Village Affairs (23 page)

Which, reflected Gibbons, did not bode well for her having murdered him, if Mrs. Potts was right in her observations.

Carmichael was in the stables, watching Julie Benson currycomb a bay mare. He could not recollect ever having been in a stable before, and he found it much cleaner than he would have supposed. The floor of the aisle looked to have been recently scrubbed, and the smell of hay, horses, and saddle soap, while strong, was nevertheless a good, fresh smell.

He had found James Benson in the study, but he had seemed reluctant to speak to the chief inspector without his sister. Yet now they had found her, James did most of the talking, while Julie kept her attention on the mare and only occasionally contributed to the conversation.

“We didn’t know Charlie had gone off on Sunday,” said James in answer to Carmichael’s query. “But if we had known, I would have assumed he’d gone to see Mother.”

Julie nodded her agreement. “I don’t think he often left Chipping Chedding except to see her,” she added.

“Tell me,” said Carmichael. “Did you like Charlie?”

“Oh, yes,” said James. “We thought he was a bit of an ass for wanting to marry Mother, of course, but he was a good enough sort otherwise.” He laughed. “We rather suspected that he had proposed more out of a desire for money than for connubial bliss, but obviously we were wrong about that.”

“I don’t know that I really believed that about the money,” said Julie. “I just couldn’t think of what else the attraction would be.”

Carmichael thought that here they did their mother an injustice. She might not be much of a maternal figure, but she was an attractive and captivating woman by any man’s standards.

“Then you were unaware that Mr. Bingham had money of his own?” he asked.

They both nodded. “It was a big shock when the news came out,” said James. “We’d no idea. We’d been down to his cottage once or twice, and I still find it hard to believe.”

“But your mother must have known?” pursued Carmichael.

James shrugged. “If she did, she never told us.”

“Did you have any objections to the marriage apart from the money?” asked Carmichael.

“No, no,” said James. “We didn’t object to the marriage at all, even if he did want her money. I mean, they were happy together so far as I could see.”

“It only would have mattered to us,” said Julie, moving round to the horse’s other side, “if Charlie had been truly odious, or if they were fighting all the time. You can’t think how disruptive that sort of thing is. But they were quiet together, as James says.”

“I understand Miss Bonnar has been visiting here regularly since she became involved with Mr. Bingham,” said Carmichael. “Did she always let you know when she was coming?”

Both twins made a face at the mention of their mother’s visits, and James replied dryly, “Oh, she’d always ring up and let us know. She likes to have everything ready for her.”

“But you weren’t expecting her last weekend?”

“No.” James shook his head. “Not a peep out of her.”

“You remember, James,” said Julie. “She said she wouldn’t be coming last weekend because of all the engagements she had on Monday. She moaned and groaned about missing Charlie.”

“That’s right,” said James. “I’d forgotten.”

“I see,” said Carmichael. “By the way, I take it you’ve both been to your mother’s house in London?” They looked surprised, but nodded. “Is there a usual place to park?”

“It depends on the time of day,” said James. “I’ve been pretty lucky—I practically always find a place on the square. Or if Mother’s got her car in the garage, one can use her space. Why do you ask?”

Carmichael smiled. “Just trying to put the odds and ends together,” he answered. “If Charlie did go to see your mother last Sunday, I want to know where he left his car.”

“Oh.”

James lost interest, turning to watch his sister run a brush down her horse’s flank. They both seemed perfectly at ease, and if they had helped their mother escape after she had killed her fiancé, Carmichael could not tell.

CHAPTER
11

B
ethancourt spent Sunday glued to Astley-Cooper’s side, worried that his gregarious friend might let the cat out of the bag before the police were ready to make their move. Astley-Cooper was clearly bursting with the news and his part in it, and Bethancourt was nearly certain he would at least have told the vicar at church that morning but for his own restraining influence.

Dinner at Stutely Manor was early on Sundays on account of Astley-Cooper’s weekly chess game with the vicar, and it was after the meal that Bethancourt discovered a message from Gibbons informing him that Joan Bonnar had arrived and that he and Carmichael were setting out for the farmhouse. Reassured that loose tongues could no longer imperil the investigation, Bethancourt took Cerberus out to have a walk in the park and watch the sunset. The Cotswold Hills were peaceful in the gloaming and he breathed in the clean country air appreciatively, thinking that he really ought to get out of London more often.

He lingered until the first stars came out, shining brightly in the absence of city lights, and then he called to his dog and began to stroll back. Astley-Cooper had put on the outside lights and the old house looked truly grand. Bethancourt paused to drink in its aged beauty, resting a hand on Cerberus’s head, before continuing on up the path, the great dog beside him.

He let himself in quietly, hanging his jacket on the old-fashioned coat rack and taking a moment to admire the linen-fold paneling of the great hall—a superb example of its kind—before going to see if the vicar had yet arrived.

He found Astley-Cooper and Tothill in the study, seated one on either side of a games table, and talking animatedly. A chessboard was set up between them, but most of the antique ivory pieces were still in their box to one side.

Tothill looked up and grinned at him as he came in.

“Is it true?” he asked. “Did Clarence here really find Charlie’s mystery lady all on his own?”

“He did indeed,” answered Bethancourt, smiling at his host.

Astley-Cooper attempted to look modest, but failed almost completely.

“Well, really,” he said, “I might never have thought of it at all if I hadn’t run into the Bensons the other morning. Julie happened to mention,” he said to Tothill, who had not already heard the story several times during the course of the day, “that their mother was coming down today, and I just thought to myself, ‘My, she’s been down a lot lately—really, more than she’s ever been since she bought the property all those years ago.’”

Bethancourt felt as though he ought to warn Tothill that nothing was confirmed as yet, but found he hadn’t the heart to throw even the slightest amount of cold water on Astley-Cooper’s accomplishment. Instead he went to help himself to a drink, half-listening to the two men’s conversation as they continued to set up their chessboard, even though he had heard most of it before.

Mostly, he decided as he slumped into a chair and lit a cigarette, he was trying to contain his impatience. He knew it would be some time before he could expect to hear from Gibbons, but his curiosity was eating away at him. He settled himself comfortably in his chair and tried as best he could to resign himself to waiting.

Derek Towser heard the news at the Deer and Hounds. He entered to find a great many strangers at the bar, avidly questioning the locals, who seemed to welcome the attention. Towser ordered a pint and asked what had happened.

“Have they solved the case?” he inquired of the landlord.

“It’s Joan Bonnar,” the landlord replied, but he was called away to other customers before getting any further, leaving Towser with the impression that the commotion had to do with celebrity, not murder. He was still curious and looked around for someone who might fill him in. Neither Leandra Tothill nor Astley-Cooper appeared to be in the pub, though it was the right hour for one or the other of them to stop in. In Towser’s opinion, one of the nicest things about Chipping Chedding was the casual way in which the inhabitants dropped by the pub to look for each other. The Tothills in particular seemed to use it as a meeting place, largely, Towser suspected, because it gave them a view on their parish they would not otherwise have had. But whatever the reason, he—and Bingham, too, before his death—had found this odd habit of the vicar and his wife to be most convenient, offering a fair chance of good company at the pub on many evenings.

But not tonight, it seemed. Towser, still in search of an information source, at last caught sight of Gerald Owens, who owned the grocer’s shop in the High Street and was presently planted at the end of the bar.

Making his way through the crowd toward this goal, Towser was abruptly stopped by a voice saying, “That’s Towser. He lives in the cottage next door.”

He looked for the speaker, but before he could identify him, several of the strangers had turned to him and begun a barrage of questions whose import he did not understand.

“Did you know about the relationship, sir?”

“If so, why didn’t you inform the police?”

“You do live on the farmhouse property, don’t you?”

“You were the victim’s best friend, isn’t that so, sir?”

“I don’t understand,” said Towser. “What’s it all about?”

They frowned at him.

“The news has only just broken,” said one. “Joan Bonnar has confessed to being the murder victim’s girlfriend.”

“Really?” said Towser, astonished.

“But you lived right there, sir, you must have known.”

“I didn’t know anything,” protested Towser. “And I don’t know anything now,” he added, as they opened their mouths with new queries.

After a few more such uncommunicative answers, the reporters left him alone and returned their attention to the other locals, who were leading them on in a shameful manner. Towser sat by himself, watching the show, and wishing Leandra would come in to keep him company. The pub seemed a lonely place without either her or Bingham, despite the influx of new people.

At about eight o’clock, somebody reported seeing the policemen’s Rover driving through the village and the reporters hastily decamped, this evidently being the signal for a fresh onslaught on both the farmhouse and the station in Stow. Towser finished his second pint and reflected that, although he had only known Charlie Bingham for a month or so, he was not altogether surprised to find that he had nabbed the only celebrity in the neighborhood. Charlie had been that sort of person.

He decided against a third pint and left the pub. The stars were bright overhead and he walked briskly along the road. Towser liked walking at night and he seldom bothered with a torch even when the sky was overcast. He turned when he reached the cottages, but paused in the drive. Both houses were lit, and next to Steve Eberhart’s mud-splattered Land Rover was parked a gleaming white Rolls-Royce. It occurred to Towser that there was one person in Chipping Chedding who might not have heard about Joan Bonnar, and who actually needed to know. He followed the path up to the first cottage and knocked at the door.

Carmichael had gone back to Chipping Chedding. He had dealt with the media, compared notes with his sergeant, and set a program for tomorrow, leaving Gibbons to type up a report at the police station. This Gibbons had finished, and now he was tired and very hungry. He was just about to ring Bethancourt and inform him that if he wanted to hear the latest, he would have to drive Gibbons to a restaurant when the telephone rang.

“Sergeant Gibbons?” said Eve Bingham.

Gibbons almost groaned aloud. “Yes, Miss?” he replied, stifling the groan.

“I’m about to leave my father’s house,” she said. “May I stop and see you on the way? I’ll only take a moment of your time.”

“Of course,” said Gibbons, who felt a sudden qualm at the idea of a second tête-à-tête interview. Sternly he reminded himself that she was still a murder suspect and he was honor-bound to listen to whatever she had to say.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Gibbons replaced the receiver and sighed mightily. Then he dialed Stutely Manor.

“I’m starved,” he told Bethancourt.

“We had dinner early,” said his friend, “but I could do with a snack. Shall I pick you up? We could go to that pub Marla and I were at the other night. It’s quite decent.”

“Brilliant,” said Gibbons. “Only don’t come straightaway.”

“Why ever not?” asked Bethancourt, surprised. “I thought you said you were starving.”

“I am. But Eve Bingham rang to say she wanted to stop by. She said it wouldn’t take long.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No, and I can’t think what it could be. Normally, murder suspects don’t offer to come down to the station.”

“All right,” said Bethancourt. “I’ll drive down in a bit and wait for you outside in the car.”

“Perfect,” said Gibbons. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

He rang off, slipped into his jacket and straightened his tie, and then sat back to wait nervously. He had only just settled himself, however, when Eve Bingham was shown in. He eyed her sharply, but she appeared cool and collected, if a little tired.

“They don’t do you very well,” she remarked, looking about the tiny office.

“I’ll convey that to the chief constable,” replied Gibbons before he could stop himself.

She seemed slightly taken aback and he apologized at once and asked her to be seated.

“It’s just that I haven’t had my dinner yet,” he explained, and went on briskly, “Now then, what can I do for you?”

“It’s about Joan Bonnar,” she said. “I understand she was seeing my father.”

“That’s so,” he said. “We spoke with Miss Bonnar this afternoon. You didn’t know?”

She shook her head. “My father hadn’t mentioned it in any of his letters.”

Gibbons nodded. “You must understand, Miss Bingham, that no one else knew of the relationship, either. Miss Bonnar wished to avoid any publicity.”

“Yes, I know.” Eve toyed with the strap of her bag. “Were they—was it a serious relationship, do you know?”