Village Affairs (8 page)

They greeted Mrs. Potts like a favorite aunt rather than a housekeeper, and she, having finished the introductions, waved Julie over and joined her on the bench with a sigh.

“That’s better,” she said. “Do sit down, Mr. Bethancourt. That chair will disappear if you don’t take it.”

Bethancourt did as he was bidden, setting his drink on the table, leaning back comfortably, and lighting a cigarette. Julie and Mrs. Potts already had their heads together, so he turned his attention to James.

“The choir is remarkably fine,” he said. “I just caught the end of rehearsal. I take it you don’t sing yourself ?”

James gave a small smile. “No voice,” he answered. “And not much ear, either, for all I’ve had Marty there singing ’round the house since I was small. But Julie and I do enjoy it on Sundays.” He sipped at his pint. “Are you enjoying your visit to Chipping Chedding?” he asked politely. “It must be rather quiet after London.”

“Pleasantly so,” Bethancourt assured him. “It’s a very pretty spot. Have you lived here long?”

“Almost all our lives,” replied James. “Certainly long before it was ‘discovered.’ We’ve travelled a bit, and been to different schools, but this has always been home. It’s really our mother’s house, but she seldom comes here except to visit, and we think of it as our own.”

“There you are.” Leandra Tothill appeared out of the crowd, clutching a double scotch. “Hello, James, Julie. Tell me, is Derek anywhere in this mob?”

“No, he’s not,” responded James, smiling up at her. Julie’s smile, Bethancourt noticed, was far cooler.

“We stopped by his place to see if he’d come,” she said, “but he was painting furiously.”

“Oh, well. I’ll see him tomorrow or next day, I expect. You couldn’t make room for me on that bench, could you, Martha? I’m exhausted after that rehearsal.”

Mrs. Potts apologized and moved over.

“It’s just as well Derek isn’t here,” said Julie mischievously. “He might steal Mr. Bethancourt’s girlfriend. She’s certainly pretty enough.”

“Really?” said Bethancourt, interested. In her tone, he had suddenly caught a glimpse of what it must be like to be the plain daughter of a woman not only beautiful, but famed for that beauty throughout the world. He wondered if a resentment of beautiful women was the cause of her less than effusive welcome of Leandra Tothill.

Everyone was chuckling.

“Derek Towser came down from London with a bit of a reputation,” explained Mrs. Potts. “Or so we heard.”

“He’s been most disappointing,” said James. “So far as we can tell, not a single village maiden has suffered at his hands.”

“The general consensus,” said Leandra, “is that none of us here are good enough for him.”

“Hardly fair, Leandra,” said James. “You’re the prettiest thing we’ve got and you’re taken.”

“Nonsense. He could have at least tried.”

Bethancourt was watching Julie. Though she joined in the general mirth—this was obviously a running joke among them—her eyes were not amused. Their farmhouse, he remembered, was close to the painter’s cottage, and he wondered if there was one village maiden who had suffered. Or perhaps she had only wished it so.

“Oh dear,” said Leandra, “there’s Richard calling me. Just as I’d got settled. Well, save my seat.”

Her seat, however, was immediately taken by Astley-Cooper.

“There you are,” he said to Bethancourt. “We lost you in the crowd, but I see Martha has taken care of you.”

“Admirably so,” said Bethancourt, smiling at her.

“Naturally,” said Astley-Cooper, turning toward her gallantly. “Why, Martha, where’s your ring? You haven’t dropped it in the port again, I hope?”

“I’ve lost it,” replied Mrs. Potts placidly. “I’m always losing it, though I can’t think where it’s gone this time. I know I had it on Sunday at church.”

Julie laughed. “That’s right. It dropped off in the collection plate, but James rescued it.”

“Martha’s ring is famous,” Astley-Cooper informed Bethancourt. “She’s always leaving it about or dropping it.”

“Playing with it is a bad habit of mine,” confessed Mrs. Potts. “It was my father’s signet ring, you see, and it’s really too big for me.”

“We’ll have a good look ’round the house for it when we get home,” said Julie sympathetically. “You haven’t seen it, have you, James?”

“What? I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

“I’ve looked ’round the house,” said Mrs. Potts. “I think it must have dropped off at my sister’s.”

“Oh, that’s an idea.”

Bethancourt managed to attract Astley-Cooper’s attention and inquire as to Marla’s whereabouts.

“I left her at the bar,” he replied, “in the midst of an admiring throng of almost every man in the village. She’s got them all twisted ’round her finger. Honestly, Phillip, I don’t know how you cope with her. She’s an extremely dangerous woman.”

“In some ways,” said Bethancourt absently. “I expect I’m safe for the moment—she’s in her element.”

He nevertheless looked around, trying to spot her in the crowd, and thus caught a glimpse of Constable Stikes, surveying the scene from the doorway. Behind her were Carmichael and Gibbons, also looking in, but in a moment they moved on, no doubt headed toward their rooms. Bethancourt considered nipping out to ask how things had gone at Bingham’s solicitors, but decided against it.

“Were those the Scotland Yard men?” asked Martha Potts.

“Where?” demanded Julie, looking ’round alertly.

“Behind the constable. They’re gone now.”

“Yes,” said Bethancourt. “That was Chief Inspector Carmichael and Sergeant Gibbons.”

“That’s right,” said James. “We heard you knew them. Do they have any suspects yet?”

“Not yet,” answered Bethancourt. “They only arrived this morning—it’s still early days.”

He decided not to mention the fact that the detectives were still uncertain that Bingham’s death was in fact a murder; the others were so clearly enjoying their sensation, it would have been a pity to put a damper on the occasion.

“The most surprising thing to me,” declared James, “was that he was rich. You must have seen his place, Mr. Bethancourt. Can you credit it?”

“He didn’t even have a daily,” put in Mrs. Potts. She sounded as if she were mildly affronted that this should be so. “I offered to find him someone, but he wouldn’t have it. Said he was used to doing his own housework.”

“But who would want to kill him?” asked Julie. “That’s what I can’t understand. Such a sweet man, really. A little eccentric, but not in a way that would prejudice anyone against him.”

With this they all agreed, and a little silence fell as they contemplated the death of someone they had all known and liked.

“Well,” said Mrs. Potts, setting down her empty port glass. “It’s getting late and I’m for home. Are you two coming?”

“Yes, indeed,” said James, swallowing the last of his pint. “Julie made me walk down, and I want a ride back.”

“A little exercise does us good,” said Julie. “But you’re right—I don’t fancy walking back, either.”

They gathered up their belongings and bid the rest of the company good night, making their way slowly through the crowd toward the door. Bethancourt watched them go.

“Tell me,” he said to Astley-Cooper, “you never said whether either of the Bensons had careers, or families of their own.”

“No, they’re both single,” answered Astley-Cooper. “They’ve got friends among the county set, and Julie does a fair amount of riding, but neither of them has ever dated anyone for long. They keep to themselves mostly, so far as I know.”

“Do you know them well?” asked Bethancourt.

Astley-Cooper shrugged. “Tolerably so,” he said. “After all, they’ve lived here nearly all their lives. I well remember,” he added, smiling at the recollection, “the day we found out the Batemans had sold the old farmhouse. My parents were still alive then and they were appalled, absolutely appalled, at the idea of a film star moving into the neighborhood. Said it would bring hordes of undesirables thronging ’round, though of course there was no question of our actually receiving Miss Bonnar. Oh, yes, my mother was quite eloquent on that subject. Of course, back then we didn’t have the tourists we have today. The summer crowds these days probably have my parents spinning in their graves.”

“And how about you?” asked Bethancourt. “Were you appalled as well?”

“Well, no,” admitted Astley-Cooper. “I was rather intrigued. I was still a young man, you must remember, and back then Joan Bonnar was love’s young dream.”

“I know,” said Bethancourt. “I’ve seen the films.” He took the last sip of his scotch and added, “Speaking of love’s young dream, I think I’d best go see how Marla’s getting on. She’ll never forgive me if I desert her tonight.”

“I left her right over there,” said Astley-Cooper, waving a hand in the direction of the bar.

Bethancourt made his way in that direction, but was stopped by Leandra Tothill before he had got very far. In the heat of the crowd, she had shrugged her sweater off her shoulders, giving her a delightful suggestion of
en dishabille
as she peered through the crowd.

“Hullo,” she said to him with a smile. “I’ve lost Richard again. How are you doing?”

Bethancourt smiled back. “I’ve lost Marla,” he answered.

Leandra laughed. “She’s over there,” she said, pointing. “The only reason you can’t see her is that she’s surrounded.”

Bethancourt surveyed the crowd. “She certainly seems to be,” he agreed.

“You can’t blame them,” said Leandra fondly. “We don’t get many celebrities here, despite all the crowds in the summer.”

“But you used to live in London yourself,” said Bethancourt.

“Yes, but I grew up in a village like this.” She laughed, a musical peal that delighted his ear. “And I could hardly wait to leave—as soon as I was done with school, I was off to London like a shot.”

“Didn’t you like it once you got there?”

“Oh, I loved it,” she answered. “I never thought I’d go back to a small place. But then I met Richard and, well …”

She shrugged and smiled.

“Bowled over, were you?” asked Bethancourt.

“Rather.” She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling at the recollection. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had the feeling, but we just seemed to fit together from the start. I really didn’t want to leave London, but it wasn’t as if I’d never lived in a village before. I knew I could manage, and Richard and I agreed I could always take the odd weekend in town—it’s not that far. But somehow I never do actually go.”

Her expression had turned thoughtful now, as if she were thinking over the wisdom of this choice, if choice it was.

“No doubt the parish keeps you busy here,” suggested Bethancourt.

“Yes, it does.”

They were interrupted by another woman whose name escaped Bethancourt, but whom he recognized from the choir.

“There you are, Mrs. Tothill,” she said cheerfully. “The vicar’s looking for you.”

“And I’m looking for him. Where has he got to? You will excuse me, Mr. Bethancourt, won’t you?”

Bethancourt acceded to this request and resumed his course toward the bar. He found Marla there, still surrounded by her crowd of admirers and clearly enjoying herself, her jade eyes dancing and her full lips parted in a dazzling smile. The sight stirred Bethancourt as he joined her and was greeted affectionately with a kiss and a hand run through his hair. Envy abruptly appeared in many of her admirers’ eyes, but Bethancourt hardly noticed as he slipped an arm about her waist.

She was going to be angry with him in the morning, he reminded himself, when he planned to leave her to her own devices so that he might run off with Gibbons. He toyed with the idea of hinting at his plans tonight, so as to relieve some of the abruptness of a morning announcement, but he caught a whiff of her scent as she turned to smile at him and decided that, after all, he might as well leave the evening unblemished.

Upstairs, Carmichael and Gibbons were poring over an ordnance survey map spread open on the bed.

“If we could just get a line on where Bingham was going that day,” said Carmichael, frowning fiercely. “It would give us a big clue as to where to look for this confounded woman.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. “If he was going to London, then he must have taken the A40.”

“If that’s where he was going,” said Carmichael glumly. “And he needn’t have taken the A40, even if he was. He might have picked up the M4 at Swindon.”

“He might, of course,” said Gibbons, “but Constable Stikes says most people use the A40. And,” he continued hastily, before Carmichael could interrupt with yet another gloomy prognostication, “even if he wasn’t actually going to London, he would still have taken the A40, since he’d told people he was going to London and it would have been remarked on if anyone had happened to see him off-course, so to speak.”

“There is that,” admitted Carmichael, somewhat reluctantly. He was in a foul mood, having arrived back too late to ring his wife before she went to bed. He sighed. “We could have this case cleared up in no time, if we could just get the facts straight. Before we heard of this mysterious girlfriend, I had hopes that whoever Bingham had gone to see would turn up, but there’s not much chance of it now.”

“No,” agreed Gibbons, “and that does make it look like it was the girlfriend he went to see. I suppose,” he said reflectively, “it’s possible she killed him deliberately, and that’s why he took a sleeping tablet before his dinner.”

“Possible,” agreed Carmichael, beginning to fold up the map. “We won’t know until we find her. Well, we’ve got to finish up here, make sure none of these people know anything. I think I’ll let you do that tomorrow, Gibbons, and I’ll go have a word with Bingham’s business partner—what’s his name?”

“Sealingham, sir. Andrew Sealingham.”

“That’s it. You know, Bingham might equally well have been going to see him—the man lives in the London suburbs.”

“That’s true, sir.”

“And in any case, he’s got to be ticked off the list,” grumbled Carmichael, finishing with the map and tossing it aside. “They’ve all got to be ticked off, though what good it will do us, I don’t know. Oh, never mind me, Sergeant—you take yourself off and get some sleep. I’ll be in a better frame of mind tomorrow.”