Village Affairs (20 page)

“What were you doing in the hedge, anyway?” he asked. “You weren’t spying on Bingham’s cottage, were you?”

“Certainly not,” replied Bethancourt, very glad now that he had ignored that impulse. “I was coming out of the Eberharts’. I walked up there from the village this afternoon, forgetting that it would be dark when I left.”

“The Eberharts’? Oh, yes, you were trolling for information about Bingham and his daughter. Did you get anything?”

“Not really.” Bethancourt leant back, stretching his legs out. “There was certainly nothing in Bingham’s manner that led anybody to suspect he was displeased with her, or had any intention of disinheriting her. But money is not her only motive; she may well have been harboring a deep resentment against him for years. Of course, that isn’t to say that in fact she was.”

“No,” agreed Gibbons, sighing. “There’s nothing to prove anything. Nearly anybody could have done it, but why should they?”

“His mysterious girlfriend might have done it,” suggested Astley-Cooper.

“We might know the answer to that if only we could find out who she was.” Gibbons shook his head, frustrated. “We don’t even know where he died. I never saw such a case. I’ll never be promoted at this rate.”

“Yes, you will,” contradicted Bethancourt. “What were you and Carmichael doing all day?”

“Investigating Andrew Sealingham, Bingham’s partner,” answered Gibbons. He glanced at Astley-Cooper, and added before going on, “You understand this is not for publication, Mr. Astley-Cooper? We can’t have the whole village discussing the police’s innermost thoughts about the case.”

“Of course, of course, my dear sir,” said Astley-Cooper. “That’s quite understood and I assure you I’ll be as discreet as the grave.” He hesitated, his face falling. “Or would you prefer I excuse myself? Probably the proper thing to do …”

“No, no,” said Bethancourt, who understood how Astley-Cooper felt from his own experiences in the early days of sitting in on discussions between Gibbons and Carmichael. “I think we can trust Clarence to keep this all to himself.”

Gibbons nodded acceptance of this guarantee. “Well,” he said, “as far as money goes, Andrew Sealingham had as much motive as Eve. But we got nothing today. If he was at all concerned about Bingham’s return to England, he didn’t mention it to anyone we could find. And there was nothing in his business dealings he might have wanted to conceal—our Andrew is squeaky clean.”

“Does he have a prescription for Seconal?” asked Bethancourt.

Gibbons shook his head. “Not according to his doctor. But of course, the problem with that angle is that anyone might have borrowed a few tablets from a friend. Possibly not even with the friend’s knowledge.”

Astley-Cooper was frowning in thought. “It’s terribly odd about Charlie’s girlfriend,” he said. “I can’t see how it could have been anyone in the village, and yet he’s not spent very much time away. Not enough to have met someone, I mean.”

“What about that list of summer visitors that Pat Stikes made up?” asked Bethancourt. “Has anything come of that?”

Gibbons yawned and shook his head. “Not really,” he answered. “Mathers has worked his way through them, but he’s only got two possibles, and he’s not very sanguine about either of them. But of course, Stikes concentrated on women from the London area, and for all we know, this woman could have lived almost anywhere.”

Bethancourt frowned, thinking this over.

“It seems to me,” he said slowly, “that if I were having a secret affair with a woman who lived anywhere nearby, I would hardly use London as an alibi. I would tell people I was heading into Cirencester, or perhaps Swindon. I think it’s most likely the lady does live, if not in London itself, then at least a good piece of the way there.”

“Probably,” admitted Gibbons. “In any case, we’ve had another idea: that perhaps she could be a weekender. After all, this whole affair seems to have started in the spring, just the time one would open a summer cottage.”

“Good thinking,” said Bethancourt. “Clarence, can you think of anyone like that?”

Astley-Cooper shrugged. “Not really,” he answered. “There’s not much account taken of the summer people, truth to tell. Gerald Owens, the grocer, you know, he might know better.”

Gibbons yawned again. “We’ll have a go at him tomorrow,” he said. “And we haven’t asked the constable about it yet—it’s her day off.”

Bethancourt was regarding his friend rather severely.

“Jack,” he said, “if you don’t stop yawning, we shall take away your cognac and send you off to bed.”

Gibbons grinned tiredly at him.

“I expect that’s where I belong,” he said. “It’s very wearisome investigating a thing all day and getting nowhere.”

“I daresay it must be,” said Astley-Cooper sympathetically. “Rather like trying to find a good source of Stonesfield slate before the National Trust will let you repair your roof.”

“Slate?” asked Gibbons. “Wouldn’t there be a quarry?”

“There was—in 1640,” said Astley-Cooper sadly. “I believe the last mine closed somewhere around the turn of the century.”

“Oh,” said Gibbons a little blankly. He tried to think of some appropriate comment, but instead merely yawned. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I really am all in. I think I’d better say good night.”

“I’ll walk you to the car,” said Bethancourt, rising. “Cheer up, old man. Maybe there will be a break in the case tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” said Gibbons doubtfully. “Good night, Mr. Astley-Cooper.”

“Good night, my boy. Get a good rest.”

CHAPTER
10

B
ethancourt woke with a start, jolted to alertness by a hand shaking his shoulder. Blinking, he peered up into the dark to see a blurry face he thought must be Astley-Cooper’s.

“Clarence?” he said, rolling over. “Is everything all right?”

“Tip-top, my boy,” said Astley-Cooper. “I’m awfully sorry to wake you, but I couldn’t wait ’til morning.”

Bethancourt rubbed his face blearily. It was dark in the room, but a stream of light came in from the hall through the open doorway.

“That’s all right,” he said sleepily.

Cerberus was standing beside Astley-Cooper, apparently joining in his excitement to judge from the wagging tail. The Borzoi, however, had what their host lacked: experience in waking his master. He shoved a cold nose under Bethancourt’s naked arm.

“Ow!” said Bethancourt. “Stop that, Cerberus.”

He pushed himself into a sitting position and scraped the hair out of his eyes.

“So sorry,” said Astley-Cooper, not sounding sorry at all. “I truly would have burst if I had had to keep this to myself ’til morning.”

“Of course,” said Bethancourt vaguely, reaching for his glasses. “What time is it?”

Astley-Cooper peered at the clock, but failed to make it out in the dim light.

“Five-ish?” he suggested.

“Ah,” said Bethancourt, adjusting his glasses and stretching out a hand to pet his dog. “So why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” replied Astley-Cooper, seating himself on the edge of the bed, his face shining with repressed excitement. “Phillip, I do believe I know who Bingham’s girlfriend is.”

“You do?” asked Bethancourt stupidly.

“I can’t think how it never occurred to me before,” went on Astley-Cooper. “But once it came to me, it was perfectly obvious. She’s only here part of the time, she has a place in London, and she’s certainly attractive.”

“All right,” said Bethancourt, making a heroic effort to wake up, “I’ll bite. Who is it?”

“Joan Bonnar,” announced Astley-Cooper with a flourish, and he bounced on the bed.

Bethancourt stared at him, his sluggish brain trying to make sense of this.

“I expect,” continued Astley-Cooper, obviously pleased with himself, “I didn’t think of her at once because she’s so very seldom here. Only, of course, when I
did
think of her, I realized that she’s been down here quite a lot recently—spent most of the summer at the farmhouse, really—and then it all made sense.”

It was making sense to Bethancourt, too, even in his newly awakened state.

“Good God,” he said, staring at the dim outline of Astley-Cooper’s face in the dark. “Clarence, you’re brilliant. Here, do you mind if we have the light on?”

He reached for the bedside lamp, cursing himself for not seeing the obvious, when it occurred to him just why he had never thought of this particular solution: Joan Bonnar was too firmly fixed in his mind as belonging to another world. She was starring in a play in London, her last film had come out in the summer, she was a legend and as such did not have affairs with everyday people.

Only it seemed that she did.

“Good grief,” he muttered and switched on the lamp, blinking in the sudden light. He fell back against the pillows and gazed at his host in amazement.

“Joan Bonnar,” he said. “It seems absolutely incredible.”

“Doesn’t it though?” agreed Astley-Cooper cheerfully. “You can see, though, how it all works out, can’t you?”

Bethancourt, on the verge of replying that he did, realized in the nick of time that Astley-Cooper was panting to explain his thought process.

“It explains the secrecy,” Astley-Cooper was saying, “because she’d naturally want to keep it out of the tabloids. And it explains the expensive clothes you found, because of course Joan Bonnar has pots of money. But most of all, it explains why Bingham was leaving to visit a lady friend on a Sunday afternoon—because the theaters are closed on Sunday.”

“That’s right,” said Bethancourt. “Joan Bonnar’s in a new play, isn’t she? I remember seeing a review of it last month.”

“Exactly.” Astley-Cooper beamed at him. “I’ve got it right this time, haven’t I?” he asked. “I’ve not muddled anything up this go ’round.”

Bethancourt laughed. “No, Clarence, you certainly haven’t,” he said. “Though,” he added, sobering, “it’s hard to think of Joan Bonnar as a murderess.”

Astley-Cooper shifted uneasily on the bed. “Perhaps she’s not?” he suggested.

“Perhaps,” said Bethancourt. “There are other suspects, after all. Here, hand me my mobile, will you? We’ll see what Scotland Yard says about it.”

Astley-Cooper looked startled. “Now?” he faltered. “Don’t you think, Phillip, you had better wait ’til morning to ring the police?”

“Nonsense,” said Bethancourt, lighting a cigarette and carefully balancing the ashtray on his stomach. “If they wanted to sleep through the night, they should have thought of this themselves—as you said, Clarence, it’s perfectly obvious. Hand over that phone.”

Astley-Cooper did as requested.

As a policeman, having his night’s sleep broken by the insistent ringing of the phone was second nature to Gibbons. He groped on the bedside table, found his mobile by touch, opened it, and held it to his ear, all without so much as opening his eyes.

“Hullo,” he grunted, face still half-mashed into the pillows.

“Wake up,” came Bethancourt’s voice. “Clarence has figured out who the mystery lady is.”

“Wha—?” Gibbons’s eyes flew open. “Phillip?”

“That’s right.”

“Hold on a tic …”

Gibbons struggled into a sitting position and turned on the light. When he saw the time, he cursed his friend roundly.

“Are you drunk?” he demanded.

“Not at all,” replied Bethancourt. “I am merely keeping the police informed in a timely manner. Have you happened to hear that Joan Bonnar is coming down to visit her children tomorrow?”

“Dear Lord.” Gibbons flopped back down into the bed, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “Please tell me you haven’t woken me up to discuss village gossip.”

“Apparently,” persisted Bethancourt, “Miss Bonnar has been staying down here quite frequently over the past few months.”

Gibbons’s eyes opened again. “No,” he said. “You can’t be trying to tell me you think Joan Bonnar is a murderess.”

“Possibly not,” admitted Bethancourt. “But I do think she was Bingham’s girlfriend. Think about it—it all fits.”

Gibbons thought. “It does all fit,” he agreed in another moment. “Why did we never think of her before? I rather had the impression that she was rarely here, and stayed holed up in the farmhouse when she was.”

“I thought the same thing,” said Bethancourt. “Which of course is why we didn’t think of it. Are you going to tell Carmichael?”

“Of course,” began Gibbons, and then caught himself. “You mean now? Don’t be an idiot, Phillip, it’s five o’clock in the morning. It can certainly wait another two or three hours—in fact, I don’t know why you didn’t wait to ring me. Surely you didn’t think there was anything that could be done at this hour.”

“I rang,” retorted Bethancourt, “because we’re all excited up here at the manor about finally getting a break in the case. Clarence is opening the champagne as we speak. I didn’t want to leave you out of it.”

“Thanks so much,” said Gibbons dryly. “Since I’m in no position to share the champagne, I hope you don’t mind if I ring off and go back to sleep.”

“As you like,” said Bethancourt cheerfully. “But don’t blame me if Joan Bonnar is escaping at this very moment, only you’re too sleepy to catch her.”

“Good night, Phillip,” said Gibbons and shut off his phone.

Carmichael, presented with this theory the next morning at breakfast, was equally struck by its merits. Upon consideration, however, he decided not to race directly off to the farmhouse and confront the Bensons and Mrs. Potts.

“Always assuming we’re right about this,” he told Gibbons, “I’ve no doubt we could get the Bensons to admit to it. But there would be no way of preventing them from alerting Miss Bonnar before she ever got here, and I’d rather take her by surprise, too. Much rather,” he added thoughtfully. “No, since she’s due here anyway, I think we’ll wait to pay our visit to the farmhouse until after she’s arrived.”

Accordingly, Gibbons and Constable Stikes had taken it in turn to keep watch on the entrance to the farmhouse lane until at last, just before sunset, Stikes looked up and saw a black Mercedes saloon coming along the road toward her. She thought she recognized it, but waited until it had slowed and made the turn into the lane before she picked up her mobile and rang Gibbons.