Authors: Cassandra Chan
Trick of the Mind (13 page)
“Do you have any interest in seeing the rest of the house?” asked James, leading the way back to the foyer.
Bethancourt admitted that he did and James, who clearly did not, took him on a whirlwind tour of a once-graceful home that now showed signs everywhere of neglect. Some of the furnishings had been preserved from Evony’s time, but they were universally so worn and with so many defects that even the nicest of them was no longer fit for anything but the secondhand shops.
Back at the front door, James glanced at his watch and said with satisfaction, “Just in time for me to get home and walk the dog.”
“Me, too,” said Bethancourt, consulting his own watch. “What kind of dog do you have?”
“English bulldog,” said James proudly, and then he added, with a
rather abashed look, “His name’s Churchill, but I didn’t name him. What kind is yours?”
rather abashed look, “His name’s Churchill, but I didn’t name him. What kind is yours?”
“Borzoi,” answered Bethancourt. “He was an unexpected gift from my sister, but it’s turned out rather well in the end. His name’s Cerberus, for which I am responsible.”
James gave a bark of laughter. “Ah, yes, that degree in classics,” he said as he locked the front door, struggling a bit with the key. “Well, can I drop you anywhere? I’m headed to Hampstead. Or you can take the taxi on from there if you like.”
Bethancourt agreed to this latter plan, and arrived back in St. Loo Avenue just in time to catch the porter leaving the building with Cerberus. Mr. Kenilworth owned three dogs of varying sizes and pedigrees and had cheerfully agreed to take Cerberus along on their walks whenever Bethancourt was not at home.
Cerberus, whose tail wagged with violent enthusiasm upon sighting his master, was far less pleased when Bethancourt guided him away from a delightful run in the park with his friends, and instead ushered him into the Jaguar.
“We’ll have a good run later, lad,” apologized Bethancourt. “Right now it’s time to go visit Uncle Jack and cheer his no doubt flagging spirits.”
Cerberus wagged his tail resignedly.
Gibbons wondered vaguely if he was becoming a morphine addict. He had certainly dosed himself into a stupor on account of the hideous pain resulting from the nurse’s insistence that he get up and sit in a chair. He rather thought that being a drug addict would interfere with his career as a police detective, but that didn’t seem to matter as much as it had a little while ago.
“Here we go,” said the nurse, bustling back in with a footstool.
Gibbons glared at her, his normally fierce eyes mere glints of blue between puffy, sleep-swollen lids. It was grossly unfair, he thought, that a woman as pretty as the nurse should turn out to harbor sadistic tendencies. There was really no other explanation for anyone referring to his present agony as “discomfort.”
“I can’t imagine where the one from this room went,” the nurse continued, kneeling to place the stool by Gibbons’s feet. “I think you’ll be more comfortable with your knees up a bit. I’ll help you get your feet up. Ready?”
Gibbons was not ready, but before he could say so, the nurse—who also seemed to be much stronger than her diminutive size suggested—had lifted his feet in one smooth motion and rested them on the footstool. He let out an inarticulate moan of pain.
“I know,” she said soothingly, rearranging the small blanket she had placed over his knees. “I know it’s difficult, but you’ll feel better for it in the end.”
Gibbons, whose eyes had closed reflexively with the pain, opened them again to glare at her, but instead encountered a shocked-looking Bethancourt standing in the doorway.
“Er,” said Bethancourt. “Should he really be out of bed?”
The nurse swiveled on her heels and smiled brightly at this newcomer before noticing the large hound accompanying him.
“It’s all right,” added Bethancourt hastily. “This is Sergeant Gibbons’s dog—I’ve cleared the visit with the matron.”
He smiled down at her.
“Well, if Matron okayed it,” she replied doubtfully.
“Oh, she has. Cheerful patients do better and all that.” Bethancourt’s worried eyes belied his smile as his gaze strayed back to Gibbons. “I hadn’t thought,” he said, “that Jack would be out of bed for a while yet.”
“Oh, no,” the nurse assured him. “We like to get them up and moving as soon as possible. After all, it’s bad enough to be shot in the abdomen—we don’t want him developing any other problems.”
“Er, no, of course not,” said Bethancourt doubtfully.
“Do I get a vote?” asked Gibbons hoarsely.
The nurse shook her head at him as she rose. “I’m afraid not,” she said, not unsympathetically. “I know this probably doesn’t feel right to you, but you’ll have to trust me that it’s for the best.”
“I’d rather trust a—a—” began Gibbons grumpily, and then foundered as he failed to come up with an example of untrustworthiness.
“A traitor?” suggested Bethancourt brightly.
The nurse chuckled. “I’m sure a lot of my patients feel that way,” she said, shaking her head. “But there’s no help for it—I have to look after their welfare before I worry about whether or not they like me.”
“And I’m sure they’re grateful in the end,” said Bethancourt with a gallant smile.
“No, they’re not,” muttered Gibbons, but no one took any notice of him.
“So long as they leave healthy,” said the nurse.
Bethancourt was still smiling down at her. “I’m Phillip Bethancourt,” he said, holding out his hand. “Friend of the injured.”
She smiled as she shook his hand. “Alice Pipp,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of one another,” said Bethancourt, beaming at her as if this would be the highlight of his day. “At least, I take it Jack here will be under your care for a few days.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, glancing at her patient. The shadow that passed over her features as she did so was faint, but Bethancourt noticed it. “A few days at least,” she echoed. “Well, I must be about my rounds. You ring for me, Mr. Gibbons, if you want anything. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bethancourt.”
“A delight,” said Bethancourt, looking after her as she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
“If you’ve quite finished chatting up my nurse,” said Gibbons coldly.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Jack,” said Bethancourt, turning to his friend. “How on earth do you expect me to get Cerberus in here if I’m not nice to the staff?”
“She’s a redhead and she has big breasts,” insisted Gibbons.
“Her hair color comes out of a bottle,” retorted Bethancourt. “And nobody who dates a fashion model can be said to be fixated on breast size. Besides, I don’t have a particular thing for redheads—just for Marla.”
“Marla?” asked Gibbons, who had already lost track of what they were talking about. “Is she here?”
“No—she doesn’t get in until tonight.” Bethancourt considered his
seating options, which, with Gibbons occupying the chair, came down to a padded stool on castors. He looked at it disdainfully and sat down on the bed. “So,” he said, “why is your nurse worried about you?”
seating options, which, with Gibbons occupying the chair, came down to a padded stool on castors. He looked at it disdainfully and sat down on the bed. “So,” he said, “why is your nurse worried about you?”
“Probably because she’s nearly killed me, getting me out of the bed,” said Gibbons. He squinted at Bethancourt. “There’s an idea,” he added. “You can lift me back in.”
“No, I couldn’t,” retorted Bethancourt, although privately he wished he might. Gibbons looked pale and unwell to his eye, and not fit to be anywhere but in bed. “Is that a different IV drip they’ve given you?”
“God knows,” said Gibbons fretfully. “They’ve got so many things running into me and out of me, I hardly know if I’m coming or going. All I know is that this one’s the morphine.” That reminded him of his earlier concern, and he asked, “Phillip, do you think I’m becoming a morphine addict?”
“What?” said Bethancourt, startled. “No, of course not.”
“I’ve given myself quite a lot,” confessed Gibbons.
“I think you’re supposed to,” said Bethancourt. “And you can’t overdose on those machines—they’re programmed not to let you.”
Overdosing had not occurred to Gibbons and he frowned. “I certainly didn’t mean to do that,” he said. “I don’t want to die. Not now, at least. I’d like to kill that nurse.”
“Nurse Pipp,” supplied Bethancourt absently. He was eyeing his friend with concern; Gibbons’s speech was a little slurred and he seemed to be having difficulty keeping his eyes open and his thoughts straight. Bethancourt felt quite helpless, and he was not accustomed to that.
“So have you found out anything?” asked Gibbons.
“About the case, you mean?”
“What the devil else would you think I meant?” snapped Gibbons.
“Sorry, sorry, old man,” said Bethancourt, leaning comfortably back on one elbow. “My thoughts were elsewhere. Let’s see. I’ve met your Colin James, and he very kindly took me round to meet the Colemans.”
He paused, as Gibbons seemed to be having difficulty assimilating this information.
“The Colemans,” Gibbons said slowly, rolling the name on his tongue. Just as James’s name seemed to come attached to friendly feelings for which he had no reference, so the Colemans dredged up feelings that could not be explained by the brief encounter he remembered having with them. These feelings, however, were far more ambiguous and in his present fuzzy-minded state, he did not feel up to sorting them out.
“Davies sent round my report on the interview I had with them,” he offered at last. “It’s in the drawer there if you want to look at it.”
“That was good of him,” said Bethancourt, moving leisurely off the bed to fetch the report. “Did it ring any bells?”
“No.” Gibbons shook his head. “It was very odd, reading it. I could recognize it as one of my reports, but I have no memory of writing it. Or of the events I wrote about. It gives one a rather queasy feeling.”
“I can imagine.” Report in hand, Bethancourt settled himself back on the bed and gave his attention to it while Gibbons tried and failed to find a comfortable position in his chair. Cerberus, who seemed to sense something was wrong with his master’s friend, padded over to lay his head gently on Gibbons’s knee. Gibbons patted him feebly.
“This,” said Bethancourt, rapidly scanning, “seems to be a record of your interview with Miss Haverford’s solicitor.”
“Oh, right,” said Gibbons. “Davies sent that one along, too. It’s not very interesting—just a report for the record.”
“Well,” said Bethancourt, “if I’d read it earlier, I shouldn’t have been so surprised to find out Miss Haverford was broke.”
“It seems very odd,” agreed Gibbons. “Though I do remember thinking the house wasn’t very well kept up.”
Bethancourt looked up from the report at once. “You’re remembering things?” he asked.
Gibbons grimaced. “No, I’m not,” he said, a little shortly. “I was at the house on Monday. It’s Tuesday I can’t remember.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Bethancourt hesitated, decided words of sympathy would not be welcome, and returned to the report. “So,” he said in another moment, “she hadn’t changed her will since the death of her maid.”
Gibbons moved restlessly. “No, I expect not. But I only vaguely remember the Colemans mentioning the maid on Monday night. That,” he added petulantly, “is why detectives keep notebooks—so that they can refresh their memory of incidental remarks.”
For an instant Bethancourt did not understand the significance of this remark, but then the light dawned.
“I’m sure Carmichael will let you have a copy of yours once forensics is done with it,” he offered.
“Yes, but it’s mine,” burst out Gibbons. “Damn it all, Phillip, I’m not dead. I want my things.”
“Well, of course you do,” said Bethancourt. “Anybody would. But it’s quite hopeless—you know better than anyone that once forensics has got its hands on something, they never let it go.”
Gibbons merely grunted in a thoroughly dissatisfied way.
Bethancourt turned back to the report, and then looked up again as a thought occurred to him.
“Do you want another notebook?” he asked. “I mean, I know you couldn’t look things up in it, but would you like to make notes as you go now? Just to keep track of your thoughts, you know.”
Gibbons did not answer at once; he seemed to be turning the idea over in his mind.
“I don’t know,” he said at last with a sigh. “My mind’s so fuzzy and I feel so rotten. But maybe having a notebook like I usually do would help.”
Bethancourt nodded. “I’ll bring one round tomorrow,” he said, returning to the report.
“You don’t have to,” said Gibbons, but not as if he meant it.
“I know that,” replied Bethancourt, laying aside the first report. “Well, the will seems fairly straightforward, particularly as there turned out to be so few assets. Just bequests of particular items to the maid and the neighbors, and this friend—what’s-his-name—Ned Winterbottom, and the residue of the estate goes to the Colemans. Not,” he added, turning to the next report, “that there is any residue.”
“There was the jewelry,” pointed out Gibbons.
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