Village Affairs (7 page)

“Phillip,” said Marla coolly, “has spent the whole day looking over suspects.”

“That’s right,” said Astley-Cooper hastily. “You never did say, by the way, why the police think old Bingham was murdered.”

“The body was moved after death,” said Bethancourt.

“That’s all?” asked Astley-Cooper. “That’s not much. Whoever found him could have got the wind up about it and hauled him back to his house.”

“And poured the corpse a glass of whisky?” retorted Bethancourt. “The only reason for doing that was if he died in a place where he wasn’t supposed to be. Speaking of which, you don’t happen to know who his girlfriend was, do you?”

“Didn’t know he had one,” replied Astley-Cooper promptly. “Never saw him about with anyone.”

“Perhaps he was having an affair with the vicar’s wife,” suggested Marla.

Astley-Cooper laughed. “That’s right,” he said. “She was alone on Sunday night—the vicar was up here, playing chess.”

“No,” muttered Bethancourt. “She’s the wrong size.”

The others did not hear him.

Forensics reported that Bingham’s fingerprints in his car were overlaid by smudges. Translated, that meant gloved hands. The various medicine bottles found in his cabinet had contained heart medications, and the three loose tablets corresponded with the sedative found in Bingham’s body at the postmortem. This was Seconal, a powerful sleeping pill, and one which forensics thought incompatible with the heart medications. Other than that, they had little to report.

“Do you want me to look into the sedative, sir?” asked Gibbons. “It looks rather as if he had borrowed them.”

Carmichael sighed. “Yes,” he replied, “you had better see Dr. Cross, however unlikely it seems that the Seconal was prescribed.” He frowned. “I wonder why Bingham was using it.”

“Forensics says it’s mostly prescribed as a sleeping tablet.”

“I don’t mean that, Sergeant. I meant, why did he take it on the evening he died? It seems an odd thing to do if he was, as we’ve speculate, spending the night with his girlfriend.”

“That’s true, sir,” agreed Gibbons, frowning as well. “Perhaps something upset him and he used it to calm down?”

“Yes,” said Carmichael, a little doubtfully. “That’s no doubt it.”

“At least,” added Gibbons, “we now know something about her.”

Carmichael raised a bushy brow. “We do?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. We know she has trouble sleeping and has a prescription for Seconal.”

Carmichael chuckled. “Probably true enough,” he said. “Well, off you go, lad. I’ll stay here at the station and try to get hold of the London solicitors. Even if this death is eventually ruled a misadventure, we don’t want to leave any loose ends. And,” he added appreciatively, “this is certainly a pretty part of the country in which to spend a few days.”

He glanced out the window, though in fact Constable Stikes’s office looked out on the car park, with only a hint of the hills to be seen above the tops of the buildings opposite.

“It is that, sir,” said Gibbons, agreeing automatically. The beauties of the Cotswolds had not entirely escaped him, but in his current state of depression, he had paid them scant heed.

Dr. Cross’s consulting rooms were also in Stow-on-the-Wold, not very far from the police station. Gibbons found them easily enough, but once arrived there he was forced to wait almost twenty minutes while the doctor finished seeing a patient. He attempted to pass the time by chatting with the nurse—a thin, middle-aged woman with a mouth like a slit—but she did not respond to his overtures. With a sigh, he settled back in his chair and fell to contemplating the perversity of women in general. He was really quite relieved when at last he was called into the doctor’s inner sanctum.

Dr. Cross was a short man with white hair and a brisk manner. He was plainly appalled at the sedative mentioned by Gibbons.

“Certainly I did not prescribe it for him,” he said tartly. “Do you think I would have kicked up such a fuss at the autopsy if I had? With his heart condition that sort of thing could kill him. In fact, it did.”

“Was he aware of that, do you think?”

“He was aware of his heart condition. I don’t believe I ever specifically warned him against Seconal, but why should I? So far as I am aware, he had no trouble sleeping. And that’s something people usually tell their doctors.”

“I understand,” said Gibbons, trying a new tack, “that you had advised him to cut down on his smoking and drinking?”

“I advised him to give up both,” answered the doctor dryly. “He’d had a previous heart attack while he was in China—in fact, I suspect he had two. I told him if he didn’t give up smoking and drinking, it was only a matter of time before he would have a third, and possibly fatal, attack.”

“So you weren’t surprised when Reverend Tothill rang you on Monday?”

“Well, now, I wouldn’t say that.” Dr. Cross looked thoughtful. “He was, as I understand it, leading a very strenuous life in China, virtually without any medical attention at all. On the whole, I would have expected him to live for quite a while longer here, with the new prescriptions I’d given him, and without heaving a heavy backpack about. So I was rather surprised when the vicar rang up and said he was dead. In view of that, I thought we’d better have the postmortem, but I can’t say I was expecting to find anything. Heart cases do sometimes pop off suddenly. And although I did advise him to change his vices, and so did Dr. Loomis, he certainly did no such thing.”

“Dr. Loomis?” asked Gibbons.

“Dr. Preston Loomis,” replied Dr. Cross. “He’s a well-known cardiologist in London. Bingham consulted him directly upon his return to this country, before he came down here. He saw me after he’d been here two or three months and his prescriptions from Dr. Loomis had run out.”

“Do you have Dr. Loomis’s address?” asked Gibbons.

“Yes, my nurse can give it to you on your way out.”

Gibbons thanked the doctor for his time and went out for a fresh attack on the grim-mouthed nurse.

CHAPTER
5

“B
other,” said Leandra Tothill.

She was just leaving for choir practice, a sheaf of music that her husband had forgotten under her arm, when the telephone rang. She turned back to the parlor to answer it.

“Hello,” said a high, rather imperious voice. “Is Mrs. Tothill there? This is Eve Bingham.”

“Oh,” said Leandra faintly, taken unawares. “This is Mrs. Tothill.”

“I’ve had a message to ring you,” Eve Bingham said crisply. “I’ve also had messages from Scotland Yard and my solicitors. What on earth is my father up to now? I know he’s an absolute devil, but surely he hasn’t managed to get himself arrested and excommunicated all at once?”

“No,” said Leandra, rallying. “He’s not in trouble exactly, Miss Bingham. I’m afraid it’s rather bad news.”

“Bad news?”

“Yes. Your father had a heart attack on Sunday. I’m afraid he passed away, Miss Bingham.”

There was a long silence at the other end of the line.

“Miss Bingham?” said Leandra. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she replied, almost fiercely. “On Sunday, you say?”

“My husband, the vicar, found him Monday morning.”

Again there was silence. Then came the sound of a long, shuddering breath.

“Miss Bingham, I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Yes. I mean, thank you.” It was almost a whisper.

Another pause, but Leandra didn’t like to break into it. Finally the voice came again, dully.

“What has Scotland Yard to do with it? Tilly said they rang after you did.”

“There is some question about his death,” answered Leandra, trying to put it gently. “They’re not entirely satisfied it was a natural one.”

“I see.” But from the tone, Leandra doubted she had taken it in.

“Thank you for calling me, Mrs. Tothill. I’ll come at once.”

“If you like to let us know, my husband or I will be glad to meet you at the station.”

“It’s all right. I’ll be driving myself.”

“Well, if there’s anything else you want, don’t hesitate to ring.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tothill. You’ve been very kind.”

Marla’s good temper had been restored by dinner at a pleasant restaurant recommended by Astley-Cooper. She and Bethancourt were now strolling down the deserted High Street in the direction of the church. Chipping Chedding was a very picturesque village, which accounted for the number of disillusioned city dwellers who had retreated there, or at least taken a house for the summer. Chipping Chedding was their idea of the English countryside personified.

The church, toward which Bethancourt and Marla leisurely picked their way with Cerberus at their heels, was a solid example of the Perpendicular style like so many of the churches built by the highly profitable wool trade in the fifteenth century. Chipping Chedding’s church was not, perhaps, a paradigm of the Perpendicular, but that did not stop the villagers from being very proud of it.

The church was set on a rise at the end of the High Street amid a pool of grass. Light glowed behind the colored panes of the windows and, as they approached, a low murmur of music could be heard.

“They’re still at it,” said Bethancourt. He peered at his watch. “It’s half nine,” he said. “Shall we go in and listen? They should be finished shortly.”

“What about Cerberus?”

“He can come, too. We’ll sit in the back and no one will notice.”

It was dim in the church and peaceful, with the high Perpendicular nave arching away above them. They slipped into a shadowy pew and let the music wash over them. The choir was surprisingly good, although the organist left something to be desired, and the acoustics of the old church sent the sound clearly back to them.

“There’s Clarence,” whispered Marla, snuggling against him.

Bethancourt nodded and put his arm about her.

“I didn’t know he had such a good voice,” he said.

In ten minutes or so the rehearsal came to its end and the choir set down their music and began to collect their various belongings. The vicar’s voice echoed back, reminding them of a few things for Sunday. Bethancourt and Marla remained seated, waiting for Astley-Cooper to detach himself.

Eventually, he came down the aisle toward them, accompanied by a tall woman with a long face and iron-gray hair.

“Hello,” he said. “Did you hear us? This is Martha Potts, one of our altos. She’s the housekeeper up at the Bonnar place. Martha, this is Phillip Bethancourt and Marla Tate. Marla’s one of the models who came down to Stutely the other day.”

“I thought you looked familiar,” exclaimed Mrs. Potts, shaking hands. “I’ve often seen your picture in the magazines.”

Marla accepted this accolade with a smile.

“Oh, and here’s our vicar. Reverend Tothill, Marla Tate. I think you’ve already met Bethancourt here.”

“Yes, of course. How lovely to meet you, Miss Tate. I hope all went well up at Stutely Manor for the shoot?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Marla, flashing her famous smile. “Clarence is a perfect host.”

“Well, we’re very honored to have you here. There’s my wife—Lee, come and meet Miss Tate. You remember Mr. Bethancourt.”

More introductions ensued and gradually the party edged their way down the nave and out into the porch. Whether because of tact or a genuine liking for dogs, Tothill made no mention of the large Borzoi in his church.

They waited at the door while the vicar closed up, and then made their way down the street to the Deer and Hounds, following the stream of choristers already headed in that direction.

“I left a message at the police station,” Leandra told Bethancourt as she fell in beside him. “Eve Bingham rang this evening. She said she’s coming over at once.”

“How did she take it?”

“She was naturally very distressed. I hated having to break the news over the phone.”

“Of course, it was a shock for her. She did seem shocked, didn’t she?”

“Yes, certainly. What a funny question.”

“Not really.” Bethancourt paused to light a cigarette. “One has to remember, you know, that she is now an heiress. A very wealthy one.”

“But she was in Paris when Charlie died,” protested Leandra.

“We only think she was,” said Bethancourt. “Has she ever visited her father here?”

Leandra shook her head. “Never. Charlie talked about her from time to time—I think he was very fond of her in his way, and proud, too. But he never spoke of expecting to see her here and as far as I know, he didn’t.”

“Did you have the impression they were close?”

“How could they be? She lived in Europe and he spent most of the last twenty years in Africa and the Far East.”

“Yes, I expect you’re right there. Well, we will just have to wait until the lady arrives.”

“But I rather thought,” began Leandra, “that is, we got the impression from the chief inspector that he thought Charlie’s death was probably an accident.”

Bethancourt could hardly tell her he was hoping it was murder in order to cheer his friend Gibbons up.

“Very likely it was,” said Bethancourt, smiling at her. “You must allow for an enthusiast’s point of view. Amateur sleuthing is my hobby, so naturally I prefer there be something to investigate.”

The Deer and Hounds was crowded with even more than the usual Wednesday night throng. Chipping Chedding had rarely had so newsy a day: the murder of Charlie Bingham, the arrival of Scotland Yard, the revelation that Bingham was rich, and, to top it all off, a famous fashion model in their midst. Everyone was very eager to discover if she was as beautiful in real life as she appeared in magazines. As usual on such occasions, opinion on this topic was widely divided, but Marla was nevertheless soon surrounded by a crowd of admirers.

It was not long before Bethancourt was separated from both his girlfriend and his host; Astley-Cooper was glued to Marla’s side, clearly enjoying his role of host to the elite. Bethancourt, looking around, thought with amusement that tomorrow no one would even remember he had been present.

He found himself in a corner with Mrs. Potts, who was introducing him to her employers, James and Julie Benson. These, he remembered, were the children of the actress, Joan Bonnar. Like most children of famous people who are not famous in their own right, they were polite and somewhat reserved. Neither bore any particular resemblance to their mother beyond a fairness of complexion; certainly there was nothing about them that reflected Joan Bonnar’s charisma and beauty. In their midtwenties, both were a little overweight, pleasant-faced without being particularly attractive, a perfectly ordinary example of English siblings. Julie’s thick brown-blond hair was her chief beauty, and she had made all she could of it by growing it long; the single braid fell to her waist. Bethancourt privately thought that a shorter cut would have flattered her face better.