Cynthia Manson (ed) (37 page)

“It’s possible,” allowed Gibbons. “But
it is also very possible that Cathy Dresler is the murderess and did not have
the opportunity to retrieve the body before she had to leave for Australia.”

“Anything’s possible,” said Maria. “It’s
quite possible that Phillip killed this man himself, just to give himself
something foolproof to investigate.”

“Now, Maria—”

“Here come the starters,” she said
sweetly. “Shall I stay and eat them with you, or go elsewhere?”

“Sorry, darling,” said Bethancourt. “Jack
and I will keep off murder while we’re eating.”

“Of course,” agreed Gibbons hastily,
knowing Maria to be perfectly capable of dumping the starters over their heads
if they did not desist. “Not an appropriate dinner topic in any case.”

This rule was adhered to during the
rest of the meal, for which Bethancourt insisted on paying. Gibbons excused
himself soon afterward, saying he still had his notes to put in order before
returning to Dorset the next day.

“All right,” said Bethancourt. “I’ll
see you in the morning, then.”

“Nine o’clock, don’t forget,” said
Gibbons.

“I won’t. Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight,” chimed in Maria, and,
just to show there were no hard feelings, kissed his cheek.

Chief Inspector Wallace Carmichael
made his way down the stairs from his room and stood in the doorway, surveying
the clientele of the Lion’s Head pub in Dorset. He was a tall, ruddy-faced man
with bristling brown mustaches and sharp blue eyes. He glanced at his watch,
swore vehemently under his breath, and marched to a corner table from which he
could keep the door in view. Where the hell was Gibbons, anyway? He had rung up
last night to say he would be back this morning and here it was, wanting only a
few minutes to twelve, and no Gibbons. Carmichael felt himself to be a lenient
man with his subordinates; he gave them every opportunity to follow up their
own leads and express their opinions. After all, he wasn’t going to be at the
Yard forever, and there were the chief inspectors of tomorrow to think of. But
he didn’t think much of sleeping in when there was a job to be done, and young
Gibbons was going to get a piece of his mind on the subject. If he ever showed
up.

Carmichael had procured himself a
pint of bitter and a ploughman’s lunch and was just sitting down to it when
Gibbons entered, closely followed by a tall, slender young man with fair hair,
horn-rimmed glasses, and a large Russian wolfhound. Carmichael heaved a great
sigh.

“I have only one thing to say,” he
pronounced when Gibbons reached the table. “I am always pleased to have
Bethancourt here give us any help he likes, but he is not a member of the
force, he therefore cannot be disciplined by us, and if he can’t get up in the
morning,
do not,
in future, accept rides with him.”

“I really am most awfully sorry,
chief inspector,” said Bethancourt while Gibbons murmured, “Yes, sir,” and
glared at his friend.

Carmichael held up a hand. “No more
to be said. Just bear it in mind next time. Now, get yourselves some food and
drink and make a report.”

“I’ll get everything,” offered
Bethancourt. “You sit down, Jack, and don’t waste any more time.”

Gibbons shot him another glare, sat
down, and began digging in his briefcase for the postmortem report.

Carmichael looked it over and
listened to Gibbons’ recitation of the two interviews he had conducted.
Bethancourt, having procured the viands, sat silent and alert, giving his best
impression of the good schoolboy.

“Nothing yet on his clothes or from
missing persons?” asked Carmichael when Gibbons was gone.

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“Well, there’s been a development or
two here.” Carmichael sipped his beer and wiped his mustache carefully. “I’ve
spoken to Mrs. Dresler in Australia. She says she was in the attic sometime at
the beginning of her visit here. She can’t pin it down exactly, but it was
certainly prior to the Bank Holiday weekend. Nothing was out of place when she
was there—at any rate, the Christmas ornaments were not scattered about.”

“Does Mrs. Bainbridge corroborate
her statement?”

Carmichael shrugged. “She’s not
sure. Mrs. Dresler says she was looking for an old book of her father’s. A
first edition of Dickens it was. Mrs. Bainbridge remembers her daughter asking after
it and later finding it. She herself was under the impression the book was
still in the library, although she admits that she did pack up some of her
husband’s books at one time, and moved some others to different parts of the
house. There is a box of books in the attic, so Mrs. Dresler’s story may be
quite true.”

“What about fingerprints?”

“The attic’s filled with them. The
Australian police are taking a copy of Mrs. Dresler’s and sending them along.” Carmichael
pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and lit it carefully.

“O’Leary’s rung up from Northants,” he
went on, puffing, “but he hasn’t got much more than you, Gibbons. In fact, we’ve
got just about the whole family covered, but no one’s been in the attic in
donkey’s years, or so they claim.”

“Who haven’t we talked to, sir?”

“David Bainbridge—he’s on business
over in France and his wife doesn’t know when he’ll be returning. He was called
there rather unexpectedly, I gather. And we haven’t talked to Renaud Fibrier.”

“That was David Bainbridge’s business
partner?” asked Bethancourt.

“Actually, his partner’s son. I
haven’t really made much of an attempt to get hold of him yet—it seems unlikely
he would have gone to the attic unless he accompanied one of the others. In any
case, it may be a bit of a job finding him, since we don’t know whether he
lives here or in France. Mrs. Bainbridge—David’s wife, not the old lady— says
she was under the impression that he was living in England in August but had no
idea if that was a permanent or temporary situation.”

“Probably Mr. Bainbridge will know,
when he gets back,” said Gibbons.

“That’s what I’ve been counting on.”
Carmichael drained the last of his pint. “Well, if you’re finished, boys, we
best get on with it. There’s a whole village out there that may know something.
I assume you’re coming with us, Bethancourt?”

“Actually, I think I’d better beg
off,” said that young man. “Since you two are occupying the only two rooms this
pub has to offer, I have to find someplace to stay. And somewhere to leave
Cerberus.” He indicated the dog at his feet. “But I’ll catch you up later, if I
may.”

“Certainly, certainly,” answered
Carmichael heartily. He was a broadminded man, and even if Bethancourt’s father
had not been thick as thieves with the chief commissioner of New Scotland Yard,
well, he had to say Bethancourt had never gotten in the way yet. And he could
be very helpful when he chose, although Carmichael couldn’t help thinking that
if Phillip was so interested in detection, he should get himself a proper job
doing it.

Bethancourt, once they had gone,
moved over to the bar and ordered another pint. Cerberus came and lay patiently
at his feet. From his overcoat pocket, he produced a book entitled
Where
to Stay in England,
and began leafing through the Dorset section.

“Sorry I can’t put you up,” said the
publican, noticing this.

“That’s all right,” replied
Bethancourt amiably. “If you’ve only got two guest rooms, well, there it is.”

“That’s a fact, sir. Or should I say
inspector?”

“No, no,” said Bethancourt, sampling
his beer. “I’m not a policeman.”

“Oh,” said the publican, taken
aback. “Excuse me, sir, but I saw you with the chief inspector and the sergeant
there, and I just assumed....”

“I’m just a friend,” explained
Bethancourt. “I sometimes push round and give the police a hand, if I’m wanted.
My name’s Bethancourt.”

“Sam Heathcote, at your service, Mr.
Bethancourt.”

The two men shook hands.

“Perhaps you could help me,” said
Bethancourt, referring to his book. “Do you happen to know a Mrs. Tyzack?”

Heathcote chuckled. “There’s not
many folk I don’t know hereabouts. Mrs. Tyzack’s place is just outside the
village, on the same road as Mrs. Bainbridge, and she’ll do you proud. Nice
rooms she has, and a good cook into the bargain. If you don’t mind a bit of
chat, her place is as good as they come.”

“A bit of a talker, is she?”

“Lor’, sir. To be frank, she’d talk
the hind leg off a donkey. But she’s a good sort—don’t misunderstand me.”

“Lived here long?”

“Ever since she was married. She
started the bed and breakfast after old Tyzack passed on. Just between you and
me, he left her decently provided for—she just likes the company.”

“I see,” said Bethancourt. “Just one
more thing—what about the dog?” He indicated Cerberus, who had apparently
fallen asleep.

“That’s a fine animal, sir. Well,
Mrs. Tyzack has a dog of her own—a Yorkshire terrier, he is. If you think your
dog wouldn’t mind that. . . .“

“Oh, Cerberus is a friendly sort,” Bethancourt
assured him. “So long as the terrier is friendly, too, there shouldn’t be a
problem. Perhaps I might use your phone to see if Mrs. Tyzack has a room free?”

“You can take it from me she does.
There’s not much call for that sort of thing at this time of year. She doesn’t
have a guest in the place.”

“Well, then,” said Bethancourt,
finishing his beer, “I’ll just pop round and fix it up with her. Thank you very
much, Mr. Heathcote.”

Mrs. Tyzack was a short, plump woman
of sixty who was delighted to give Bethancourt a room and thought Cerberus a
lovely dog. This opinion was given after Cerberus had put down his nose to
sniff at the terrier doubtfully, and then proceeded to ignore him. The terrier,
puzzled by this attitude, butted him playfully; Cerberus looked round
dispassionately, carefully moved his hindquarters out of the terrier’s reach,
and then turned back with the air of having settled something. This did not
deter the terrier, however, and the performance was repeated several times on
the way upstairs.

“This is the nicest room,” said Mrs.
Tyzack, opening a door. “Looks down on the garden, as you can see, and, being
on the corner of the house, it has an extra window. Makes it ever so airy, I
always think. Oh, yes, thank you, I did do it up myself, although I had someone
in to help with the wallpaper. I’m glad you like it. There’s the bathroom just
down the hall on the right—it’s the second door down, you can’t miss it. And
your towels are here, as you can see. There’s no one else in the house at the
moment, so you can leave them in the bathroom if you’d rather. Well, I suppose
I’d best let you get settled. Would you like some tea or anything?”

“That would be lovely,” said
Bethancourt. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Take your time,” she replied
cheerfully. “Oh, and when you do come down, Mr. Bethancourt, would you sign the
register for me? I always like to have a little record of the people who visit.
It’s fun to look through and see where they all come from.”

Bethancourt promised to sign the
register, and with that she left him.

He was not very long in following
her down, and the tea had not yet appeared in the sitting room. He went back to
the entrance hall and found the register spread open on a little table. He
wrote his name and address beneath a signature dated in late November, and then
turned back the pages to the August entries. These were plentiful; apparently
Mrs. Tyzack did brisk business during the summer months. Unfortunately, it was
impossible to tell who had been traveling alone and who had not, since everyone
except the married couples signed their names on a separate line. Still, if
Carmichael was looking for strangers to the village, here was a large list of
them. Bethancourt wondered if Mrs. Tyzack had seen all of them leave, luggage
in hand.

“There you are, Mr. Bethancourt. I’ve
got the tea all set up now.”

“I’m just coming, Mrs. Tyzack.”

“You’ve been signing the book, I see,”
she went on, leading the way back to the sitting room.

“Yes. You haven’t had anybody in
lately.”

“No, it’s not the season for it, you
see. People mostly come in the summer—by the end of October we’re down to a
trickle. And it’s
very
unusual to get anyone this close to Christmas.” She looked
at him curiously.

“I’m here to work with the police,” supplied
Bethancourt.

“Oh, about poor Mrs. Bainbridge’s
body,” said Mrs. Tyzack with eager interest. She seated herself and began to
pour out the tea. “Wasn’t it just awful? Who would have left it there for the
poor woman to find I just can’t imagine. People have no consideration for the
elderly these days at all.”

“I suppose you know her quite well?”

“Oh, yes. The family was living here
when I married George. Louisa Bainbridge is older than I am, but she had her
Cathy just about the same time I had my Ken, and we got quite chummy over the
baby prams. She’s not had a very easy time of it, poor woman, and now to have
this happen in her old age—well, it’s just too bad.”