The Young Widow (21 page)

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Authors: Cassandra Chan

BOOK: The Young Widow
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“But he—oh, God.”
Abruptly she broke down, leaning over the arm of the sofa with her face buried in her hands. Her crying was silent, but her shoulders shook with its force.
“Here.” Bethancourt rose from his chair and seated himself beside her, slipping an arm about her and proffering his handkerchief. “We know it must be a shock,” he said soothingly, “especially after the terrible experience you had before. Did you still love him after all, then?”
The handkerchief obscured her face, but she nodded ashamedly.
“I'd given up any hope,” she said haltingly, the tears still running down her cheeks. “I knew it would never be good between us again. But I did still care.”
Bethancourt patted her back.
“It's—it's not the same woman, is it?” she whispered and then hunched her shoulders as if she could not bear the answer.
“No,” answered Gibbons, “not the same.”
She let out her breath in a long, tremulous sigh and blew her nose.
“That's it,” said Bethancourt. “Try to bear up.”
“But,” she gasped, “how will I ever face him tonight? I can't—I simply can't.”
“That may not be a problem,” said Gibbons slowly.
She looked at him questioningly, not understanding.
“Chief Inspector Carmichael has taken him in for questioning at New Scotland Yard,” said Gibbons. “I don't know if he will be released tonight or not.”
She couldn't grasp what he was telling her.
“Why?” she asked.
“You must see,” said Bethancourt gently, “that this gives him a motive for murder.”
She stared wildly at them. “But I thought Annette killed Geoffrey.”
Gibbons bristled, but kept his voice calm. “There is some reason to believe Mrs. Berowne is innocent,” he said.
“But I'm sure Paul wouldn't have hurt his father,” she protested, tears filling her eyes again. “He wouldn't do something like that.”
“Nothing's certain yet,” said Gibbons. “You never suspected then that your husband might be guilty?”
She shook her head wildly. “No. I'm sure he isn't. He can't be.”
There was clearly no more she could tell them, and they took their leave as soon as they could without seeming callous.
“I hope Miss Wellman doesn't cry,” grumbled Gibbons as they made their way toward the main house. “I hate it when witnesses break down in tears.”
“Oh, I don't think Maddie Wellman is the type to weep on your shoulder,” said Bethancourt. “She's made of sterner stuff.”
“Let's hope she'll be more helpful,” said Gibbons. “I haven't got anything so far that you didn't already tell me. It would be nice if we could uncover an extra bit for Carmichael to spring on Berowne.”
Mrs. Simmons opened the door to them and guided them up to Maddie's sitting room. Bethancourt wondered where Annette was, but was pleased that Gibbons did not ask.
“Back again, eh?” said Maddie as they came in. “I suppose you'll expect another meal.”
“Not today, Miss Wellman,” said Gibbons cheerfully. “I have orders from Chief Inspector Carmichael to speak to you and get back to Town as quick as I can.”
“Then you'd better be at it,” she answered. “Here, Mr. Bethancourt, pull up another chair for yourself. That one there will do. So what have you come about today?”
“Chief Inspector Carmichael,” began Gibbons, “was wondering why you hadn't told him that Geoffrey Berowne had prevented his son's divorce.”
“Why should I? It's ancient history.” She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand.
“So you don't feel that Paul bore his father any resentment for his actions?”
“Of course not. Paul acknowledged that it was his duty to try to reconcile with Marion in light of the baby on the way, and so it was.”
“So you maintain that the reconciliation was effective?”
“Of course it was.”
“Then why are they still so unhappy?” asked Gibbons mildly.
“They're not,” she snapped.
“Really? Marion Berowne seems to feel quite differently. I haven't spoken with Paul yet, but he looks an unhappy man to me.”
Being caught out did not seem to phase her in the least. “Marion likes to dramatize things,” she said. “Every marriage has its rough spots.”
“So that would, in your opinion, explain the affair Paul Berowne has been having? A rough spot in his marriage?”
She colored. “An affair? He can't have been.”
“But he was, Miss Wellman.”
“Not that Sullivan woman again?”
“No. We've spoken to Miss Sullivan, and she's not seen him since their breakup six years ago.”
“It was all her fault, you know. She set her cap for him the minute they met.” Maddie seemed almost eager to serve up the old news and steer their attention away from the present. “But he gave her up, you know, of his own accord.”
“Yes. But only after his father threatened to disinherit him and fire him from his job.”
“Geoffrey never did that!”
Her voice was shrill, her eyes giving away the lie.
“Two people say that he did,” said Gibbons relentlessly. “Perhaps you'd like to correct us? Give us your version of events?”
She was sullen and did not answer at once. Then, “No,” she said, “I wouldn't. Get out of here, both of you. Get out now. And you can tell your chief inspector the only way he'll speak to me again is down at the station with my solicitor present.”
“Miss Wellman,” began Gibbons persuasively, but she cut him off.
“Get out!” she repeated.
There was nothing they could do but go.
 
 
“Hell,” said Gibbons
as they reached the top of the stairs. “I bloody well mucked that up.”
“I can't see what else you could have done,” said Bethancourt. “She was bound to be upset when you started pointing the finger at her beloved nephew.”
Gibbons ran a harassed hand over his hair and grimaced. “The D.C.I. wouldn't have got himself tossed. And he's not going to be best pleased that I did.”
Bethancourt considered briefly and decided against pointing out that Carmichael's forty years' experience gave him an authority that could not hope to be matched by a sergeant still in his twenties. Instead, he said thoughtfully, “Do you know, she was nearly frantic to shift your suspicions away from Paul.”
“As you said, he's her beloved nephew.” Gibbons gave him a sharp look. “You can't mean you think she knew he did it.”
“No,” answered Bethancourt. “She would have been prepared for this line of questioning in that case. But I was thinking it possible she had killed Geoffrey herself, knowing everyone would suspect Annette.”
“Leave it to you to resurrect another suspect just as we're narrowing them down,” grumbled Gibbons. “Still, I take your point. If
Carmichael brought her in and hammered it into her that he was going to charge Paul, she might break down and confess.”
“Only if she did it,” said Bethancourt. “Well, what now? Back to Town?”
“No,” said Gibbons slowly, starting down the stairs. “I think we ought to try Mrs. Simmons.”
Mrs. Simmons, however, was as taciturn as usual, replying only in monosyllables. She sat before them in the writing room like a frightened bird, her eyes darting around as if in search of escape. It did not matter how gentle Gibbons was with her, nor how tactfully he phrased his questions, she would do no more than agree with the story he sketched out. Bethancourt, taking pity on her and thinking she might be more at ease without both of them hovering over her, excused himself and waited out the rest of the interview in the hall.
He was standing there, leaning up against the wall and smoking, when Annette came down the stairs.
She looked very small and forlorn and for an instant, before she was aware of him, he felt a pang of pity for her. Then her head turned and she drew in a sharp breath, startled.
“Why, Mr. Bethancourt,” she said, continuing down the stairs to meet him. “I didn't know you were here.”
“I came down with Sergeant Gibbons,” he replied, motioning toward the closed door of the writing room. “He's just speaking with Mrs. Simmons. I expect,” he added, smiling, “he'll want you next.”
She flushed, but her expression was eager.
“Has there been a development?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Bethancourt. “I think it would be best if you spoke to Jack—I really haven't any business being here at all, but this case has rather drawn me in.”
“Oh, but I'm sure you're being a great help,” she said, her eyes travelling to the writing room door as if willing it to open. “And we all appreciate it very much,” she added, returning her attention to him.
“My contribution has been pretty minimal,” he said. “But how are you? Are you bearing up under it all?”
Annette sighed. “It's been difficult,” she said in a low voice, and her eyes strayed again to the implacably closed door.
Bethancourt studied her, groping for some clue as to what had occurred between she and Gibbons in her manner, but could discern nothing.
“Is Mrs. Simmons being helpful?” she asked. “She's awfully reserved, you know.”
“It's why I came out,” admitted Bethancourt. “I thought she might be more comfortable without both of us there.”
“Perhaps,” Annette agreed doubtfully. “It was kind of you to think of it.”
Her eyes were back on him, but her whole being was focused on the writing room. On Gibbons's presence there, wondered Bethancourt, or on what Mrs. Simmons might be saying?
Yet when the door finally opened, she flinched back, coloring again and looking up through her lashes as Gibbons emerged.
He smiled warmly as he saw her, his eyes softening from their fierce concentration.
“I was just coming to speak with you,” he said.
Her answering smile was a little uncertain, as if she feared a rebuff. “Mr. Bethancourt says there's been a development?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes,” affirmed Gibbons. “If we could sit down somewhere …”
“Of course. Come into the drawing room.”
She led the way back down the hall and into the room where they had first met her, settling herself on the couch and looking expectantly at Gibbons.
He sat beside her and, Bethancourt was almost sure, started to take her hand. Instead he stopped himself and turned the gesture into reaching for his notebook.
“This will be difficult for you to hear,” he said gently, “and I
want to stress that we're still far from making a case, but Chief Inspector Carmichael has brought Paul Berowne in for questioning.”
“Paul?” she repeated doubtfully. “But I can't believe that Paul …”
“Tell me, Annette,” continued Gibbons, “were you aware that a couple of years before your own marriage, Paul and Marion had wanted to divorce?”
“Yes, I knew,” she said, a little bewildered by the change in subject.
“Did you know that it was Geoffrey who stopped them?”
“Of course,” she replied. “He told me about it himself. But I don't see what that has to do with his death. It was years ago.”
Gibbons frowned a little. “I'll explain,” he said, “but first tell me what Geoffrey said.”
“He told me Paul had been seeing another woman in London,” she answered willingly enough, “and wanted a divorce. Marion was very upset—she hadn't realized what was going on—and for that alone, Geoffrey thought Paul ought to give the marriage another chance. Then it turned out that Marion was pregnant with Edwin and, well, I've told you how Geoffrey felt about children needing both parents. He eventually persuaded Paul to go to counseling and was very pleased when Paul and Marion patched things up, although he thought Paul rather resented his interference. But it all turned out well in the end.”
Gibbons was frowning, clearly confounded by her answer. “Geoffrey didn't tell you how he had persuaded Paul to return?” he asked.
“Well, I suppose there were a lot of rows,” she admitted.
“He didn't tell you that he had cut Paul off, fired him from his job, and was going to disinherit him?” asked Gibbons sharply.
Annette looked horrified. “No, Geoffrey would never do that.”

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