A Spider on the Stairs (20 page)

“I suppose,” said Gibbons rather doubtfully. “It's not out of the realm of possibility anyway. But wouldn't Rachel have known if Jody and Jenks were involved?”

“Well, Jody didn't tell her she was moving back here,” pointed out Bethancourt. He paused, and then said, “Oh, God.”

Gibbons had been gazing out his window at the rain, but this jerked his attention back to his companion.

“What?” he demanded as the car slowed and then came to a halt.

“It's a puddle,” said Bethancourt in a discouraged tone, and Gibbons peered out the windscreen to see a small pond of water in their path, its surface puckered by the falling rain.

“That looks a lot deeper than when we came through,” said Gibbons.

“So it does,” said Bethancourt. “The question is: is it too deep for the car to get through it? On the other hand, I can't think of any other way we could take, so I suppose we might as well try.”

“Go very slow,” advised Gibbons. “And steadily.”

“Right,” said Bethancourt, letting in the clutch. “You'd better look out and give a shout if the water looks too deep.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” said Gibbons resignedly.

He rolled down his window and stuck his head out into the rain as Bethancourt eased the Jaguar into the water.

“You're all right,” he called, shaking the water out of his eyes. “It's not even up to the middle of the tire yet.”

Bethancourt continued their slow progress while Gibbons watched the water rise and then, at last, watched it begin to retreat.

“I do hope we don't have to do that again,” he said, rolling his window back up as they cleared the flooded roadway. “It was most uncomfortable and I am now quite depressingly wet.”

“I hope your police friends are going to rescue us if we get stuck. Otherwise, it's a very long tramp back to York.”

But as they crept along the sodden roads, he found himself playing lookout more than once again, and by the time they drove into York he badly needed a change of clothes.

It was still early in the day when at length they reemerged from the house in St. Savioursgate and made a dash through the rain along the snickelways to Mittlesdon's.

The shop had been allowed to reopen its doors that morning, an event noted in the local media but not overwhelmingly attended by the public, most of whom were worrying about their cellars flooding as the rain continued to fall. Bethancourt and Gibbons had intended to turn out for it, but the Jenks interview put them behindhand, and the bookshop had been open for the better part of an hour when they arrived.

Most of the staff was present, including an unctuous Alice, who seemed to have recovered from Bethancourt's morning faux pas. His smile became more brittle with each encounter with her.

Fortunately, she was mostly kept busy. The staff in general seemed to be throwing themselves into their work with an air of relief, tidying away the detritus left over from the Christmas shoppers and straightening up the shelves. There was much coming and going between the sales floor and the office, whilst behind the counter Libby Alston, the oldest member of the staff, made telephone calls to patrons, checking them off on a long list.

There was a sprinkling of customers, though not many of them showed much interest in books; they mostly wandered about,
surreptitiously looking for the site of the murder. One tourist actually came in with a camera and asked outright; Rhys-Jones informed him with chilly politeness that access to the office was limited to staff.

Gibbons's goal was unobtrusive observation, which in a bookshop was not difficult: he simply browsed. Bethancourt, joining him in this, paused in front of a display of bestsellers.

“That looks interesting,” said Gibbons, indicating a book titled
Bad Science
. “I like his columns in
The Guardian.
”

“I've read it,” answered Bethancourt. “It was fascinating.”

He reached for the book, but volume next to it caught his eye, and he picked that up instead.

“I wonder if this is that diet everyone's been talking about,” he said.

Gibbons peered at the cover, which portrayed a smiling woman in her forties with perfectly tinted honey-blonde hair and beautifully applied makeup, showing a respectable amount of cleavage.

“Isn't that that American telly star?” he asked. “Yes, there's her name—Dana Dugan.”

“Right,” said Bethancourt. “I think my aunt said something about it coming from America.” He adjusted his glasses to look at the cover photograph. “My, she's well preserved, isn't she?”

“Just what I was thinking,” said Gibbons. “Anyway, what do you want a diet book for? You can't possibly think you need to lose weight.”

“No, no,” said Bethancourt, “nothing like that. I was just curious, that's all. Apparently this thing is the talk of the town—or at least the middle-aged-women's part of town. My aunt's lost nearly a stone on it.”

He opened the book and was flipping randomly through it when a female voice exclaimed, “Good Lord. What are you doing here?”

Both men turned to regard a willowy blond woman with sleepy green eyes. She did not look pleased to see Bethancourt.

“Catherine,” he said gallantly. “What a delightful surprise. Do let me introduce you to my friend Jack Gibbons. Jack, this is Catherine, the lady I mentioned to you last night.”

Catherine shook hands with Gibbons automatically, her eyes returning immediately to Bethancourt.

“How did you find out where I work?” she demanded.

“Work?” repeated Bethancourt blankly, as though he had never heard of the concept. “You don't mean . . . oh, dear.”

Gibbons's eyes lit up. “Oh, are you Catherine Stockton?”

She nodded stiffly, but before things could be sorted, they were interrupted by a large man in a regrettable striped waistcoat.

“Catherine, my dear,” he said heartily, swooping in to put an arm around her and plant a kiss on her cheek, all of which she received with a marked air of reserve. “Good to see you—I wanted to tell you that my little niece was bowled over with that lovely edition of
The Wizard of Oz
you found for me. Nothing like the classics, eh?”

“Mr. Sanderson,” said Catherine, smiling, but also removing herself from the circle of his arm. “I'm so glad little Anna was pleased.”

Sanderson's eyes had lit upon Bethancourt. “Well, if it isn't Mr. Bethancourt,” he said. “That's right, isn't it? We met the other night at the Heywoods', didn't we?”

“We did,” said Bethancourt, reaching to shake hands. “Very pleased to see you again, sir. This is my friend Jack Gibbons.”

“Good to meet you,” said Sanderson. “Stop a minute—you aren't the police chap investigating the murder here, are you?”

“That's me,” said Gibbons, his blue eyes suddenly regarding Sanderson with more than ordinary interest. “Detective Sergeant Gibbons of New Scotland Yard.” His smile was bland.

Catherine was looking from one to the other of them with an
almost dazed expression. Then her eyes narrowed as she looked back at Bethancourt.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“So is there any news?” Sanderson was asking Gibbons. “I do hope you manage to clear this nasty business up quickly—not the sort of thing Mittlesdon wants hanging over his head.”

He had the air of the Man in Charge, and Gibbons raised an eyebrow.

“Certainly not,” he agreed genially.

Bethancourt had the unpleasant sensation that the situation was rapidly getting away from him. He smiled weakly at Catherine.

“Perhaps—” he began, only to be interrupted once again, this time by Mittlesdon.

“There you are, Catherine,” he said, bustling up. “I've got a list of messages a mile long waiting for you in your office. And Mrs. Broadley has rung up three times already this morning.”

“I'd better ring her back,” said Catherine. “Has anything come in for me?”

Mittlesdon waved his hand. “Tony's still sorting through everything in the back. Oh, hello, Brian,” he added, catching sight of Sanderson. “Anything I can do for you, or were you just browsing today?”

Catherine was moving off toward the stairs, but not before looking daggers at Bethancourt, who smiled bravely and called after her, “See you later, then?”

She did not reply.

“I just wanted to see if you'd got that copy of Burke in for me,” Sanderson told Mittlesdon.

Mittlesdon shook his head. “I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to look yet,” he said. “But come along to the stockroom and see if Tony's come across it.”

They moved off, leaving Bethancourt and Gibbons alone. Gibbons eyed his friend with a bemused expression on his face.

“Catherine,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Bethancourt, wretchedly. “That was Catherine.”

“The girl at the nightclub.”

“Yes,” said Bethancourt in a very small voice.

“Let's see,” said Gibbons. “Your ex-girlfriend from school works here, and just as we've eliminated her as a suspect, you go and hook up with the children's-literature expert.”

“Well, I didn't know she was the children's-literature expert,” protested Bethancourt. “She certainly doesn't look like one.”

“I'll give you that,” agreed Gibbons, sighing.

“And now,” said Bethancourt, “she thinks I was chatting her up just to get information about Mittlesdon's.”

“Oh,” said Gibbons, enlightened. “Is that what she was on about?”

“I'm afraid so,” said Bethancourt.

“Really,” said Gibbons, with a mock air of admiration, “your life is very complicated, isn't it? Who on earth was that Sanderson man, and why did you tell him about me?”

“I didn't, not exactly,” answered Bethancourt. “I ran across him at that cocktail party I went to—I told you about it. He's Sanderson Carveries.” Something came back to him. “I think Tony Grandidge is his nephew or cousin or some such. At least, I'm almost certain that's what he said that night.”

Gibbons nodded. “It explains why Mittlesdon is so ready to let him into the back.” He raised a brow. “Any other personal connections with my murder investigation that you've forgotten to tell me about?”

Bethancourt sighed. “I'll go, shall I?” he said resignedly.

“No, stay,” decided Gibbons. “There's nothing to say you shouldn't shop here, and I have to run off in any case to speak to Mittlesdon's accountants. Do try not to get further involved in anyone's personal life, if you can manage it.”

“I won't,” said Bethancourt, rather lamely.

He watched Gibbons go and then looked down at the book in
his hands, surprised to find he was still holding it. Feeling much chastened, and wondering if there was any way he could set things right, he plonked himself down in one of the easy chairs and began to read about the latest American diet craze.

It was past one o'clock in the morning and the rain made a steady patter against the darkened windows. Gibbons sat at the kitchen table with his laptop open before him and an array of case files and notes spread out all around it. He had been hard at work in the two days since he had returned from Cornwall, but no matter how he added it up, he did not seem to be much farther forward.

He looked up as a door across the room opened and Bethancourt came up the stairs from the cellar. His appearance was slightly disheveled and there was a muddy streak across his cheek.

“There's a bit of damp,” he said, “but no flooding yet. I think we may make it through.”

“But it's still raining,” Gibbons reminded him.

“Well, yes, there is that,” admitted Bethancourt, coming to join his friend at the table. “I can't do anything about it, however.”

Gibbons grunted, having returned his attention to his computer. Bethancourt eyed him, lit a cigarette, and inspected the cold remains of the cocoa in the mug he had left on the table.
Sighing, he rose to reheat it in the microwave on the worktop, and then, having given Gibbons those few moments of quiet, he asked, “Anything interesting?”

“No,” said Gibbons with a sigh, pushing back from the table and rubbing his head with both hands. “Constable Redfern's been rummaging around, but he hasn't come up with much more than I have. This,” he waved at the computer, “is to say that rumor has it your Catherine slept with her superior to get her assistant professorship at York University. Which in turn led to her getting the job at Mittlesdon's, out of which she has done quite well.”

“She's not my Catherine,” replied Bethancourt automatically. “Alice,” he added, “told me the same thing, but I put it down to jealousy. Sorry.”

Gibbons shrugged. “It's not as if it makes a very compelling motive for murder, even if it's true,” he said. He paused and then asked curiously, “Does Alice know you've been dallying with Catherine?”

“I think she's figured it out,” said Bethancourt resignedly. “There's definitely an edge to her conversation lately. Although that might be because I've been leading her on to the point of leaving myself open to a breach-of-promise suit.”

“Her information has been very helpful,” said Gibbons.

“But it hasn't really got us anywhere.” Bethancourt slumped back in his chair and held up a finger. “Item: we've found out that Tony Grandidge was a scamp at university and was actually arrested for trespass, and that he's carrying more debt than he probably should be. He has been pursuing Catherine Stockton for some time, but she has remained cool to his advances, as she likes to keep a firm line between business and pleasure.”

“Still not talking to you, eh?” asked Gibbons.

“No,” replied Bethancourt, and held up a second finger. “Item two: we have discovered that Catherine Stockton leads rather a more risqué life than her co-workers and employer are aware of,
which might, in the case of the true sociopath, be a cause for murder. Unfortunately, she was verifiably in Avon on Christmas night.”