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Authors: Cassandra Chan

BOOK: The Young Widow
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Bethancourt shifted slightly. Perhaps, he thought, he was overreacting. Perhaps Annette was indeed innocent and everything would be all right. He didn't much like the idea of her as Gibbons's girlfriend, or—God forbid—his wife, but so long as she was innocent, he could accept it. Except that even if she were innocent, he could still not believe she was seriously interested in Gibbons. He simply could not imagine Annette putting up with the kind of neglect Gibbons's career would require. Far more likely that she was merely using Gibbons to keep close to the investigation.
And what, thought Bethancourt in alarm, if no one were ever arrested for the murder? He had known cases before where the police were virtually certain of a criminal's identity, and yet were unable to make an arrest. If that attitude were to prevail about Annette Berowne, Gibbons's attachment to her would not go down at all well at New Scotland Yard. There might even be suspicions that Gibbons had prevented an arrest from being made. Bethancourt almost groaned aloud.
“Maria,” he whispered, “are you asleep?”
He felt her stir down the length of his side.
“No,” she answered, although she almost had been. “What is it?”
“Would you fall for a man who had no men friends?”
“No,” she answered promptly. “There's always something wrong with people like that.”
“Women as well as men?” asked Bethancourt, not very clearly, but she seemed to understand him. She nodded.
“Of course. What brought this to mind?”
“Well, I'm rather worried about Jack.”
“Jack?” She lifted her head from his chest. She might have known murder was involved. She was well aware how obsessive Bethancourt could become about his mystery cases, but heretofore they had not intruded into time spent in the bedroom. This seemed to mark a new stage and she definitely did not like it.
“I think he's found someone he fancies,” confided Bethancourt.
“Oh.” Marla was appeased. “A woman with no women friends?”
“That's right. And I think she's rather calculating, too. She's very charming—”
Marla's head came back off his chest. “Is she beautiful?”
“No,” answered Bethancourt without hesitation and this seemed to reassure her. “She's not beautiful at all, but I doubt Jack's noticed that. And it doesn't matter, because she has this—allure, I suppose is the best way to describe it.”
“Like Abbie,” said Marla.
“Who?”
“Abbie Waite—you've met her. She's not even pretty, really, but you never notice, her personality comes through so strongly. Even in photographs.”
“Rather like that,” Bethancourt admitted. “Only in this case, the personality is geared to pander to the male ego, rather than being admirable in itself.”
Marla stirred languidly. “I shouldn't have thought that would be Jack's thing,” she said.
“I suppose all men are somewhat susceptible,” said Bethancourt,
remembering his own feelings earlier in the day while looking down at Marla from horseback.
“Nobody's immune,” agreed Marla, “but I still would have expected Jack to fall for a more modern type. A career woman, who would have something interesting to tell him at the end of the day.”
“I think you're right,” said Bethancourt, rather impressed with her accurate summing up of the tastes of a man she had never paid much attention to. “But I also think that somewhere deep down, Jack has a fantasy of a nice little woman waiting at home like his mother did.”
“With six children, she didn't have much choice.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Bethancourt.
“Well,” said Marla, settling herself more comfortably, “there's nothing you can do. It's no good telling people the light of their lives are perfectly dreadful and all wrong for them. It just puts their backs up. They have to find out for themselves.”
“All too true,” agreed Bethancourt.
But,
he added to himself,
what if Annette's a murderess as well as the wrong person?
Marla shifted against him again, sliding her hand down the length of his belly while she drew herself up until her lips could reach his. Bethancourt turned to her and forgot his worries for the moment.
 
 
“I don't think she
did it, Phillip,” said Gibbons on the phone the next morning. “I timed the walk and there's twenty minutes unaccounted for. That tallies exactly with the time it took her to start back for her library card, and then turn round again once she realized she had it—I timed that, too. And twenty minutes is rather long for slipping some poisoned water into a coffeepot.”
Things always looked bleakest at night. This morning Bethancourt had reminded himself that Gibbons was no fool and that, if he thought Annette was innocent, she very likely was. He still
thought his friend was heading for a broken heart, but that, after all, was not disastrous. It happened to nearly everyone sooner or later.
Nevertheless, the absolution of Annette on such flimsy evidence made him uneasy. “It could have taken twenty minutes,” he said. “We know she left the house and she might have waited to make sure McAllister was out of the way before she went back in again.”
“She wouldn't even have seen him down there where the tulips are,” argued Gibbons. “No, I know there's no proof as yet, but I really believe we can cross her off.”
Bethancourt forbore to mention that if McAllister could see her, she could certainly see him if she looked in the right direction.
“Well, that's good then,” he said lamely. “Are you going back down there again today?”
“No,” answered Gibbons. “I'm off to interview Mrs. Simmons's children. It's rather pointless, really, but Carmichael wants everyone eliminated. I rang to see if you wanted to come.”
“I don't think so,” said Bethancourt. “I've got things to take care of here and then I'm running down to see Kitty this evening.”
“All right then,” said Gibbons cheerfully. “I'll let you know if I turn anything up. God, but it's good to have at least one suspect cleared.”
“What did Carmichael say when you told him?”
“Not much really. He did say he'd ruled out the idea of her having an affair, but he didn't find out anything more about Paul Berowne. I think he was disappointed with that—he's certain there's something there. He's going to start digging for it in earnest on Monday, starting with the office staff and going round to the vicar.”
“He's very likely right,” said Bethancourt. “Well, I'll ring you tomorrow and tell you what I find out at the pub tonight.”
“Right-ho. Talk to you then.”
Bethancourt hung up the receiver, determined about one thing. Whether there was evidence to back it up or not, he had to find out
for sure whether Annette Berowne was guilty or innocent. At the moment, he was not at all sure which answer would be best for his friend.
He had known Gibbons well for several years now and had seen him through the acquiring and subsequent loss of three or four girlfriends, but he had never seen him in this kind of stew over a woman before. Gibbons's previous liaisons had been casual affairs, begun usually with a burst of enthusiasm quickly subsumed by his devotion to his work. He had not seemed to care much when things ended; on one occasion he had admitted to Bethancourt that he was relieved. Only once had he been truly upset by the end of a relationship and had complained bitterly of Lisa's lack of understanding about the hours that his job entailed. Bethancourt had forbore to point out that Lisa's objections had not been to the hours, but to the fact that she never crossed Gibbons's mind during them. Well, he thought wryly, that was one complaint Annette Berowne couldn't make.
Bethancourt tried to turn his attention to other matters, but he could not concentrate. He told himself that there was nothing he could do until the evening, but it made no difference; he could not settle to anything. Finally he gave up the unequal struggle and spent an hour outlining the facts of the case on his computer. When it was finished he stared fruitlessly at what he had done for another half-hour before abandoning it in disgust and venturing out to take Cerberus across the Thames for a long walk in Battersea Park.
When he returned, he was still so anxious to get on with the evening that he showered, shaved, and dressed and was ready to go well before time. He left anyway, arriving at the servants' entrance to Hurtwood Hall a full fifteen minutes early. If Kitty Whitcomb had only known how unheard-of an occurrence this was, she would have been flattered.
She had dressed up for the occasion in a leather miniskirt and a close-fitting twin set trimmed with satin. Bethancourt gazed at her admiringly.
“You look lovely,” he said. “Shall we go?”
The restaurant she had chosen was in Guildford, a small, intimate place with candlelit tables and snowy linen. Kitty appeared to be well-known here; she was greeted effusively by the maitre d', kissed by the waiter, and assured that Anton would be out to see her as soon as he could manage it.
Bethancourt settled himself in his chair, lit a cigarette, and raised his eyebrows. “Do you come here every night you have off?” he asked.
“It's amazing how you do that,” Kitty said, eyeing him.
“Do what?”
“Manage to get so comfortable,” she answered, surprising him. “You did it in my kitchen, too. You just seem to settle in, as if you were as comfortable as you would be at home.”
“I am comfortable.”
Kitty abruptly returned to his original question. “I do come here fairly often,” she said. “I also used to date the chef.”
“Anton?”
“Anton.”
Bethancourt considered. “You seem to be on very friendly terms.”
“We are. Why shouldn't we be?”
“Well, I don't know. I've often wondered why, when people break up, they so often never want to see each other again. After all, they presumably had something in common to begin with.”
“I know it happens that way sometimes,” she agreed, “but it never made any sense to me. I'm still friends with all of my old boyfriends.”
Bethancourt was smiling at her, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “My,” he said, “you're almost aggressively practical, aren't you?”
She didn't like that; she shrugged and said, “Practical, certainly. I don't know about aggressive.”
They were interrupted by the waiter who had brought the wine list and stood holding it, hesitating between them.
“The gentleman's paying, Mark,” said Kitty, indicating that the list should be given to Bethancourt.
“Thank you,” he said, “but I think you're probably a better judge of wine than I am. You take it. And,” he added as the waiter departed, “don't stint. I can afford one splendid night out.”
“I'll take you at your word,” she warned.
“By all means, do. In fact, you can order the entire meal if you like. I'm sure you know Anton's cooking better than I do, too.”
She shot him a curious glance, but merely said, “Very well,” and returned her attention to the wine list.
The ordering taken care of, the wine brought and approved, Kitty propped her elbow on the table, rested her chin on the heels of her hands, and said, “So what exactly do you have to do with the police?”
Bethancourt had no intention of impugning Scotland Yard's honor by revealing his true status. Discretion, in this case, was definitely the better part of valor.
“Consultant,” he answered. “But actually, I don't get called in very often, mostly just when they want a new slant on things.”
“And what do you do when you're not consulting?”
“Try to look after my investments,” said Bethancourt deprecatingly.
Kitty's eyebrows rose and her eyes ran over his clothes, as if trying to gauge their worth.
“So what you're really saying is that you're independently wealthy.”
“You could put it that way, depending on your definition of wealthy.”
“But then why Scotland Yard?”
“Because I enjoy it,” he answered. “Most of the time, anyway,” he
added, thinking of the wrinkle that had been introduced to this case.
The same thing had apparently occurred to Kitty, for she said slowly, “I rather thought you and Sergeant Gibbons were friends.”
“We are. We've grown quite close over the years.”
“He was at the estate yesterday,” said Kitty. “I didn't see him, but Mrs. Berowne was all flushed and happy when she got back from her walk with him. She hasn't looked like that since the murder.”

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