothing. So far as they could determine, Annette's account of her trips to London agreed exactly with what her credit cards said; there was no large block of time unaccounted for. There were no suspicious calls on her phone records. They had spoken with her friends from before her marriage to Berowne, but none of them had known anything to her discredit. They had gone over the Surrey CID reports minutely, and had spent wearisome hours compiling timetables. But every line of inquiry had simply petered out on them.
Carmichael looked again at the report Gibbons had just handed him.
“It looks like you talked to most of the first-class passengers on that cruise,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. There was no hint in his voice of how extremely tedious he had found the task. “I interviewed the crew as well. There were three other couples who shared the Berownes' dinner table and with whom the Berownes spent some time. But they all said they found the Berownes to be a very affectionate couple, despite the age difference between them. Some of the women didn't think much of Geoffrey for going out and getting himself a trophy wife, but none of them thought Annette was in any way unhappy.”
Carmichael sighed. He selected a forensics report from among those on his desk and stared at it glumly. Behind him rain pattered gently against the window and the city lights shone through in yellow streaks.
“No fingerprints on the vase,” he said. “There were traces of the poison left in it, though. Geoffrey Berowne's and Mary Simmons's prints on the cover of that book—just what you'd expect. They haven't finished doing all the pages, but so far there's nothing but partials.”
“About the vase, sir,” said Gibbons, “Kitty Whitcomb has remembered seeing it two days before the murder. It was full of fresh lilies of the valley then.”
This did not cheer Carmichael as much as his sergeant had hoped. “So the murderer was topping it up,” he said. “That makes sense. He or she must have been putting fresh ones in the same water for nearly a week before the murder, to make sure it was strong enough to do the trick.”
He leaned back and puffed on his cigar. “If Annette Berowne is a sociopath who has killed three husbands, I'm afraid we're going to have to wait for death number four before we get her,” he said discontentedly.
Gibbons was silent for a moment. “Do you believe she is a sociopath, sir?” he asked.
“I don't know what I believe,” grunted Carmichael. “But it has occurred to me, Gibbons, that the reason neither we nor Surrey has found anything is because we're looking in the wrong place.”
“It's occurred to me, too, sir,” admitted Gibbons.
“What do you think of her personally, lad?”
Gibbons hesitated. “If she wasn't his wife,” he said slowly, “and wasn't inheriting millions, I'd have to say I think she's innocent. Certainly I've come to doubt the sociopath theory—she doesn't seem to fit that profile at all. She may have killed Berowne, but I don't think she killed the others.”
“And if she's not a sociopath, I can't see what possible motive she could have had,” said Carmichael. He leaned forward again and rested his cigar in the ashtray. “Let's see—we've gone over everything we could think of, aside from timing her walk to the village.”
“I did try, sir,” said Gibbons. “Several times.”
“Not your fault, lad,” said Carmichael, glancing at the rain pattering against the windows. “Well, we might as well be thorough. You can take the walk on the first fine day we have, but otherwise I think it's time to broaden our scope. In nine out of ten cases the spouse is guilty, but this could be the tenth case.” He shifted through the case reports. “We'll give everyone else a thorough going-over, including the servants. Surrey didn't do much there—they were convinced from the beginning that it was one of the family.”
“The case does have that feel to it, sir,” agreed Gibbons.
“I thought so too, but we won't rule anything out. First, however, I think we'll look at Paul Berowne. His behavior on the morning of the murder is just as suspicious as Mrs. Berowne's. We can spend tomorrow looking into Berowne Biscuits before we tackle him directly again. Unless,” he added, “it's a fine day, in which case you can go down to Hurtwood Hall and tie up our loose end with Mrs. Berowne.”
“They're predicting a clearing trend,” said Gibbons rather doubtfully and Carmichael snorted.
“They've been predicting that all week. Well, if you can get down there, try to see if her story about starting back for the library card holds up.” He rummaged on his desk for another sheet of paper. “We estimated the walk took her twenty minutes to half an hour longer than it should have, depending on the pace she set.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, who had already received these instructions three times before.
“I'll talk to some City people tomorrow and see what they think of Paul Berowne,” continued Carmichael. “I can check his finances, too.”
“Do you want me to speak to Miss Wellman if I get down there?” asked Gibbons. “You always said she was holding something back about Paul Berowne and his father.”
Carmichael considered this, but then shook his head. “No,” he said, “I think I'd rather tackle Miss Wellman myself. If nothing turns up tomorrow, I'll go down the next day to draw her out a little. After all, there was nothing preventing her from walking downstairs and poisoning Berowne herself.”
“And she did resent him for marrying Annette.”
“Just so,” agreed Carmichael. “Well, we'll see how we get on tomorrow. You take yourself off now, Gibbons, and get a nice supper and some sleep. We're in for the long haul here, and I don't want you wearing yourself down.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbons, rising. “I'm sure you're right. If we can just come to a conclusion, no matter how scanty the evidence, we'll have a better chance of solving this.”
“Let's hope so, lad. Off you go now.”
 
 
It was nearly eleve
n o'clock and the small, exclusive restaurant was beginning to empty out. It was the kind of place that relied on solid
worth rather than trendiness to bring in its clientele, and its cozy atmosphere allowed its guests to talk quietly over some of the best food in London. At a table near the back, Gibbons swallowed a spoonful of his lobster bisque and sighed blissfully.
“God, that's good,” he said.
“They do it very well here,” said Bethancourt, sampling his own soup. “Yes, very good indeed.”
“Thank you for this, Phillip,” said Gibbons, savoring another spoonful. “I don't think I realized how much I needed to relax. And I haven't had a real meal—much less one like this—in I don't know how long.”
“You're welcome,” replied Bethancourt. “I take it there've been no new developments?”
“No,” said Gibbons glumly. “Not a single bloody thing. Carmichael's talking about widening the investigation. He's going to look at Paul Berowne tomorrow, and go on down the list from there. We haven't looked at the servants at all, for instance.”
“The servants aren't a bad idea,” said Bethancourt. “After all, their bequests are quite a windfall for them. One of them might have wanted something badly enough to kill for it.”
“It's possible,” said Gibbons, “but McAllister and Mrs. Simmons have both worked on the estate for donkey's years. It's hard to imagine what would suddenly make them want to leave. And Kitty Whitcomb and Ken Mills, who could easily have a reason to want a change, couldn't have done it.”
Bethancourt frowned and leaned back to allow the waiter to collect the soup plates. “I know Kitty's got an alibi,” he said, “but I didn't know Mills had.”
“Not an alibi, strictly speaking,” answered Gibbons. “We've confirmed that he did go straight to the shop for the part for the BMW, and certainly he could have nipped off to the study once he got back, but it would have been risky. Paul Berowne might have returned to the garage at any time to see how the work was coming,
and why should Mills take that risk? The next day, when things were back to normal, would have done just as well.”
“Still,” mused Bethancourt, “I should imagine it takes a good deal to work oneself up to a murder. Having done so, I don't think it would be so easy to put off for another day, as if it were a lunch date or something.”
“There is that,” agreed Gibbons, but not very hopefully. “I'm still betting it's one of the family. I just wish I knew which one.”
“So you think Annette's definitely out of it?” asked Bethancourt.
“I don't know,” answered Gibbons. “The more I talk to her, the more I think she could be innocent. But the problem there is that I like her, so I don't trust myself.” He sighed. “But then, I'm getting to like them all. Annette is absolutely delightful and the way she looks on the police as if we were the answer to her prayers is very disarming. And Maddie Wellman may be a sharp-tongued old woman, but she's such a character you don't mind it. Kitty—well, it's safe enough to like Kitty, I suppose.”
“And what about Marion and Paul Berowne?” asked Bethancourt.
“I've seen less of them,” admitted Gibbons. “But I tell you it's a bit unnerving to be talking to Annette and laughing at something she's said, and then to suddenly remember that she may have deliberately poisoned a man, and probably stood there and watched him die. It wouldn't matter so much if we were getting anywhere with the investigation, because then one's focus is narrowed. But we're not getting anywhere and my focus is all over the place.”
“It'll all settle down once you get a lead,” said Bethancourt consolingly. “You'll jump on it like a hound on a scent, and all your feelings about these people will get stashed in the back seat. It's only because you don't know who to suspect that you're getting muddled now.”
But Gibbons's words had made him remember that first day and how he had wondered if Annette Berowne had been deliberately using
her charms in an attempt to disarm the police. He wondered again now and wished that he had made more of an effort to accompany his friend on his endless rounds of interviews.
The fish course arrived and Bethancourt inhaled deeply and happily as he picked up his fork.
“So what's on the agenda for tomorrow?” he asked.
“If it ever stops raining, Carmichael wants me to walk Annette over that footpath to the village, and see how the time works out. I'd really rather get started on Paul Berowne, but I suppose there's something to be said for tying up loose ends.”
“How would you like a ride down there? I've got nothing on for tomorrow.”
“I'd love a ride,” answered Gibbons. “I'm not sure about taking you along on the walk, though. It's going to be hard enough to get her to keep her own pace with just me along.”
“That's all right,” said Bethancourt, reaching to refill his wineglass. “I'd like to have another chat with Kitty.”
“The way to a man's heart is through his stomach,” said Gibbons, grinning. “She didn't seem like your type, Phillip.”
Bethancourt raised his eyebrows. “I wasn't aware,” he said, “that I had a type.”
“Of course you do.” Gibbons's grin widened. “Your type is spectacular and glamorous.”
“Kitty is not glamorous,” agreed Bethancourt judiciously, in the manner of an art critic remarking on a new artist, “but she could be said to be spectacular in her own way. Her figure, I should say, is up to any man's standards, and although her face is not exactly beautiful, she is very pretty. The pinkness of her cheeks, I am sure, owes nothing to cosmetics.”
“Don't be pompous,” said Gibbons, laughing. “And, anyway, she's not stunning, which is generally how you seem to prefer women.”
“I only said I wanted to talk with her,” retorted Bethancourt.
“Believe it or not, I have been known to hold conversations with downright unattractive people of both sexes.”
“I'm sure you have,” said Gibbons, still grinning. “Never mind.”
 
 
Bethancourt was awakened the
next morning by the telephone. Thinking it might be Gibbons with a change in the program, he imprudently answered it and instead heard the well-bred, unwelcome tones of his sister.
“Phillip?” she said. “How like you to still be abed at this hour.”
BOOK: The Young Widow
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