Village Affairs (2 page)

“No, thank heavens. At least most of them aren’t. It happens that I know the boyfriend of one of the models. Or, rather, his people know my people, and I’ve met him. I think I have, anyway. So I had to ask them to stay.”

“Ah, yes,” said the vicar, thoroughly confused.

“That’s the beauty,” said Bingham, “of not having any family. You never need put up with anyone you only think you’ve met.”

“You have family,” said the vicar’s wife tartly, though her eyes were full of laughter. “You just want to be thought of as eccentric.”

“I’m older than Clarence here,” said Bingham complacently. “Once you’ve reached a certain age, you can take refuge in eccentricity. I find it saves me ever so much bother.”

They were interrupted by a tall, middle-aged woman with a large nose and iron-gray hair. She had a kind smile, which she bestowed on the company as she approached.

“Hello, Mrs. Potts,” said the vicar.

“Where are the twins tonight?” asked Bingham, nodding his welcome.

Mrs. Potts glanced vaguely about the crowded pub.

“They’re here somewhere,” she answered, setting her glass down on the table and idly twisting at the man’s signet ring on her finger.

“Do sit down,” urged the vicar’s wife.

But Mrs. Potts shook her head. “I’m afraid,” she said, as if confessing a great sin, “I wasn’t at my best tonight.”

“No,” said the vicar’s wife sympathetically, “your voice cracked a bit, I’m afraid. Something got caught in your throat?”

“That’s just it,” said Mrs. Potts tragically. “I seem to be catching a bit of a cold. It’s nothing much,” she went on hastily, in response to sympathetic murmurs, “but it seems to have got into my throat. I’m afraid I won’t be able to sing on Sunday, not if it goes on as it’s starting.”

Everyone expressed regret at this news, while the vicar’s wife recommended hot tea and lemon. Bingham objected to this, advising hot toddies. This began a heated debate, during which Bingham decided to eliminate the hot water altogether and just add the lemon to the whiskey, straight. The discussion was ended by Mrs. Potts inadvertently dropping her signet ring into her port glass and the publican calling time.

The crowd spilled out into the High Street of the village, all shuttered and silent at this time of night, the golden Cotswold limestone turned gray by the dark. Chipping Chedding was an old village, and although there were several modern buildings on its fringes, here at its heart the architecture was a pleasant mix of Jacobean and Georgian, evoking an earlier era.

People sorted themselves out and bade each other good night while the vicar and his wife looked on, paying particular attention to those who might have had a drop too much and be inclined toward belligerence.

“Where’s Derek?” asked Bingham, appearing out of the throng. “We were walking back together and he’s got the torch.”

“He was talking to Julie Benson last I saw,” said the vicar’s wife, craning around to look. “She had him cornered over by the bar earlier.”

“Dear God,” said the vicar, “Julie’s not the latest to fall victim to Derek’s charms, is she? She’s old enough to know better.”

“Shh,” said his wife, “don’t let her hear that.”

“Derek never takes advantage,” protested Bingham in his friend’s defense.

“That we know of,” muttered the vicar.

“Richard!” said his wife, startled. “I thought you liked Derek.”

“I do, I do,” said Tothill hastily. “I just wish half the young women in Chipping Chedding would stop throwing themselves at him.”

“Well, there he is with Mary Wilson, anyway. Oh, good night, Mrs. Stikes—get home safe.”

Slowly the street began to clear and at last the Tothills, too, turned away, strolling arm in arm through the cobbled market square toward the vicarage.

“Dear old Charlie Bingham,” said the vicar’s wife. “He is so wrongheaded sometimes, but so sweet, really.”

“He’s a character,” said the vicar.

“Well, I like characters.”

“That, my dear, is because you are one yourself,” said her husband fondly.

CHAPTER
2

C
larence Astley-Cooper was feeling relieved. While it was true that his house and grounds were swarming with models, photographers, and various other people whose purpose eluded him, and that his drawing room was liberally draped with clothes and accessories, everything seemed to be going smoothly. No one was bothering him and no one had remarked on the sheep-devastated part of the garden. Mr. Crocks, being only a jobbing gardener, was not there to complain about svelte young women draping themselves over the carefully trimmed hedges or picking the flowers. The models were all extremely attractive and seemed rather careless of how close they were standing to the windows when they changed.

On top of it all, young Bethancourt turned out to be a pleasant sort, not at all what Astley-Cooper had expected. He was tall and thin, with shaggy fair hair and horn-rimmed glasses; Astley-Cooper was at a loss to explain his attraction for the glamorous young woman whom he introduced as his girlfriend.

Bethancourt claimed to be a chess player and they were presently enjoying an amiable game on the terrace, where they could keep half an eye on both the activity in the garden and the celebrated mullioned and transomed windows of the house. At their feet, Astley-Cooper’s dog, Whiff, had reached an accommodation with Bethancourt’s dog, Cerberus, and the two canines now lay amicably on either side of the table. Between moves, Astley-Cooper voiced his usual woe about how much time, effort, and, most of all, money it took to keep up a Grade 1 listed house, and how impossible it was to do anything at all to it without a horde of inspectors descending upon one. Bethancourt sympathized with all this, leading Astley-Cooper to reflect on how clever he had been to invite such a delightful houseguest.

It was now late afternoon and the fashion people were abandoning the garden in favor of a fresh attack on the inside of the house. This involved a veritable beehive of activity on the part of all concerned. Astley-Cooper, idly watching the hustle-bustle while waiting for Bethancourt to make a move, was surprised by the sight of Constable Patricia Stikes making her way through the crowd. He waved at her and the constable, toiling toward the terrace steps, waved back.

“I wonder what she’s come about,” said Astley-Cooper. “I do hope there isn’t some sort of law against fashion photography in listed houses.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” responded Bethancourt, who was still studying the board.

“Good afternoon,” said Constable Stikes, reaching the terrace at last. She was a tall, muscular young woman, fair-haired and ruddy-cheeked, with, at this moment, a sparkle in her pale blue eyes. “I did try the front door, sir, but there was no answer.”

“No,” said Astley-Cooper, “there wouldn’t be. Mrs. Leggett’s got her hands full inside.”

“Just so, sir. I hope you don’t mind my coming round the back.”

“Not at all, Constable. Only thing to do, really. Have a seat. This is Phillip Bethancourt, by the way. Phillip, Constable Stikes.”

Bethancourt looked up and offered a hand, which the Constable shook before lowering herself into a chair.

“I’ve come,” she said, “about the death of Charles Bingham.”

“Oh, yes, poor chap.” Astley-Cooper nodded. “Vicar found him dead in his cottage on Monday,” he added to Bethancourt. “He was new hereabouts. A delightful chap, if somewhat eccentric. Spent a lot of time in the Far East, I believe.”

“And Africa,” put in the constable.

“Yes, and Africa. Exploring, I gathered.”

“Well, CID’s rung up,” said Stikes, her eyes darting curiously toward the drawing room windows where the models were changing. “They think Mr. Bingham was murdered.”

“Murdered?” repeated Astley-Cooper in surprise.

Bethancourt abandoned his study of the chessboard. There was a gleam of interest in his hazel eyes behind their glasses.

“Yes, sir. At least, it looks very like it. They want me to check into everyone’s movements on Sunday evening before Scotland Yard arrives.”

“Scotland Yard?” asked Bethancourt. “Isn’t Gloucestershire CID handling it?”

Constable Stikes shrugged. “They think he was murdered in London, sir,” she answered. “And they’re shorthanded, what with those murders in Cirencester and that spate of burglaries in Cheltenham. Chief Inspector Darren has both of those on his plate, and he’s down by two detective inspectors at the moment.”

“Two?” said Astley-Cooper. “I heard Greene was retiring, but who’s the other?”

“Henry Farthet.” Constable Stikes leaned back in her chair, notebook and pencil abandoned on the table in favor of a good gossip. “His old aunt died—you may remember her, sir, Mrs. Castleford over at Stroud.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Astley-Cooper. “Positively ancient, she was. I remember her when I was a child—I was scared to death of her. An old martinet, she was.”

“Yes, sir. Well, she left everything to her nephew, and it turns out she was richer than anyone realized. Henry’s retired as well, and taken his family off to the Riviera for a holiday.”

“Well, well,” said Astley-Cooper. “Who would have thought it?”

“And Detective Sergeant Colston’s broken his leg, not twenty-fours hours after DS Pilcher left on his honeymoon. So you can see the chief constable’s in a spot, and not likely to start looking into murders in London.”

“Well, no.”

Constable Stikes drew a deep breath and reached for her pencil. “In any case, sir, I’ve got to take details of everyone’s movements, though I can’t call to mind that anyone here was off to London last weekend. If you ask me, it’ll be some old friend of Mr. Bingham’s that he visited there.”

She seemed a little disappointed at this prospect.

“I’m sure you’ll be very helpful, Constable,” said Astley-Cooper soothingly.

“I’ll certainly try, sir. So could you just tell me what you were doing on Sunday evening?”

“I had supper here,” replied Astley-Cooper promptly, “and then the vicar came over and we played chess. We always do on Sundays.”

“So the vicar said, sir,” said Stikes, laboriously noting the information down.

“Well, if the vicar had already told you, what was the point of coming ’round here?”

“To confirm the vicar’s story,” supplied Bethancourt.

“That’s right, sir,” said the constable, forestalling Astley-Cooper’s outburst in defense of the vicar’s honesty. “Now, about what time was all this?”

“Well, the vicar always comes up about seven. I expect I ate at six or so. And he must have left about ten, perhaps half-past.”

“And you, Mr. Bethancourt?”

Bethancourt looked amused. “I was at home in London, Constable,” he said. “I didn’t know the deceased, and I’ve never been to Chipping Chedding before last night.”

“Phillip’s come up with the fashion crowd,” put in Astley-Cooper. “One of the models is his girlfriend and, since I know his family, I invited them to stay.”

“Ah.” A light dawned in the constable’s eyes. “I’d heard about that, sir, only I didn’t expect there would be so much …” She waved a hand.

“Bustle,” supplied Astley-Cooper. “No,” he agreed, looking about a little dazedly, “neither did I.”

“Fashion shoots are always a bit frantic,” said Bethancourt. “I don’t know why.”

“Is that so, sir?” Constable Stikes glanced at him, taking in his solid county clothing, and obviously wondering how he had come to be involved with a fashion model. “Which is yours, sir?”

“My—? Oh, you mean Marla.” Bethancourt looked about, and then pointed at the drawing room windows. “The redhead there with her back to us.”

Marla’s back was turned because she was engaged in stripping off the ensemble she had been posing in, but their glimpse of her nudity was brief, as she moved off into the room. Astley-Cooper stared and then hastily returned his gaze to the chessboard, flushing faintly.

“Ah,” said Stikes politely. “She looks pretty.”

Bethancourt grinned. “I think so,” he said.

The Constable sighed and looked back at her notebook. “Well, I’d best get on,” she said. “Could you tell me, Mr. Astley-Cooper, when was the last time you saw Mr. Bingham?”

Astley-Cooper frowned. “Well,” he said, “he wasn’t much of a churchgoer, so I couldn’t have seen him on Sunday. That means it must have been Saturday night, at the Deer and Hounds. There was a darts competition that night. You were there yourself, Constable.”

“Yes, sir. It’s always best to have an eye on these things, I find. You never know when someone might have a bit too much to drink and take offense.”

“Quite right.”

“I saw Bingham myself, but I didn’t take much note of him. Was he just as usual, sir?”

“Oh, yes. At least, nothing wrong that I noticed.”

“Could you tell me what time he left?”

“I don’t think so. I came away at half nine or ten and I think—I’m not sure, mind—he was still there then. I don’t remember him leaving, in any case.”

The constable noted this down and then closed her notebook. “That’s all then, sir. Thank you very much.”

“I don’t suppose,” said Astley-Cooper diffidently, “it’s any good asking you what happened?”

“They haven’t told me that, sir. Only that the circumstances are suspicious. Thank you again, sir.”

“Well, isn’t that extraordinary,” said Astley-Cooper, watching her go.

Bethancourt agreed. “What exactly happened?” he asked.

“Nothing very alarming. The vicar went over on Monday morning to see about a subscription. There was no answer, but he noticed that the lights were on, and he thought that odd, so he went in. And there was old Bingham, sitting in his chair with a book and glass of whisky, quite dead. We all thought it was a heart attack—he’d had one already, you see. The vicar rang up Dr. Cross, waited ’til he came, and that was all. Perfectly straightforward.”

“Yes, I see,” said Bethancourt.

“I wonder what made them think it was murder.”

“Probably something came up at the postmortem,” answered Bethancourt. “Look here, Clarence, do you mind not mentioning this to Marla? She’ll know soon enough, but I don’t see why we shouldn’t have at least one peaceful evening.”