Village Affairs (32 page)

“False alarm,” she said. “It was only Derek Towser, also ringing to give us the news. He said she was drowned?”

Obligingly, Astley-Cooper began his story again. When he had finished, Tothill sighed again and Leandra’s hand tightened on his.

“I’d better go out there and see if there’s anything I can do. Not that there is,” he added gloomily.

Leandra smiled at him and ran a hand through her hair. “No,” she said, “but people like to have you rally ’round. It’ll make Martha feel better anyhow.”

“I suppose it will. Normally, I’d contact the undertakers first, but of course in this case they won’t be wanted for sometime. And besides, I don’t know what arrangements may have been made. Miss Bonnar might have wished to be buried in London.”

“You could still offer to talk to whichever funeral parlor it is,” said Leandra. “Only do take off that jumper before you go. I don’t think orange is quite the thing somehow.”

Tothill looked down at himself as if surprised to find he was wearing orange, and Bethancourt stifled a laugh.

But he was thoughtful as he and Astley-Cooper left Tothill to get on with the business of being the vicar and made their way toward the pub. He had hoped that this new development might strike some chord in the minds of those who had known Bingham best, but the look in Tothill’s eyes had been bewilderment. Oddly, his wife’s eyes had betrayed fear, but fear of what he could not tell.

It was past midnight and raining steadily. The temperature had dropped and, in deference to this, Astley-Cooper had set a blazing fire going in the huge, seventeenth-century fireplace. Like everything else in the house, the fireplace’s ornamental hood was a fine example of its period, but this particular piece of antiquity did not appear to depress its owner, possibly because it was in fine repair.

“Draws beautifully,” he said, patting the hood affectionately. “You can get a really good fire going in there.”

Bethancourt and Gibbons grunted assents. They had already pushed their chairs back several feet from the heat of the blaze, while Cerberus had removed himself to the far side of the room.

“And,” added Astley-Cooper triumphantly, “it never needs anything doing to it, beyond having the chimney sweep in once in a while. But you have to do that with any chimney, even the most modern ones.”

They duly admired the functionality of the fireplace, while their host slipped back to his seat and promptly began to doze.

Gibbons felt rather like dozing himself. He had recovered from his earlier immersion in the lake, but it had been a very long day and between the fire and the whisky, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. Yawning, he made an effort to rouse himself, sitting up straighter and sipping at his drink.

“What it really comes down to,” said Bethancourt, “is whether we think she was murdered or not. And, if not, do we think she killed Bingham?”

Gibbons yawned again. “There’s nothing to go on,” he said. “I told you about the autopsy: she was drunk, had taken a couple of her sedatives, and she drowned. She died somewhere between ten and eleven thirty. The accident scenario is probably the simplest explanation.”

Bethancourt narrowed his eyes. “The accident scenario,” he said dubiously, “being the one where she was miserable, and when the whisky didn’t put her to sleep, she took her tablets on top of that. They would take a few minutes to work, and she grew impatient when she didn’t drop off at once and decided to go for a walk. However, by the time she reached the lake, the tablets were making her drowsy at last, so she sat on the rock, passed out, and fell into the water. It doesn’t seem very likely to me. What does Carmichael say?”

“He doesn’t like it. He says it’s by far the most reasonable explanation, along with the idea that Bingham took a sedative by accident in her London house, and she and Watkinson panicked and moved the body, but he doesn’t like it. Neither do I.”

“Ah.” Astley-Cooper came to suddenly with a grunt. He blinked at them. “So you think she was drugged on purpose, like Charlie?”

“That would make Martha Potts the prime suspect,” said Bethancourt. “Her alibi isn’t really very good: her sister on the one hand, and the Benson twins on the other. And it’s perfectly obvious they’d lie themselves black in the face for her, especially if they truly believed her innocent.”

“Don’t be an ass, Phillip,” said Astley-Cooper. “Why on earth should Martha Potts do anything of the kind?”

Bethancourt lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke lazily. “Possibly she had an affair with Bingham before he met Joan Bonnar. Last bid for love and all that.”

“Oh, really.” Astley-Cooper swallowed half his drink in annoyance and then coughed miserably.

“She could have taken the tablets herself and still have been murdered,” pointed out Gibbons helpfully. “After all, she walked down there herself—the liquor and drugs clearly hadn’t made her that woozy. Derek Towser by his own admission was walking there. Possibly he’d made an appointment with her, or it might have been just accident. Either way, they talk, and she lets something slip which alarms him. Very likely something she doesn’t realize the importance of, but which to Towser is the death knoll. So he tips her into the lake, and she’s too drunk to save herself. It doesn’t take long to drown,” he added reflectively. “I remember another case, an accident. There was a party of very drunken people who decided to have a late-night swim to cap off their evening. They were having a grand old time, throwing each other into the pool, splashing about and so on. One young man was so drunk, he got turned around in the water and drowned. The others never noticed until it was too late.”

The room was quiet. Astley-Cooper had fallen asleep again during this recital. Bethancourt pitched his cigarette end into the fireplace and rested his fair head against the back of the chair, staring into the flames.

“That’s a very sad story,” he said at last.

“Yes, it was rather pathetic. They were all so bedraggled, and half of them still hadn’t any clothes on when we got there. They were just shivering around in towels.”

“I’m rather sorry you told me,” said Bethancourt. “And sorry you had to see it, of course.”

Gibbons shrugged. “Part of the job.”

“Yes, I suppose so. It must make you wonder why you went in for it in the first place, though.”

“Because it’s mostly interesting, I’m good at it, and it has a future,” replied Gibbons. “The more interesting question is why you do it. You needn’t if you didn’t want to.”

Bethancourt was silent for a space. He lit another cigarette, sipped his drink, and then said, “Curiosity, mostly, I expect. I like figuring things out about people. And because it’s your job and I like thinking things out with you. And also, I suppose …” His voice trailed off.

“Also what?” asked Gibbons.

Bethancourt inhaled deeply and then watched the smoke escape in the firelight. “There’s something real about it,” he said. “Something very basic.”

“Yes,” said Gibbons after a moment. “I know what you mean.”

They were quiet then, each occupied with his own thoughts, watching the fire with an abstracted air. Then the bottom log gave way with a crack and shower of sparks, waking both Astley-Cooper and the dog. Cerberus circled and lay down at his master’s feet, while Astley-Cooper, who clearly had no recollection of being asleep, said firmly, “Of course. Not that I think Derek Towser did it, either, mind you. It could have been anyone. What about the daughter?”

“Substitute Eve Bingham in the Derek Towser scenario,” said Gibbons. “It would work equally well.”

Astley-Cooper nodded, looking a little confused since he hadn’t heard most of the Derek Towser scenario.

“Or put in the twins,” said Bethancourt suddenly.

“They have an alibi for Bingham’s murder,” Gibbons reminded him.

“And she was their mother!” spluttered Astley-Cooper.

“Perhaps Bingham’s death really was an accident,” said Bethancourt, ignoring his host.

Gibbons raised a brow. “Surely,” he said, “Joan Bonnar’s death is more likely to be the accidental one.”

“Yes, yes—you’re right.” Bethancourt subsided.

Astley-Cooper had risen and was prodding at the logs with the poker.

“I don’t think I’ll put on another one,” he said, glancing at the clock. “It’s going well enough and it’s after one.”

To this his overheated guests readily agreed. Astley-Cooper patted the hood fondly again, reached for the bottle, and topped up everyone’s drinks. Then he settled back into his chair and began to doze off again.

“What about Bingham’s partner?” asked Bethancourt.

“Andrew Sealingham? Apart from the fact that he had no possible reason to want Joan Bonnar dead, he’s got an alibi of sorts. He went to a film with his wife. We haven’t actually checked at the cinema, but he seems a very unlikely suspect.”

Bethancourt nodded.

Gibbons stretched his legs out before him and settled back into his chair. “What about you, Phillip?” he asked. “You never said how you felt about the idea of an accident.”

“I think it’s rot,” Bethancourt replied. “It just doesn’t feel right. For one thing, she smoked, didn’t she?”

Gibbons glanced at his friend curiously. “Yes, she did,” he said. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“Well, it’s possible that, being drunk, she forgot to take her cigarettes along when she decided to go for a walk,” said Bethancourt. “But I don’t believe she settled down on that rock without them. She’d want a cigarette then. I mean, as a rule one smokes more when one’s been drinking.”

Gibbons eyed the ashtray. “You do, anyhow,” he said, and yawned.

“I know it’s a small thing,” said Bethancourt, “and probably easily explained away. But, given everything else, it’s just another little piece that doesn’t quite fit.”

Gibbons merely grunted agreement. He was very nearly reclining in his chair by now, and his blue eyes were sleepy.

Bethancourt smoked in silence for a moment, watching the flickering flames, turning over ideas in his mind.

“Of course,” he said in a moment, “if Joan was a threat to Bingham’s killer, it must have been because of something he told her, or possibly something he left at her house. Are you searching the London house tomorrow, Jack?”

There was no answer. Bethancourt turned to look at his friend and found him fast asleep. Smiling a little, he turned back to the fire and finished the last of his whisky. Cerberus, who had not had his beforebed outing, looked up hopefully.

“There’s something,” Bethancourt said to the dog, “that we still don’t know about this case.”

Cerberus wagged his tail.

CHAPTER
15

U
nconsciously, Martha Potts’s right hand felt for her left ring finger, and then stopped when there was no signet ring there. She sighed at herself. It was a nervous habit, she knew, but she missed it when the ring wasn’t there, the more so when she was upset about anything. She really must remember to ask her sister if she’d found it.

There was a knock at the kitchen door and she frowned. The police had barricaded off the end of the drive that morning, but she supposed that by now an energetic reporter might have found his way across the fields. She went to the door with a stern look, out of temper, and more than ready to heave newsmen off the premises herself.

But it was Phillip Bethancourt and his beautiful dog who stood on the step, Bethancourt smiling charmingly and apologizing for barging in while the dog waved his tail gently.

“That’s all right,” she said, opening the door. “Come in and have a cuppa. I thought you might be a reporter,” she added, to explain her first, inhospitable expression.

“Awful nuisances,” he said, seating himself at the butcher-block counter. “I expect you’re used to it?”

“Not really,” she answered, getting out a second mug for him and plucking the cozy off the teapot. “They’ve left us alone down here for the most part—except, of course, when Mr. Sinclair died.”

Bethancourt beamed at her. “That’s just what I’ve come to ask you about,” he said.

She looked surprised. “About Mr. Sinclair’s death?” she asked, handing him his cup and settling herself on the stool beside him.

“Yes. Miss Bonnar came down here after she heard the news, didn’t she?”

Mrs. Potts nodded. “She stayed for almost a fortnight.”

“And what did she do?”

“Carried on, mostly.” She shrugged.

“But, I mean, did she stay in her room, wander about the house? Did she eat her meals?”

“Oh.” Mrs. Potts thought back. “She ate virtually nothing for the first few days, I remember that. Locked herself in her room and cried for days straight, she did. Didn’t sleep, either, but she drank a good bit. Self-indulgence, I thought it, but I have to say when the starting date for her new film came, she packed her bags and went off to Spain just as she was supposed to. And she was good in the film, too. We all liked it.
The Daughter,
it was.”

Bethancourt nodded. “But she didn’t go for walks while she was here?”

“Lord, no. She was terrified of reporters—” Mrs. Potts stopped in midsentence and stared at him. “I see what you’re trying to do,” she said in a moment. “You’re trying to make out she was murdered.”

Bethancourt had removed his glasses and was rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No,” he answered. “I’m trying to get at the truth.”

Mrs. Potts sat silent for a moment, looking down at her hands. “Well,” she said slowly, “it’s true that after Mr. Sinclair died, Miss Bonnar wasn’t traipsing over the fields. But it’s also true that this time wasn’t so bad. She cried a bit, but she wasn’t locked in her room sobbing for days on end. And she ate her dinner Monday night. Maybe not as much as she would have normally, but she got a fair bit down.”

“Yes, I see.” He replaced his glassed and sipped at his tea. “Tell me something else,” he said. “When I was out searching with Julie yesterday, she mentioned her mother was not a great walker. Do you remember her being troubled at any other time and going for walks to work it out?”

She shook her head. “She went for walks, certainly, but mostly, as I remember, when it was a fine day or when one of us was going.” She paused, her hands fumbling together in her lap, and then sighed. “You do think she was murdered, don’t you?”