Village Affairs (14 page)

Gibbons relaxed, realizing he had misread her. She was not about to bribe him, she was only making conversation, any sort of conversation, to avoid the topic he had come about. He had seen people do it many times before, had seen the understandable reluctance to have a tender spot touched, but he had not expected it of her. She had seemed so unmoved about her father’s death that morning. Bethancourt, had he been there, would have told him that in the morning she had been prepared for their visit, whereas now she was not. Gibbons merely wondered if she had a different motive for avoiding the topic.

He drank a little more of the whisky and said, “Well, I don’t want to keep you up, Miss. If you—”

“Keep me up?” she echoed. “I doubt I shall be sleeping any time soon, Sergeant.”

“You might,” he said gently, although in the back of his mind he was desperately curious as to whether it was guilt or grief that was keeping her up. “You try a hot bath after I’ve gone. That and a drink usually work.”

“Perhaps,” she answered listlessly. “You know, I’ve just been thinking how funny life is. We must be about the same age, and yet we couldn’t be more different. You have a real job, a career, and I’ve never done anything at all.”

“You didn’t have to,” replied Gibbons. “I might not have got a job, either, if I didn’t need one.”

“But you have an interest, you see. I mean, you must. You’re not stupid—you could have done anything, but you chose the police. You must find the work interesting, or you wouldn’t have chosen it. Whereas if I lost all my money tomorrow, I haven’t a notion of what I might like to do.”

Her mood was a curious one, and Gibbons was not certain how to respond to it. Her life was one of luxury and comfort and glamour; he did not think she could seriously be regretting it.

“It would be different,” he said, “if you had grown up knowing you would have to earn your living, and support a family one day. You would have spent your time in school looking at careers, thinking about what would suit you best. It doesn’t come on you all at once.”

“I suppose not.” She frowned a little.

“Now, then,” said Gibbons in his best police manner. “I’ve only got a couple of questions here, Miss Bingham. The first is: how have you left your money?”

“Left it?” she asked, puzzled.

“Yes, in your will.”

“Oh,” she said, immediately losing interest. “Much as my father did, if I should predecease him.”

“Could you tell me exactly how that is?”

She stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Well, let’s see,” she said. “The patents and most of the capital goes to Christopher.”

“That would be Christopher Macklin?”

“Yes, my cousin—my father’s sister’s son.”

“I see. Is he your only relative, by the way?”

“Yes,” she said briefly. “My mother was an only child.”

“And do you keep in touch with Mr. Macklin?”

She laughed and took another sip of her drink. “Not in years. I don’t even have his address. In Lincoln somewhere, I think. The solicitors know.”

“Very well. If you could go on with the other terms of the will, please.”

“Hmmm.” She refilled her glass. “The stocks and company profits go back to Uncle Andrew, of course.”

“That would be your father’s business partner?”

“Yes—and I haven’t seen him in years, either. The rest goes to various charities and there are a few small bequests. I don’t think I can rattle those off the top of my head, although I remember there are a couple to archeologists my father knew, and I’ve put in one for my maid.”

“A large one?”

She shrugged. “Enough to make her comfortable. Five hundred thousand pounds or so.”

“Do any of these people know about their bequests?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. The archeologists aren’t really likely to get anything unless I die very young—they’re all much older than I. But they’ll receive the bequests my father left them once his will goes through probate. I left them in my will because, well, I thought they might as well have it if I go early. My maid certainly doesn’t know, although I’m sure she hopes. Even Christopher isn’t sure what if anything he’ll come in for. Uncle Andrew is the only one who knows what he’ll get. He was very worried I might leave my shares to someone zany.” A smile touched her lips.

“Thank you,” said Gibbons. “That’s very clear.”

She looked at him curiously. “I can’t see what it matters,” she said. “Not unless you think someone’s planned a double murder. Shall I hire a bodyguard, Sergeant?”

“I hardly think that will be necessary,” said Gibbons with a smile. “But you’ll understand that we have to investigate every possibility, no matter how remote.”

“How dull for you,” she remarked sympathetically.

“Sometimes,” he replied. “The next few questions are rather personal, and I want to assure you your answers will be kept in confidence. Do you take any prescription medications?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Like sleeping pills?” she said. “No, I don’t. If I had such a thing, I would hardly be resorting to this.” And she waved a hand at the whisky bottle.

Gibbons smiled and nodded, though he had no intention of taking her word for it. “I’d also like to know,” he continued, “if you are even remotely considering marriage to anyone?”

She laughed, truly amused. “Not unless you’re going to ask me, Sergeant,” she said.

Her humor fell flat, although Gibbons tried to hide it. He had, in fact, asked a murder suspect to marry him, and not so very long ago. It had not turned out well. He summoned up a rather anemic smile and said, “I think that would be most inappropriate under the circumstances.”

“Yes, I thought you would. What’s this other personal question?”

“It’s one I really can’t expect you to answer,” he said earnestly, “but I can urge you to seriously consider it before you hide something. Is there anything at all in your past that anyone could possibly blackmail you about? Even something you think no one else knows? I can assure you,” he added, “that even if this information led to the discovery of your father’s killer, we would do our best to see it did not come out in open court.”

“There’s nothing,” she said immediately, seriously. “Really and truly nothing, Sergeant. I admit I’ve done things in my life I’m ashamed of, but unfortunately those things are only too well known to a number of people. And there’s nothing else. Nothing illegal, I assure you.”

Gibbons had not thought there would be. Her life was only too well-covered by the tabloids. It would be a miracle if she had managed to keep anything really juicy from them.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate your seeing me at such a difficult time.”

“You haven’t finished your drink,” she said. “There’s really no reason to rush away, Sergeant. I won’t be going to bed for hours.”

“Thank you,” he said again. “I’ll be going home directly, so I will finish it if you don’t mind.”

“I’ve said I don’t. I rather wanted to be alone before you came, but now I’m not sure but what company is better for me.”

Gibbons forbore to say that the company of a police sergeant was not the best he could think of under the circumstances.

“I’m sure,” he said, “if you feel the need of company, Marla or Phillip—”

“No,” she said quickly and firmly. “I don’t want sympathy. I want distraction. My father and I were not close, but, well, he was the only family I had. If ever I had needed family, I could have gone to him. Now I can’t. It’s like losing a crutch you didn’t know you were leaning on.” She frowned and tossed back half her whisky.

She must, thought Gibbons, be fairly drunk by now, but it did not show. Her speech was clear and she lit another cigarette with perfect dexterity.

“Tell me, Sergeant,” she said, “if you thought you knew who had killed my father, you wouldn’t possibly mention it to me, would you?”

“Probably not,” he answered honestly. “But as we don’t yet have any firm suspicions, it’s pointless to speculate. It’s still very early in the investigation, and the possibility that he died by accident is still very much alive.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I expect you want it all resolved rather badly.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” she said, watching the cigarette smoke as it curled away toward the window. “You see,” she continued, her tone uncertain now, “he’s gone. In a way it doesn’t matter how or why he went. We weren’t close, we had no chance to be, but there’s a hole where he used to be. When I saw him last year in Paris, I—” She broke off and shook her head. “I expect,” she added, “that later I shall feel quite angry with whoever took him from me. But I haven’t got as far as anger yet.”

She seemed more vulnerable than Gibbons would ever have thought her to be, but he was suspicious, too. Arousing sympathy in Scotland Yard was not the worst ploy a suspect could make, and he had fallen for it once. Never again, he promised himself.

He swallowed the last of the whisky in his glass and sat forward.

“That was a treat,” he said. “Thank you. Might I use the toilet before I go?”

“Of course. Through there.”

She waved a hand and Gibbons rose, making his way to the door indicated and closing it firmly behind him.

It was a large bathroom, with elaborate fixtures and large mirrors. Eve had not left much of a mark on it. Strewn over the counter were some cosmetics, as well as a toothbrush and toothpaste, while in the bath itself were arrayed bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and soap, all of French manufacture. Gibbons quickly inspected the depleted makeup bag on the counter, and then looked into the cabinet, but in neither place did he find medications of any kind, prescription or otherwise. The bedside table might be a more likely place to find a bottle of sleeping tablets, but he could not possibly look in there. So he contented himself with flushing the toilet and washing his hands, and emerging with a smile.

Eve still sat by the window; the glass beside her was empty again.

“Thanks,” said Gibbons. “I’ll wish you good night and be on my way.”

She looked up and then rose. “You’re welcome, Sergeant,” she said, leading the way toward the door. “No doubt I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

“I’m afraid that will be unavoidable, Miss,” said Gibbons, trying to interject a note of sympathy into the words. “I hope we won’t have to bother you too much. Again, I’d like to offer my sympathies and thank you for bearing with us at such a difficult time.”

“Yes, very good of you.” She turned to collect his raincoat.

“Good night, then, Miss.”

“Good night,” she replied and, turning back to him, she leaned forward and reached up to kiss him.

Gibbons, taken completely by surprise, froze for a moment before recoiling in horror, catching her wrists more roughly than he meant to and pushing her away.

“Sorry,” he said instantly. “Sorry—I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She was eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “No,” she answered, rubbing her wrists. She continued to gaze at him for another moment, and he half-thought she would apologize. But she apparently felt no need to explain herself, for in the next moment she simply held out his raincoat with a small smile.

“Thank you,” he said, seizing the coat and clutching it to him rather in the manner of a Victorian lady surprised
en dishabille.
“Good night again.”

“Until next time,” she said.

“Ah, yes, of course,” he said, reaching for the door. “Er, certainly.” And he was gone.

He strode rapidly down the hallway and found he was trembling. In the lift, he stood for a moment before pressing the lobby button, breathing deeply. He knew, of course, exactly why he was so distressed. Only last spring he had sat in another room with another attractive murder suspect who had also offered to kiss him. But he had already been deeply in love with Annette Berowne, something he now bitterly regretted. Eve Bingham’s casual action had awoken nightmares in him.

All the same, he thought, frowning as he emerged from the hotel, feeling the evening air cool against his face, he needn’t have behaved like such an idiot. Bethancourt would certainly never have been so gauche. Even now he could imagine the amused twinkle in the hazel eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses, and hear that light, clipped voice saying, well, saying something suave and appropriately damping. But then, if Bethancourt had nightmares, they were not connected with the opposite sex.

As he started up the car, another thought occurred to him. He wondered if he hadn’t after all received a kind of bribe.

Bethancourt had given him directions to Stutely Manor, and Gibbons decided to call in instead of phoning. He was too agitated to sleep and besides, it might be his last chance to see the Jacobean manor house. Glancing at his watch, he estimated he could make it there before eleven; a trifle late for a call, but not unduly so if one was a policeman in pursuit of his duties.

Like the Imperial Gardens in Cheltenham, Stutely Manor was not at its best in the dark, though there was light enough to make out the gabled front and the celebrated bay window. Gibbons let fall the massive knocker and in a few minutes a male servant opened the door and ushered him into the great hall, which was a very fine example of its period.

Gibbons had forgotten that Marla would be there, and less than pleased to see him. He could never quite tell if her antipathy was due entirely to his profession and the interest Bethancourt took in it or whether it was jealousy, stemming from an instinctive feeling that Bethancourt liked Gibbons better than he liked Marla, if in an entirely different way.

Bethancourt as usual handled everything smoothly. He greeted Gibbons with pleasure, introduced him to Astley-Cooper, and then said, “So you’ve come round to question Clarence, here, have you? I think I forgot to tell you, Clarence, that Jack might be dropping by if it wasn’t too late.”

Gibbons grasped at this deception eagerly; Marla was frowning at him from across the room.

“That’s right,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Astley-Cooper. It won’t take long—I’d just like to get your thoughts on a few matters.”

“Phillip and I will leave you to it, then, shall we?” said Marla brightly, while Astley-Cooper, a little taken aback, mumbled that he would be delighted to help in any way he could.