Village Affairs (34 page)

“Yes, that might be helpful,” said Carmichael thoughtfully. “I’d also like to know if there were prenuptial agreements on those occasions and, if so, how they differed from the last one.”

Smith made a note. “I’ll have my junior research it and ring you,” he said.

“Thank you very much,” said Carmichael, reflecting that, if the man was annoying, he was also being quite helpful in his way. “I think that only leaves the terms of the will itself. Could you outline the basics for me?”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Smith. “It’s not a difficult document at all. There are several bequests to the charities she favored, as well as provisions for both Martha Potts and Mary Calthorp to receive their salaries until their deaths, even after their retirements. But the bulk of the estate—and we are talking quite a sizeable amount here, Chief Inspector—goes to her children, as you would expect.”

Carmichael nodded. He had indeed expected it, but it did nothing to help make a case against the Bensons, or anyone else for that matter.

Suppressing yet another sigh, he thanked the solicitor one more time and rose to take his leave.

Once outside the office, he switched his mobile back on, and it obliged him by ringing almost as soon as he had returned it to his pocket.

“There you are, sir,” came Gibbons’s voice. His sergeant sounded almost cheerful. “How was the solicitor?”

“All negative,” growled Carmichael. “Although he was helpful enough, I must say. Did you find out anything from the agent?”

“No,” admitted Gibbons. “She’s quite overcome, and is certain Joan would never have committed suicide. But what I rang to say, sir, is that the search warrant’s come through. I’m on my way to meet the SOCKOs at the town house now.”

“Excellent,” said Carmichael, trying to sound enthusiastic, although in truth he expected little if anything would come of the search. “I’ll leave that to you, Gibbons, and go on with the interviews myself. Ring me if you find anything.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Gibbons.

Carmichael rang off, sighed, and hailed a taxi to take him to Dame Sarah’s flat.

Marla rang when she returned from Paris that afternoon, the more eager to tell Bethancourt what she had discovered about Eve and her father as it tended to exonerate Eve. Nevertheless, there was an odd undertone to the conversation that Bethancourt could not quite define; it was almost as if Marla were angry with him. But that could hardly be possible; they had not seen each other in three days and had parted before that on the best of terms.

“I did my best,” said Marla, “but there wasn’t a lot to find out, really. It seems that while her father was in town, Eve dropped out of all the doings to spend time with him. There was an evening at the theater, but aside from that only Catherine met him.”

“Catherine?”

“Yes, Catherine DeLorre—the wine heiress. She went to dinner with Eve and her father one night. I could tell she wasn’t sure what to make of Charlie, but she said quite definitely that Eve was very proud of her father. Hung on his every word, and kept touching him as if she couldn’t believe he was real. ‘Affectionate,’ Catherine said.”

“So apparently they were getting on like a house on fire.”

“They were that night, at any rate. God only knows how they spent the rest of the time. Still, it does tend to show that she was fond of him rather than the reverse, don’t you think?”

“I do. That’s brilliant, Marla. You’ve been a great help.”

“And,” she continued, “what with all the rest of the hoopla, I really think Eve’s out of it.”

“It does look like it,” admitted Bethancourt. “You’ve heard about Joan Bonnar, then?”

“Of course I heard,” said Marla impatiently. “The BBC’s new motto is ‘All Joan Bonnar, all the time.’ I’m sick to death of Joan Bonnar.”

“Oh,” said Bethancourt, a little nonplussed. “Well,” he said, rallying, “did you want to come back here? Eve’s staying on until after the Bonnar inquest—”

“I don’t think so,” she interrupted him. “In fact, I had rather thought you would be back here by now.”

Bethancourt hastily ransacked his memory, but he could think of nothing he had said which might have given her this impression.

“But, love,” he said, “you knew things might not be finished here.”

“I can’t really see what more there is to do out there,” she said. “And there is Drew’s party tomorrow night.”

Bethancourt was silent a moment. He had entirely forgotten the party and knew he could not admit it. Moreover, he could, on the instant, think of no possible way of telling her he did not intend going that would not result in a terrific blowup.

“But that’s tomorrow night,” he said, rather desperately.

Marla’s tone warmed immediately. “Then you are coming back?”

“Of course,” said Bethancourt. There was really nothing else he could think of to say. It was obvious to him that, having convinced herself Eve was not a murderer, Marla’s interest in the case had evaporated. “I’ll drive down in the morning,” he continued, thinking he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, “and we can have lunch and go to that costume exhibit at the V and A.”

“That would be lovely,” she purred, instantly appeased. “We could come back afterward and have champagne at my flat. Before we dressed for the party, you know.”

He knew what she meant by that and felt a pang of regret that he wouldn’t be there.

“I’d love that,” he said. “Look, darling, I promised to take Clarence to choir practice, so I had better go now. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Lovely,” she said. “Until tomorrow.”

Bethancourt rang off and tried not to think about the fireworks he would have to face in the morning when he rang her to say he wasn’t coming.

“Dear God, but this is a mess.”

Gibbons swiveled around and found Carmichael surveying the SOCKOs as they took Joan Bonnar’s town house apart, piece by piece.

“Sir?” he asked. “I didn’t realize you’d arrived.”

“Yes, I’m here,” growled Carmichael, glaring at a perfectly innocent technician who was dusting the television for prints. “All Joan Bonnar’s friends and acquaintances agree that she would never have killed herself. She might, they admit, in the stress of the moment, have taken too many pills while she was drunk.” He snorted. “I’ve spent all day finding that out, Gibbons, and somehow I don’t think it was worth it.”

Gibbons hid a sigh; he didn’t think it was worth it, either.

“As if,” continued Carmichael, “I ever thought the bloody woman had topped herself to start with.”

“Nor that it was accidental?” asked Gibbons, though he fancied he knew the answer.

Carmichael snorted. “I was willing,” he said, “to believe that Bingham’s death was accidental, however difficult it was to account for how he had ingested those tablets without meaning to, but I’m damned if I’ll swallow two accidents in the same case. Don’t tell me you think it’s possible, Gibbons.”

“No, sir,” agreed Gibbons. “There are too many little pieces that don’t fit.”

“And no evidence of what really happened,” grumbled Carmichael. “And none, I’ll be bound, to be found here,” he added, glaring at the room.

“We’re very nearly done here, sir,” Gibbons said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’ve been going over her diary. She’s made notations of some of her dates with Bingham, using his initials, but that doesn’t tell us much.”

“It tells us she wasn’t lying when she said she was his girlfriend,” said Carmichael sarcastically.

“Yes, sir,” replied Gibbons in as neutral a voice as he could manage.

“Take no notice of me, lad,” said Carmichael, heaving a deep sigh. “I’m in a foul mood. I don’t mind dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s, but I do hate a pure waste of time. And I’m much mistaken if we’re going to net anything here. The answer is in Chipping Chedding, though I’m damned if I can find a way to prove it.” He shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of his mood. “What I need,” he said, “is a quiet night at home with Mrs. Carmichael. Let’s have an evening off, Gibbons—it’ll do us both a world of good, and we can drive back to the Cotswolds first thing in the morning.”

Gibbons did not think his empty flat would do much for his state of mind, but he agreed respectfully nonetheless, and added, “I can finish up here, sir, if you’d like to get on. As you say, we aren’t likely to find much.”

“That’s uncommonly good of you, lad,” said Carmichael. “I appreciate it.”

Gibbons grinned at him. “It’s all to my good to let Mrs. Carmichael put you in a better mood,” he said, and elicited a laugh.

“She’ll have her hands full tonight,” said Carmichael ruefully. “Right, then. I’ll take the car and pick you up at nine.”

Gibbons nodded and watched his superior wend his way back out, the thought of an evening spent with his wife already easing the tense lines of his shoulders.

Gibbons himself turned back to Joan Bonnar’s diary with a sigh, feeling unaccountably depressed.

Cerberus was sniffing leisurely at the porch while his master leaned against the doorjamb, smoking. From the stone walls of the church came the muted sound of singing, accompanied by the faint bellows of the organ. Bethancourt threw down his cigarette and trod on it carefully. He held his watch up to catch the faint light from a lancet window. Seven fifteen. He would wait a few more minutes.

In another moment, the Rolls-Royce, gleaming whitely in the dark, came up and rolled to a stop on the verge. Bethancourt watched as the headlamps and motor died, and then stepped forward as Eve emerged.

“Good evening,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m not sure I am,” she replied. “But you’re right—I needed to get out.”

Calling to Cerberus, he ushered her inside and stood politely while she sank into one of the back pews.

“Cerberus,” he whispered, motioning as he seated himself, and the dog lay down obediently in the nave.

They were lost in the shadows where they sat, eyes focused on the lights in the choir stall where Leandra was leading the choristers in song.

“God,” whispered Eve, “I haven’t been in church since I was a kid.” She looked around her, following the vaulted shadows into the dim recesses of the ceiling. “It makes me feel, well, as if I were a little girl again.” She did not sound as if she were enjoying the feeling.

“I like old churches,” Bethancourt whispered back. “And simple pleasures, like listening to a village choir practice. It makes a nice change.”

She nodded doubtfully and was silent.

Choir practice lasted until nine. About halfway through, the watchers slipped out for a smoke on the church steps.

“Having fun?” asked Bethancourt optimistically.

Eve drew on her cigarette and smiled at him. “Not bad,” she said. “They’re quite good, actually, and it’s entertainment of a sort, anyway.”

“Ever do much singing yourself ?”

“At school,” she answered. “Not much since then—unless you count the shower.”

“Me, too,” said Bethancourt. “I’m a great shower singer.”

He happily caroled the opening bars of “Greensleeves” as a demonstration and Eve laughed at him.

“Is
that
what you sing in the shower?” she asked scornfully.

“It seemed appropriate to the setting,” said Bethancourt, desisting. “So, do you think you’ll come on to the pub? It’s quite a social occasion in Chipping Chedding, Wednesday nights at the pub.”

“Pubs were never my thing. I don’t even like beer.”

“They have other things to drink. Don’t tell me you don’t like a fine, single-malt scotch.”

“Sometimes,” she answered. “But martinis or wine are more my taste.”

“I like an occasional martini myself,” said Bethancourt. “I’m sure they can make them at the pub. They get an awful lot of tourists here during the summer, you know.”

But she shook her head. “I really don’t think so,” she said. “It’s kind of you, but no. I really don’t feel like making one of a merry party.”

“Well, you can always change your mind later,” said Bethancourt, flicking his cigarette out into the street. “Shall we go back in? It’s getting chilly out here.”

“Yes, let’s.”

After the practice, Bethancourt saw Eve out to her car while everyone else was still milling about in the nave, bidding good night to those who were not going on to the pub.

“Sure you won’t come?” he asked her as he held the door open for her.

“No,” she answered. “This was nice, though. Thank you for asking me.”

“Thank you for coming.”

He closed the door and stood back, watching as she pulled away. When he turned back, he found Leandra Tothill coming toward him. People were beginning to file out into the porch, adjusting their coats before moving off toward the car park.

“Hullo,” he said, smiling. “It sounded splendid tonight.”

“Thank you,” said Leandra, bending to pet Cerberus. She glanced over her shoulder and then said in a low tone, “I want to talk to you about something.”

Bethancourt raised an eyebrow. “I’m at your service,” he said.

“Not here. Can we—”

“There you are,” called Astley-Cooper, trotting down the steps. “We were in fine form tonight, don’t you think? Did Eve enjoy it?”

“Very much,” answered Bethancourt. “I tried to persuade her to come on to the pub, but she didn’t feel up to it.”

“Where’s Richard?” asked Leandra, looking back toward the church.

“He’s coming—someone lost a scarf, I think. Oh, good night, Mrs. Collins.”

“Dear me,” said Leandra. “Phillip, I think Cerberus has something caught in his coat.”

“Probably a burr,” said Bethancourt gloomily. “He’s been picking them up all over the place.”

“No,” she said, “it seems sticky.” She crouched down to look more closely. “It’s chewing gum, I think.”

“Good Lord,” said Bethancourt, crouching beside her. “Where is it?”

“Just here.” She caught his eyes with hers. “It’ll have to be cut out. We can just stop at the house and I’ll grab some scissors. That way it won’t get any worse.”

“All right,” said Bethancourt, straightening. “Thank you.” He looked at her speculatively.

“Here we are,” said the vicar, emerging at last. “All accounted for. Shall we wend our way pub-wards?”

“Phillip and I are going to stop at the house,” said his wife. “There’s some gum in Cerberus’s coat. But you go on, and we’ll be along directly.”