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Authors: Cassandra Chan

BOOK: The Young Widow
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“Any fool could see she married him for his money.”
“Of course she did! When a woman in her twenties marries a man of seventy, there's always a reason—and it isn't the usual one.”
“But what happened to Mr. Burton?” asked Bethancourt.
About this the ladies were vaguer. They reluctantly admitted that he had been in poor health and that Annette had helped to nurse him. Then, just as he was getting better, he had suddenly died. The majority of those gathered seemed of the opinion that Annette had poisoned him, but there was one notable dissension. Miss Loomis, a thin, elderly woman with bright, birdlike eyes, said very firmly, “Bosh. Annette didn't have enough brains to poison the cat.”
Since Miss Loomis had thus far said hardly anything, merely listening and occasionally raising an eyebrow, Bethancourt was interested.
“So you think she's innocent, Miss Loomis?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I didn't say that.”
“Then what do you think happened?” pursued Bethancourt.
Miss Loomis set her teacup down carefully in the center of the saucer. “What no one's told you,” she said, “is that William Burton was a diabetic. The district nurse taught Annette to give him his shots. Naturally she explained how important it was to make sure there was no air in the syringe. It wouldn't take much for even Annette
to realize that if there were nothing
but
air in the syringe and she injected it into a vein … Well, I'm sure you see.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bethancourt, intrigued. “And there would be no evidence at all.”
“None.” Miss Loomis smiled at him as if at a bright pupil. Then, having said her piece, she returned her attention to her tea.
“Letitia used to be a nurse herself,” said Mrs. Evans.
“That was a long time ago,” said Miss Loomis placidly.
“She really should have been a doctor,” confided Mrs. Mathews from Bethancourt's other side.
Miss Loomis shook her head. “Girls didn't do things like that in those days,” she said, but not as if she minded.
“No, I suppose not,” said Bethancourt, looking at her reflectively.
“I hope,” said Miss Bascomb, “that all this talk of murder won't put you off Hawkhurst.”
“Oh, no,” answered Bethancourt. “Not at all. I mean, it's not the sort of thing that happens often.”
They agreed with alacrity that it was not and from there the conversation became more general. Bethancourt was interrogated as to his employment, his wife and children, the flat in London, and his birthplace. He was directed to the estate agents and told about several properties he might like to view. Eventually, the ladies began to check the clock and excuse themselves, leaving Bethancourt to follow suit.
He found Gibbons waiting for him in the Jaguar.
“I saw you in the tea shop,” said his friend with a grin. “It looked as if you were a big hit.”
Bethancourt opened the door and ushered Cerberus into the back seat. “I suppose I was,” he answered, sliding into the driver's seat. “How was the doctor?”
“Highly indignant,” answered Gibbons. “He gave me a list of all the things that were wrong with William Burton to prove that his death was thoroughly expected.”
“The ladies,” said Bethancourt, switching on the ignition and letting in the clutch, “say that he was recovering when he was struck down.”
“That's true, to a certain extent,” replied Gibbons. “He had diabetes, which was playing him up pretty rough, and the doctor thought it was about to carry him off. Then, all at once, it went into remission or whatever these things do—I've got all the technical terms down in my notes—and Burton started looking a bit better. But, as the doctor carefully explained to me, it was all an enormous strain on a body that wasn't functioning too well anyway. Therefore, he was not at all surprised when a heart attack carried the old boy off.”
“I see,” said Bethancourt thoughtfully.
“I've still got to see the district nurse,” said Gibbons. “She lives a bit out of the village—I'll show you the turnoff.”
“All right,” answered Bethancourt. “I'd like to see her, too.”
“I also,” continued Gibbons, “interviewed Mrs. Ridge, Burton's longtime housekeeper, who apparently gave notice five minutes after Burton died.”
“Did she turn up her nose at the idea of murder as well?”
“Not as emphatically as the doctor,” replied Gibbons. “She disliked Annette thoroughly—referred to her as ‘that gold-digger'but says Burton was indeed very ill for a long time and the doctor had prepared her for the idea that he might die at any time. It never occurred to her that anything might be wrong until the rumors started and even now she says that if Annette killed him, she certainly can't make out how. She definitely didn't start the rumors.”
“No,” said Bethancourt. “No one seems to really have been told anything. And I would be willing to bet that my ladies weren't so sure themselves until they heard about Geoffrey Berowne.”
“So you think it's a mare's nest, too.”
“Well, I would,” admitted Bethancourt, “except for one astute old lady.” He repeated his conversation with Miss Loomis.
“We'll ask the nurse about it,” said Gibbons. “Still, it's only an idea—nothing at all to back it up.”
Bethancourt did not reply.
 
 
Miss Donsworth, the district
nurse, was a pleasant, efficient woman of about forty. She scoffed at the idea that Annette had murdered William Burton.
“Why should she have?” she demanded. “Mr. Burton was a very ill man and his wife knew it. All she had to do was wait—he couldn't have lasted more than a year.”
“But she'd already been nursing him for two,” said Bethancourt. “Perhaps she couldn't bear it any longer.”
Miss Donsworth shook her head. “I don't think so,” she said. “Mrs. Burton was really quite good at nursing—never impatient or anything like that. And, besides, how would she induce a heart attack? It's not so easy to do, you know.”
Gibbons outlined Miss Loomis's theory.
“Well!” Miss Donsworth was thoughtful. “Certainly I explained the dangers of injections very carefully to her,” she said. “I always do. So it's possible. On the other hand, I don't know if she'd have thought of it. Common sense wasn't her strong point—she was a decent enough nurse, as I said, but you had to explain everything very precisely to her.”
“Did you like her?” asked Gibbons.
“Like her?” Miss Donsworth seemed surprised by the question. “She was all right, I suppose. We weren't friends, if that's what you mean.”
“Did you think she had married Mr. Burton for his money?” asked Bethancourt.
“Oh, yes,” replied the nurse placidly. “She must have, mustn't she? But that's nothing out of the ordinary—women do it all the time.”
“Er, yes,” said Gibbons, a bit startled by this pronouncement. He glanced at Bethancourt, whose eyebrows were arched over the rims of his glasses. “Well, thank you very much, Miss Donsworth. You've been very helpful.”
“Well,” said Gibbons as
they returned to the car, “that should be a warning to you, Phillip. Be sure to marry a rich woman.”
“I suppose I had better,” replied Bethancourt, grinning. “It would certainly please my mother—she's a terrible snob at heart.”
“What does she think of Marla?” asked Gibbons, settling into his seat and fastening his safety belt.
Bethancourt threw him a look. “She's never met her,” he answered. “I'm not that big a fool.”
He turned the car in the drive and headed onto the road while Gibbons considered his friend thoughtfully. It had never occurred to him before to wonder how Bethancourt felt about Marla, whether he was at all serious about her. They had been dating for almost a year now, which was as long as Gibbons could remember any other relationship of Bethancourt's lasting. Now that Gibbons thought of it, Bethancourt had always had a girlfriend in tow. He was undeniably attractive to women, although in Gibbons's more objective eyes his friend was not really handsome and was definitely on the skinny side. Still, he had a certain charm which he did not hesitate to use and which kept him supplied with steady female companionship.
Bethancourt seemed to regard women and sex as being in the same category as food and shelter. Gibbons himself did not have the capacity to sustain a relationship that was merely entertaining and which had no deeper meaning. He had persuaded himself into the appropriate feelings on several occasions, but had always fallen short on the time and energy these things required. He supposed he was really rather inexperienced.
Rather abruptly, he asked Bethancourt if he ever contemplated settling down with Marla.
Bethancourt was understandably surprised. “I don't know as I've ever contemplated settling down at all,” he replied. “Why?”
“Oh, I don't know,” answered Gibbons. “I was just thinking about relationships.”
Bethancourt raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You're not trying to tell me you've suddenly fallen for my girlfriend, are you?”
“Don't be daft, Phillip. Marla and I don't even get on.”
“I thought not,” said Bethancourt, dexterously making a turn while lighting a cigarette. “But one never knows. Then I assume you were thinking about Annette Berowne with her propensity for older men, and you got sidetracked.”
“Not exactly,” sighed Gibbons, “but I suppose I'd better start thinking about it. At least,” he added, brightening, “the idea that she killed William Burton seems washed out.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Bethancourt, shooting him an impassive glance.
“Well, I do, really,” said Gibbons. “There's no evidence of it at all.”
“There's no evidence she killed Geoffrey Berowne, either.”
“Well, no, but we do know that he was murdered, whereas William Burton looks to have died of natural causes.”
For once Bethancourt stared straight ahead at the road, smoking silently for a moment. “There's a disturbing pattern, though,” he said at last. “One could easily see Berowne's death as being a case of overconfidence on her part, having pulled the same thing off so easily twice before. Look at the thing this way, Jack: she's married to Eric Threadgood and getting less and less happy about it. And then, one day on the slopes in Switzerland, she sees a way to get rid of him and keep his money. It's pure impulse, but it comes off beautifully. No one ever suspects anything but an accident. Then there's William Burton. She marries him, thinking perhaps that he'll die quite quickly. But once she sees he's going to hang on for a bit, well,
she gets the idea from the nurse for how to do away with him. Pure serendipity. Geoffrey Berowne is a more difficult case, but she's sure of herself now and eventually comes up with a plan.”
“Yes, I see the pattern,” said Gibbons. “First, a near accident; next a little more deliberate but still leaving her perfectly safe; and then a more elaborate crime. It's the kind of pattern I've seen in criminals before: starting small, almost inadvertently, and then graduating to full-scale criminal activities, a little bigger with every step they take. But Annette Berowne's a bit different. For one thing, if she'd solved her marital and monetary problems with Eric Threadgood's death, why did she marry William Burton?”
“I don't know,” said Bethancourt. “It would be interesting to know how well-off Threadgood left her.”
“Carmichael's working on that,” said Gibbons. “You can come round to the Yard when we get back and see what he's dug up.”
“No time,” answered Bethancourt with a glance at his watch. “Hell, I didn't realize it had gotten so late.” The Jaguar leaped forward.
“Date with Marla?” asked Gibbons.
“You've got Marla on the brain,” retorted Bethancourt. “No, it's the fencing club's annual dinner—and I have to dress for it.”
“I didn't realize you still fenced,” said Gibbons.
“Not in tournaments anymore,” said Bethancourt briefly. “Just at the club to keep my hand in. Look here, Jack, the dinner shouldn't run late. I'll drop round your flat afterward and you can tell me what you and Carmichael have deduced.”
“All right,” said Gibbons. “But you'd better ring first and make sure I'm not still at the Yard.”
“Very well,” agreed Bethancourt.
 
 
Gibbons was regretting these
arrangements when he arrived home at ten o'clock, carrying a stuffed potato and a bottle of beer to augment
the canteen sandwich he had had for dinner three hours ago. It had been a long day and he was very tired. He stripped off his working clothes and pulled on a plaid flannel robe and a pair of slippers. He sank into an old, much-worn armchair with a sigh and flicked on the television, turning the station to the sports highlights. He was just starting to eat, balancing the potato in its take-away box on his knees, when the doorbell rang.

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