The Young Widow (19 page)
Authors: Cassandra Chan
“Look here,” she said, setting down her briefcase and sliding into the chair Gibbons held for her, “I want you to know I didn't realize Paul Berowne was married when it all started.”
Gibbons took his own seat and considered her. Marion Berowne struck him as being far more attractive than Amy Sullivan, although Miss Sullivan was unquestionably better turned out in a very smart suit. Her face lacked the elegance of Marion's bone structure and beneath the well-tailored clothing her figure was less well-proportioned.
“I mean,” she went on, “Paul and I were working together quite closely for a time and he was always available to have a drink after we were done or to get some dinnerânever a mention of having to get home to his wife. Naturally, I assumed he was single.”
“So you're saying he deceived you,” said Gibbons.
“No, no.” She had flyaway hair and now she pushed distractedly at her bangs. “I can't say that. It just never occurred to him that I didn't know. He was very apologetic when it came out, but of course by then it was too late.”
“You were already in love with him.”
She sighed. “Yes.”
Gibbons eyed her. He found it interesting that even five years later, she was still determined not to be viewed as a home wrecker. But her guilty feelings were not why they were here.
“At some point,” he said, “Mr. Berowne must have suggested he get a divorce so you could marry.”
“That's right.” She nodded.
“But, in fact, he didn't.”
“Well, no, but it isn't what it sounds like. He meant to. He really did.”
“Then what happened?”
She related the same story he had already heard: how Marion Berowne had objected and how Geoffrey had attempted to bring his son to heel.
“So Paul left Berowne's and moved in with me,” she explained. “He didn't file for divorce right away because we both agreed that he should get a new job first.” She sighed heavily. “Only he couldn't seem to find one.”
Paul Berowne had energetically pursued job opportunities at first. He had never thought it would be a problem and his first port of call had been to the presidents of companies with whom he had dealt in his capacity as vice president of Berowne Biscuits. They had all been very tactful, but they had also been well aware of who the guiding genius at Berowne's really was and one by one they had politely declined to offer Paul the kind of position he was looking for. Paul had apparently believed it was fear of his father that motivated them and had gone boldly off to new pastures.
But the only jobs he found were in middle management, which marked a considerable descent from the giddy heights he was used to. At first he had rejected such jobs with disdain until, bit by bit, he began to realize it was the best he could do, that his former position
with Berowne Biscuits had not reflected his own worth at all, but only his father's desires. And the knowledge changed him.
with Berowne Biscuits had not reflected his own worth at all, but only his father's desires. And the knowledge changed him.
“When I first met him,” said Amy reflectively, “he was full of confidence, a man in charge of a leading company, and very sure of himself. He wasn't perfect, and he was, for example, deeply distressed by the failure of his marriage, but that didn't really alter his view of himself and his world. Only it turned out it was his father's world and when Paul left it, he also left behind who he was.”
“So he went back.”
“Not exactly.” She hesitated, avoiding his eye, and then said reluctantly, “I guess I sent him back.”
“Really?” The interest in Gibbons's voice was keen. “You broke up with him?”
“Iâyes, I don't suppose there's any other way to put it. But it's not what it sounds like.”
Gibbons reflected that nothing was what it sounded like with Miss Sullivan.
“It was a bit awkward from the start,” she explained, “having him move in with me. The flat I had then was small and it was hard to find room for his things and, well, we seemed to get in each other's way a lot. I think he felt it more than I did; he'd never lived in a place where he didn't have his own bathroom and dressing room and study and God knows what all else. In the beginning we didn't worry about it since we planned to move to a bigger place as soon as Paul got a new jobâwe even had our eye on a flat in Mayfair for a while. But after the first couple of months, well, it became clear that the situation was going to be less temporary than we'd thought.”
“But that can't have been the end of it,” said Gibbons. “I don't believe you threw him out just because the flat was a bit crowded.”
“No, of course not.” She was indignant at the suggestion. “I did try to be sympathetic and supportive, but he began closing me out.
In the end, he wasn't even looking for another job and he didn't want to discuss it. He started drinking a good deal and then there were rows.” She gestured. “He just wasn't the same man I'd fallen in love with. In fact, no one could be more different. He was creeping round the flat almost as if he were afraid of me and we hardly ever made love anymore. I finally told him I didn't think it was working out.”
In the end, he wasn't even looking for another job and he didn't want to discuss it. He started drinking a good deal and then there were rows.” She gestured. “He just wasn't the same man I'd fallen in love with. In fact, no one could be more different. He was creeping round the flat almost as if he were afraid of me and we hardly ever made love anymore. I finally told him I didn't think it was working out.”
“And how did he take it?”
“Very quietly, actually. I was surprised. He said he'd been thinking the same thing, only he hadn't had the courage to say anything. I went to a girlfriend's that night and the next afternoon he rang and said he'd spoken to his wife and he'd be moving back with her as soon as he was packed up.” She spread her hands. “I never spoke to him again.”
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Carmichael had finished with
Mira Fellows and Janet Whitcomb, neither of whom had added anything to the information Gibbons had brought in that morning. Nevertheless, Carmichael did not consider the time wasted. He had nailed down a few points and made absolutely certain that Paul Berowne had left Mira in plenty of time to return to the estate and poison his father.
Mira Fellows and Janet Whitcomb, neither of whom had added anything to the information Gibbons had brought in that morning. Nevertheless, Carmichael did not consider the time wasted. He had nailed down a few points and made absolutely certain that Paul Berowne had left Mira in plenty of time to return to the estate and poison his father.
That finished, Carmichael had returned to Hurtwood Hall and now stood in the garden, eyeing the tulip beds. These were planted around the edge of the terrace and the gardener, McAllister, had been working here on the morning of the murder. Carmichael was bothered by the fact that he could not place Paul Berowne anywhere near the study at the appropriate time. Berowne had spoken to McAllister here, but that had been earlier, long before Geoffrey Berowne had been served his coffee. But there was a gap between the time Paul Berowne had left Mira and the time he had arrived back at the garage to check on his car. McAllister said he had seen Mrs. Berowne leave the house which, if she was innocent, had been
just after eleven. If that were the case, and Paul Berowne had arrived after her departure, how could McAllister not have seen him?
just after eleven. If that were the case, and Paul Berowne had arrived after her departure, how could McAllister not have seen him?
The most obvious explanation was that McAllister had moved round to the other end of the terrace. The side door could still be seen from here, but only if one made an effort. Carmichael knelt down in the damp grass and fixed his attention on the flower bed. No, from this angle, one probably wouldn't notice someone emerging from the house.
Carmichael went in search of the gardener, whom he finally found in the kitchen garden, tending the early lettuces. He did not look pleased to see the detective.
“I just need a bit of clarification,” said Carmichael genially. “You said Mr. Paul Berowne spoke to you that morning while you were working in the tulip beds. Just where in the tulip beds would that have been?”
McAllister did not look up. “By the fountain.”
“The fountain?” echoed Carmichael, puzzled. He had seen no fountain in the area.
McAllister nodded curtly.
“I see,” said Carmichael, thinking it out. “So there are tulips other than those around the terrace. You started with this other bed that morning?”
“That's right.”
“And about how long would that have taken you?”
“Don't know.”
Carmichael sighed. “Perhaps you'd better show me where they are.”
McAllister glared. “And if I do,” he said, “who's going to tend to these lettuces, eh?”
“I imagine you could continue with that later,” said Carmichael, losing patience. “This is a case of murder, Mr. McAllister, and my investigation takes precedence over gardening concerns. If you find
them too distracting, we can always continue this discussion down at the nick.”
them too distracting, we can always continue this discussion down at the nick.”
This threat had less impact than Carmichael had hoped. McAllister merely snorted and said, “And if we do, it'll be damned difficult to see the bloody fountain from there.”
But he rose and led the way out of the kitchen garden, making his way at a good pace along the winding paths of the garden proper until they reached a small rectangular plot surrounded by hedges. A large fountain stood in the center, solidly covered with cherubic angels and dolphins. There was a seat in an alcove of the hedge from which one could admire this monstrosity and gravel paths led from the bench to the fountain. Splashed in the angles were the tulips, but the beds were nowhere near as large as the long one that ran around the terrace. Mentally, Carmichael calculated that McAllister must have worked for less than half the time he had spent on the larger bed.
“So you started here first thing that morning?” he asked.
“Not first thing,” admitted McAllister. “I just saw to a few things in the potting shed first.”
“How long had you been here when Mr. Berowne came by?”
McAllister considered. “Not long,” he answered.
It was like pulling teeth, thought Carmichael. “Where exactly were you?”
“I was mulching this one here.”
“And had you done any of the others yet?”
“No.”
“So it would have been about nine o'clock.”
“If you say so.” McAllister shrugged.
“And you went from here to the terrace?”
McAllister grunted an affirmative.
“Very well, let's go along there then.”
The gardener sighed in an exaggerated manner and started off
for the terrace. When they arrived, he indicated the end of the terrace farthest from the side door as the place he had started.
for the terrace. When they arrived, he indicated the end of the terrace farthest from the side door as the place he had started.
“Did you bring all the mulch up with you to begin with?” asked Carmichael. “Or did you have to go back for it?”
“I used what was left from the fountain beds. Then I got some more.
“And that lasted you until you finished?”
“No. I had to fetch more.”
Gradually, Carmichael began to make a tentative timeline from McAllister's grudging replies. He had come up to the terrace probably about nine-thirty or a bit after and had run out of mulch perhaps an hour later. In any case, he had been halfway done when he had left to replenish his stock, and he had seen Mrs. Berowne leaving the house shortly after his return, probably not more than fifteen minutes later.
Carmichael stood in the spot McAllister had estimated as being near the place where he had stopped work and gazed up at the door. It was still far enough away from this point that people might have passed without McAllister noticing.
“How sure are you that no one used that door after Mrs. Berowne left?” he asked.
“I'm not sure,” said McAllister. “I've told you all that before. I was working, not following the comings and goings of everybody else. They've got a right to use their own back door, haven't they? I'd not have noticed unless they made a lot of noise.”
“But you did notice Mrs. Berowne,” said Carmichael. “Why was that? Was she making a noise?”
“Not her.”
“So why did you notice her?”
McAllister relented. “I expect I just happened to look up as she came out. I think I'd just finished a bag of mulch and was looking round for another one.”
“So if one of the othersâsay Ken Millsâsaid he had entered the house this way, you wouldn't say he was lying?”
“No,” said McAllister, exasperatedly. “I wouldn't, because I wouldn't know if he had or not.”
“All right,” said Carmichael. “Thank you very much, Mr. McAllister. You can get back to your lettuces now.”
McAllister snorted and headed off at once.
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“It's shaping up nicely, lad,” said
Carmichael, setting aside the notes Gibbons had made of his interview with Amy Sullivan. “God knows it's a whacking great motive.”
Carmichael, setting aside the notes Gibbons had made of his interview with Amy Sullivan. “God knows it's a whacking great motive.”
“It is that,” agreed Gibbons. “Do you want to bring Berowne in for questioning now?”
Carmichael glanced at the clock and considered. It had taken him longer than he had planned on down at Peaslake and it was now late afternoon. “He might be tired now and easier to break,” said Carmichael. “It's a psychological edge, grabbing a man just as he thinks he's done for the day and can go home. But, no. I won't be any fresher than he is and this is important. I don't want to cock it up because I've already had a long day and have missed my supper. We'll wait until morning.”
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