Village Affairs (42 page)

“I’ll order you a scotch, shall I?”

“By all means,” said Bethancourt. “Cheers.”

Gibbons had drunk half a pint by the time Bethancourt arrived and sought out the corner table Gibbons had procured for them.

“There you are,” said Gibbons, reaching out to pet Cerberus. “I’ve got your drink here.”

“Thanks,” said Bethancourt, slumping into a chair and taking up his glass at once. He savored a large swallow of the amber liquid and then sighed. “That’s better,” he said.

“Long day?” asked Gibbons.

“Long and painful and endless,” replied Bethancourt, stretching out his legs and lighting a cigarette. “How was yours?”

“Pretty long,” said Gibbons, “but there’s an end in sight. The evidence has been rolling in nicely all day, and Carmichael and I have very nearly finished the chief constable’s report. Carmichael’s meeting with him tomorrow morning before the inquest, and once that’s over we’ll be off home.”

“Home,” echoed Bethancourt. “That sounds nice.”

“But what have you been doing all day?” asked Gibbons. “Why were you at the hospital so long? Mrs. Tothill’s not worse, is she?”

“It all depends on what you mean by that,” responded Bethancourt. “The nurses assure me she’s healing up very well, but her spirits have definitely plummeted. Here, you might as well hear the story.”

Leaning forward and lowering his voice, Bethancourt briefly related the origin of the Tothills’ woes.

Gibbons was greatly surprised.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, when Bethancourt had done, “well, I never would have imagined. To tell the truth,” he added, looking rather embarrassed, “I was rather jealous of the Tothills. I mean, they seemed so happy together, and I kept thinking that if only Annette and I … well, never mind. I was wrong, wasn’t I? Mrs. Tothill turned out to be no better in the end.”

“That all depends on who you ask,” replied Bethancourt. “She claims she’s innocent of any such thing.”

“Well, she would, wouldn’t she?”

Bethancourt eyed his friend. He had been thinking that this case had at last succeeded in distracting Gibbons from his heartache over Annette Berowne. Certainly Gibbons’s spirits had improved since he had come to the Cotswolds, and he had seemed to be completely focused on the matter in hand, but that last remark clearly showed that not all the wounds were yet healed. Still, thought Bethancourt encouragingly, Gibbons seemed to be over the worst of it.

“I actually believe her,” said Bethancourt mildly, earning a startled look from his friend. “I’m as certain as I can be,” he added, “that my belief is not founded on a desire not to be proved wrong.”

Gibbons grinned at him. “Wouldn’t blame you if it was,” he said. “But, honestly, Phillip, how can you look at the fact that she went secretly and alone to Towser’s cottage, stayed there for some hours, and say you think it was an innocent visit?”

“Several things really,” answered Bethancourt. “For one, you should have seen her face when I told her the vicar believed she had been unfaithful. Astounded doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“She was probably astounded that he hadn’t believed her when she said she hadn’t.”

“But that’s just the point,” said Bethancourt. “She never told him she hadn’t slept with Towser—from her point of view she didn’t need to because such a thing was unthinkable. Her sin—and one she takes seriously, by the way—was one of indiscretion. It was very wrong for the vicar’s wife to accept an invitation from a man of a certain reputation to visit him alone, and she knew it was wrong when she did it. At the time, she no doubt convinced herself that no one but the most hide-bound would mistake her intentions, but that was debunked when Towser actually tried it on with her.”

Gibbons mulled this over for a moment in silence. “Oh, hell, Phillip,” he said at last. “You can always make the most impossible things sound quite reasonable.”

Bethancourt smiled. “And I can believe six of them before breakfast,” he said. “But I truly do think I’m right in this case. For another thing, look at the Tothills before all this happened: I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people so crazy about each other.”

“I’ll give you that,” said Gibbons. “I believe I said as much before.”

“Well, I find it difficult to believe that a woman so in love with her husband would even want Towser. Yes, he’s a remarkably handsome man, but he’s no more handsome than she is beautiful. And by all accounts, she’s had his like often enough before her marriage—it’s not as if he would be a novelty for her. I just don’t see where the temptation lies.”

Gibbons rubbed his chin. “There’s something in that,” he agreed. “When I was with Annette, it’s not as though I stopped noticing other women, or even stopped admiring them. But I wouldn’t have gone home with any of them. I wouldn’t have wanted to. I’d much rather be with Annette.”

He sounded wistful and Bethancourt winced inwardly.

“Exactly,” he said aloud. “And men’s libidos are notoriously more active than women’s.”

“Well,” sighed Gibbons, “I expect you’re probably right, you usually are about things like this. God knows,” he added bitterly, “you were right about Annette.”

“I never said—” began Bethancourt, but Gibbons waved him to silence.

“I know you didn’t,” he said. “I still knew how you felt. Never mind,” he continued, exhibiting a welcome, to Bethancourt’s mind, refusal to dwell on his heartbreak. “The one I feel sorry for,” he said, “is Mrs. Potts. I don’t know as she’ll ever get over it.”

“Did her sister turn up?” asked Bethancourt.

“Arrived this afternoon,” said Gibbons. “Mrs. Winslow,” he nodded toward the landlord’s wife, who presently stood behind the bar, “had gone up to keep an eye on her this morning. She said she couldn’t get Mrs. Potts to eat any lunch, but that she did seem glad to see her sister. Mrs. Winslow had a quiet word with her when she arrived, and says she seems well able to cope. She was talking—the sister, I mean—about getting Mrs. Potts right away, possibly even taking their usual vacation now instead of in the summer. Apparently they usually just go down to Cornwall, but they had been thinking about doing something a little more exciting this year, like going to the Greek islands. Mrs. Kimmel thinks something like that might be just the thing to help Mrs. Potts over the worst of it.”

Bethancourt privately thought that even the glory of Mediterranean islands would hardly be enough to soothe Mrs. Potts’s spirit, but he said, “She’s probably right. A change of scene will help—although I should save the islands until the trial comes up. Otherwise Mrs. Potts will feel it’s her duty to go and sit in court everyday, and that will be pure torture for her. There will be a trial, I expect?”

“It looks like it,” agreed Gibbons. “We never did get a word out of Julie Benson last night, except to deny everything. James was distressed enough to give us the story and some telling details, but he’s busy recanting everything today. That won’t make much difference in the end, we recorded everything, but Julie will be a closer thing. We’ve only got James’s word for it that she was involved at all.”

“But she gave him an alibi,” objected Bethancourt. “And she must have driven him back to London to get his car that night.”

“Oh, she admits to all that,” said Gibbons. “Only she claims that she had no notion what he’d been up to. Said he rang her saying he’d got into a spot of trouble with his car, and could she keep quiet about it and drive him back to town. She says naturally she did as he asked, never thinking there was anything seriously wrong.”

“I doubt she’ll get that past a jury,” said Bethancourt, taking another deep swallow of scotch.

“Well, I rather doubt it, too,” said Gibbons. “The more so as we’ve found absolutely no one who knows them who thinks James could have done it all on his own. And
somebody
walked down to the lake in Joan Bonnar’s shoes because we found a clear print. It certainly couldn’t have been James; his feet are twice the size. And it wasn’t Joan herself because James claims that Joan was completely unconscious and he rolled her down there in a wheelbarrow.”

Bethancourt shrugged. “Again, there’s only his word.”

Gibbons grinned at him. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “Forensics found the wheelbarrow out in the stable and they’ve pulled three blond hairs and four black fibers out of it. They’re busy matching them to Joan Bonnar’s hair and coat this moment.”

“Oh, well done,” said Bethancourt. “That ties it up nicely, don’t you think?”

“I do,” said Gibbons, still grinning. His tired eyes gleamed with satisfaction and he raised his glass before he drank. “Here’s to it.”

“Hear, hear,” said Bethancourt, lifting his own glass and knocking back the last of his whisky.

“Want another?” asked Gibbons.

“No, I’d better get back to the manor and see how Astley-Cooper’s evening went.”

“He was with the vicar?”

“That’s right,” said Bethancourt. “He wasn’t doing very well, last I heard—Reverend Tothill, I mean, not Clarence.”

Gibbons frowned. “I take it he doesn’t share your opinion of his wife’s innocence?”

“He didn’t,” answered Bethancourt. “But I haven’t spoken to Clarence since I rang to assure him Mrs. Tothill denies ever confessing to infidelity, much less committing it. Obviously, the vicar wasn’t immediately taken with the idea since he didn’t sprint off to hospital on the spot, but Clarence may have talked him ’round since.”

“Well, I hope they work it out,” said Gibbons, swallowing the last of his beer. “Speaking of relationships, how is Marla?”

“Still not speaking to me,” replied Bethancourt with a sigh. “Any reconciliation there will have to wait until I get back to London, I’m afraid.”

“You’ll talk her ’round,” said Gibbons confidently.

“I’m glad you’re so sure,” muttered Bethancourt.

“You always do,” pointed out Gibbons, pushing aside his empty glass. “Well, I had best get back to the chief constable’s report.”

“Yes, and I had better get on. Cerberus, come, lad.”

They parted amiably at the door of the pub.

“I’ll ring you tomorrow once I’ve got Carmichael safely ensconced with the chief constable,” said Gibbons.

“Right,” said Bethancourt. “And I’ll see you back in town.”

Gibbons paused on the point of turning away.

“You’re coming back soon then?” he asked.

“I’d better if I want to have a girlfriend,” said Bethancourt wryly.

Gibbons laughed and bade him good night.

Astley-Cooper was just arriving home himself when Bethancourt reached Stutely Manor. He looked tired, but his mood was giddy.

“There you are,” he said, smiling at Bethancourt. “Hullo, Cerberus, old lad. Now, Whiff, don’t be jealous.”

“Have you just come in?” asked Bethancourt, divesting himself of his coat.

“Yes, just this moment.” Astley-Cooper regarded the hall fondly, his eyes travelling over the linen fold paneling. “I must say, it’s nice to be home.” He looked back at Bethancourt. “I was just heading down to the kitchen,” he said. “I’m feeling a bit peckish, and there’s plenty of cold mutton left. And some apple tart. Would you like some?”

“Absolutely,” said Bethancourt happily. “I had to make do with another of those hospital sandwiches for dinner.”

“Poor boy,” said Astley-Cooper. “Come along then. Did Leandra’s family arrive?”

“Her sister did,” replied Bethancourt. “And her parents are due in tomorrow morning. How’s the vicar doing?”

“A bit better, I think,” said Astley-Cooper. “I finally got him bedded down with one of Dr. Cross’s pills. It put him out like a light. Oh, look, Mrs. Cummins has got some of that bread I like so much. Shall we make sandwiches?”

“By all means,” said Bethancourt, eyeing the bread greedily. “Shall I get the mutton out?”

“Yes—and see if there’s any lettuce, would you? There should be onion …”

“Do you want mustard?”

“Oh, yes, certainly, we must have mustard. There’s a knife in that drawer if you’d like to slice the mutton. Was Leandra very distressed when Richard didn’t come ’round?”

“Well, the news didn’t come at a very good time,” said Bethancourt, carving mutton. “The poor woman already had a head wound, and was still having nasty flashbacks about last night. She cried and they had to give her a sedative.”

“Oh, dear,” said Astley-Cooper. He had found a bread knife and was slicing thick slabs of bread from the loaf. “I was rather afraid of that.”

“Why didn’t Tothill turn up?” asked Bethancourt. “I mean, after I’d told you Mrs. Tothill claimed it was a misunderstanding. Did he not believe her?”

“He did at first,” said Astley-Cooper, laying aside the bread knife. “One could see the hope dawning in his eyes. But then he turned all fatalistic and decided she had probably lied to you since she would never admit such a thing to a stranger. I take it you still believe she’s telling the truth?”

“I do,” said Bethancourt firmly. “Did you put the mustard on?”

“Yes, it’s all ready, and I’ve sliced the onion, too. There, that makes a fine sandwich.”

“Do you honestly think there’s any chance the vicar will come around? In time to win her back, I mean.”

Astley-Cooper was startled. “Win her back?” he echoed. “Whatever do you mean, Phillip?”

“I mean,” said Bethancourt, grimly slicing the sandwiches, “that after the first shock, Mrs. Tothill is decidedly upset with her husband for leaping to the conclusion that she had been unfaithful to him, and her trust in him is eroding with every passing moment in which he fails to appear at her bedside. Her sister,” he added, “was not best pleased, either.”

“Oh, dear,” said Astley-Cooper again, shaking his head. “I can only say I’ve never seen Richard behave this way before. This whole business seems to have hit him where he lives, so to speak.”

“Indeed,” agreed Bethancourt.

“Yes, I quite lost my temper with him—here are the plates, and do you want a beer? I thought I’d have one.”

“Cheers, that’ll do very well.”

“Shall we just sit at the table here?”

They settled themselves with their sandwiches and took their first bites.

“Heaven,” murmured Bethancourt, washing down his mouthful with a deep draught of beer. “This was an excellent idea, Clarence.”