Village Affairs (21 page)

At six o’clock Sunday evening, Leandra Tothill was bustling about her kitchen, just about to serve dinner. She was running late for a Sunday—it was the vicar’s night to play chess with Astley-Cooper—but Eve Bingham had come over in the afternoon to discuss a few last-minute arrangements about the funeral tomorrow, and that had put her behind. Leandra frowned as she thought of her, as she had been doing ever since Eve had left. The young woman had been dry-eyed and businesslike, not at all Leandra’s idea of a spoiled rich girl. She sighed and reminded herself that she had never known any spoiled rich girls before, and all her ideas were no doubt caricatures of reality. The fact that the woman did not choose to expose her innermost feelings had no bearing on whether or not she was a murderer.

“No bearing at all,” muttered Leandra, slapping a pat of butter on the peas.

She surveyed her preparations and then glanced with some irritation out of the window, wondering where her husband was. He had gone across to check on the grave, and Leandra could only think that something must be wrong with it. Either that, or he’d fallen in; he’d left more than half an hour ago.

“Really,” she said aloud, peering at the chicken, “if he wants dinner early, he could at least be here to eat it.
I’ve
got nothing on tonight.”

At that moment, Tothill hove into view, trotting through the churchyard. Leandra waved, and began heaping peas onto the plates.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he said as he came in. “Mrs. Cleppett caught me just as I was coming back. She had the most extraordinary news.”

“Really?” said Leandra, busy at the stove. “What did she says?”

“It seems,” said Tothill, leaning over his wife’s shoulder and sniffing appreciatively, “that Joan Bonnar has come down.”

“That’s hardly news,” said Leandra, scooping rice out of the pot. “She’s often down these days. I think she’s been having a maternal fit of late.”

“Yes, but, Lee, apparently she’s confessed to being Charlie’s girlfriend !”

“No!” exclaimed Leandra, immediately losing interest in her dinner and turning to face him. “Charlie Bingham and Joan Bonnar?”

Tothill nodded. “Mrs. Cleppett had it from Mrs. Stikes,” he said. “Pat told her when she came off duty today. I don’t know how it happened, but Mrs. Cleppett says the chief inspector and Sergeant Gibbons have been waiting all day for Miss Bonnar to arrive, and as soon as she did, they were off to the farmhouse. They’re there now evidently.”

Leandra shook her head. “Who would have believed such a thing?” she said. Then she laughed. “And to think of Charlie, the sly old thing, keeping something like that dark. It’s so like him.”

Tothill reached ’round her to pick up a spatula and dish out the chicken.

“You’ll probably hear more about it at the pub tonight,” he said. “You’re going over, aren’t you?”

“Here, let me,” said Leandra. “You get the wine. No, I wasn’t going to the pub.”

“I thought you usually did on Sundays.”

“I do. I was just thinking I’d stay in tonight and read.”

“Well,” said Tothill, pouring the wine, “I must say I think you’re picking the wrong night to have a change of pace.”

Early Sunday dinners were the rule in Chipping Chedding and by seven o’clock the bar at the Deer and Hounds was packed. The news had spread swiftly from the Stikes’s home throughout the village, and those who were not gathered at the pub were making use of their telephones. Everyone had long ago become inured to the comings and goings of the famous actress; now it was as if she had come among them for the first time.

The press, gathered for the funeral tomorrow, was electrified. This was the best bit of luck they had come across in a long time. Having been firmly repulsed at the farmhouse, and knowing in any case that they would get nothing there until after the police had gone, they had dropped back to annoy the Eberharts, who denied knowing anything about their famous neighbor. This established, the reporters repaired to the Deer and Hounds to pick up whatever they could and to await a statement from Joan Bonnar herself. She had been famous since she was nineteen, and she knew the rules. After the police had gone, she would make a statement.

It was Julie Benson who opened the door when the policemen arrived. Her long hair was pulled back from her face and hung in a single braid down her back. She looked decidedly depressed.

“Hello, Miss,” said Carmichael. “We’ve come to see your mother.”

That seemed to startle her, but in the next moment she shrugged.

“So you’ve twigged to it, have you?” she said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t tell you before, but she’d forbidden us to tell anyone, and you don’t know the fireworks there would have been if we had. Besides, we couldn’t tell her Charlie was dead in the middle of a week of performances—she’d have had a fit.”

“But surely she already knew,” said Gibbons. “It’s been in all the papers.”

“Mother doesn’t read papers.”

“Do you mean to say,” interrupted Carmichael, “that you deliberately lied to Sergeant Gibbons because you were afraid the news would upset your mother’s performance?”

“Sounds mad, doesn’t it?” she said. “But you don’t know what she’s like. Nothing, but nothing, is allowed to interfere with a performance. James and I learned that before we were eight. She’s upset now, but at least she isn’t screaming at us. And it’s only delayed you a couple of days.”

Carmichael’s brow looked threatening, but Julie did not appear to notice it.

“So,” he said, “you expect me to believe that you—and your mother—were always going to tell us the truth, just at a time of your own choosing?”

“It’s true, whether you believe it or not,” she answered. “None of us are stupid enough to think you wouldn’t find out eventually. Hell, Mother even came down with her press agent so he can spin the story to the media. They’re in the drawing room this minute, working up to ringing you.”

“Then perhaps we’d better spare them the trouble,” said Carmichael icily.

“Through there,” said Julie, jerking her head. “I won’t go in, if you don’t mind. This is one performance I’d prefer to miss.”

James Benson and Martha Potts seemed to share this feeling. At least, neither of them were present in the drawing room. Joan Bonnar sat in splendid isolation on the sofa. It was strange, thought Gibbons, to see her familiar features before him, just like anyone else’s. Not blown up to several times their size on a movie screen, not reduced from being seen at a distance on a stage, not glossed over on the cover of a magazine.

She looked older, he noticed, than she did in photographs, but she was still beautiful. Her blond hair, probably tinted at her age, was carefully arranged, and her deep blue eyes were perfectly made up. Her complexion had been restored to something resembling its youthful flawlessness with foundation and toner.

Gibbons was too young to remember her early successes on the London stage, or even the debuts of her first films, although these he had since seen on television. He did remember her turbulent marriage to the great Shakespearian actor, Eugene Sinclair. Presumably it was he she had left the twins’ father for. She and Sinclair had been divorced at one point, remarried later, and were separated when he had died some six or seven years ago. She had subsequently married a well-to-do London barrister, but had divorced him after two years. Through it all, she had continued to perform brilliantly on both stage and screen.

She greeted them in a voice at once familiar and yet different; it was very odd, thought Gibbons, to have everything about her so familiar and still realize that one didn’t know her at all.

There was a harried-looking, gray-haired man seated in the chair to her left, whom she introduced as Ned Watkinson, her press agent.

“Ned wanted to be here,” she explained, “so that he can start working on a statement.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Watkinson. “Miss Bonnar understandably didn’t wish to go over this twice, and it’s as much of a surprise to me as it is to you, Chief Inspector.”

“Is it indeed?” replied Carmichael, seating himself. “In that case, you would have had no reason to inform Miss Bonnar of Mr. Bingham’s death.”

“Just so,” agreed Watkinson, shooting a resentful glance at his client.

She did not see it; her attention was focused on Carmichael.

“So when did you learn of his death, Miss Bonnar?” asked Carmichael.

She waved a hand. “Late last night. Julie rang after the show to tell me.”

“You didn’t see it in the papers, or hear it on the radio or television ?” asked Carmichael in a tone of disbelief.

“No. I catch up on the news on Sunday and Monday. I never read the papers during the week while I’m performing. They so often have something upsetting about me.” She was giving nothing away, her face and voice carefully schooled. Only in her eyes was there any sign of strain.

“I see,” said Carmichael, leaving the topic. “How long had you known the deceased?”

“Six months or so.”

“And you kept your relationship a secret?”

“Martha and the children knew.” She hesitated. “Just recently, after we became engaged, we told a few other close friends.”

“You were engaged to be married?” asked Carmichael, stunned.

The press agent looked grim.

“Yes,” she answered. “He asked me a few weeks ago.”

“But no one else knew of your affair until after that?” asked Carmichael. “Why was that?”

She looked astonished that he should ask. “To avoid the publicity, of course,” she answered. “Having the tabloids speculate on your feelings puts a terrible strain on a relationship.”

“I do hope you understand, Miss Bonnar,” said Carmichael, “that anything you tell us will be held in confidence?”

“I do. That’s very reassuring, Chief Inspector.” But she did not sound reassured; it had been a stock reply.

“In that case, I must ask you to describe your relationship with Mr. Bingham.”

“You mean, how we met and so forth?” Carmichael nodded, but she paused to light a cigarette before going on. “I can’t see,” she said at last, “how that is really pertinent, Chief Inspector, and I—”

“Joan,” said Watkinson urgently, “the chief inspector is not a reporter and he knows best how to do his job.”

She sighed and gave in at once. “We met here, last spring,” she said, answering as if nothing had occurred between question and reply. “I spent a week here at the end of April. We got on well, and when I left, I invited him to the screening of my latest film. Well, that’s how it all started. We saw a lot of each other over the summer—I was here quite frequently then. In August I began rehearsals for the play I’m in now, and Charlie started coming up to London more often. Then, about a month ago, he asked me to marry him and I said yes. We were planning to wait until the run of the play was over next summer, and then be married quietly down here and use the farmhouse as our home base. I’d keep the London townhouse, of course …”

Her eyes had begun to fill with tears as she spoke of their plans and now she abruptly stabbed the cigarette out and rose.

“Excuse me a moment,” she said, and moved swiftly from the room.

There was silence when she had gone. Watkinson broke it.

“She’ll be back in a moment,” he said confidently. “As soon as she gets herself under control. She can be a prima donna with the best of them, but she’s also a trouper.”

Carmichael eyed him. He suspected it had been Watkinson who had convinced her of the necessity of revealing her relationship with Bingham before the police discovered it on their own.

“You’ve worked for Miss Bonnar for a long time?” he asked.

Watkinson grinned. “Getting on for twenty years,” he said. “She’s taking this awfully well, considering. At any rate, it’s a lot better than when Gene Sinclair died.”

“Understandably,” said Carmichael. “Losing a husband of many years would naturally be more distressing than losing a fiancé.”

“Well,” said Watkinson, scratching his ear, “I expect that depends. In any case, she’s not hysterical now and she’ll cope.”

Something in his tone caught Gibbons’s ear, and he said, “You admire her?”

“Yes,” said Watkinson firmly. “I do.”

Miss Bonnar reappeared then, giving him a slight smile. Her eyes were red-rimmed and some of the makeup had been wiped away, but she was no longer crying. She apologized for the interruption graciously and seated herself again on the sofa.

“I’m sorry to have to disturb you at a time like this,” said Carmichael. “We have just a few more questions. Since your play opened, was Mr. Bingham in the habit of visiting you on the days you have off ?”

“Often he did,” she answered. “Or sometimes I would come here.”

“And last weekend?”

“No. We had no plans last weekend. That was a little unusual, but I had several things scheduled for Monday and, since we were keeping our engagement a secret, he couldn’t very well come with me. At the last minute, Ned here scheduled an interview on Sunday, too, so I was solidly booked up.”

Carmichael nodded, apparently digesting this information. “So you didn’t see him last weekend,” he said. “But you would have expected to hear from him during the ensuing week, would you not?”

“Yes, I was surprised he didn’t ring,” she answered. “We spoke on Saturday—he seemed just as usual then—and made plans for this weekend.” She paused for a moment, biting her lip, but then went on, “I rang him on Tuesday and got no answer, and tried again on Thursday. I thought it strange he hadn’t tried to contact me, but I never imagined anything was wrong. Charlie was, well, impulsive. If he had gone off to visit someone, or become involved in some project, he might not remember to ring me.”

“You said your interview on Sunday was arranged at the last minute. Did Mr. Bingham know about it?”

A puzzled frown appeared between her brows. “Why, I don’t know. I knew about it when I talked with him Saturday night, of course, but whether I mentioned it or not—well, I really can’t say. It wasn’t important.”

“It would be useful,” said Carmichael, “if you could try to remember, later on. It may make a difference. If he didn’t know, and decided to surprise you with a visit on Sunday, then he might have arrived while you were out. What time did you return from your interview?”