Village Affairs (35 page)

They parted from the others as they strolled down the lane, and Leandra led the way into the vicarage kitchen. She flicked on the lights, placing her handbag on the table, and Bethancourt saw that her hands were trembling. She stood very still by the table, staring down at her purse.

“What’s up?” asked Bethancourt mildly.

“I was thinking,” she said slowly, not looking at him, “you’re not really the police, are you? I mean, if I told you something, you wouldn’t necessarily have to tell anyone else.”

“That would depend,” he said, “on what it was.”

“But if it wasn’t important …”

He leaned back against the counter. “You might as well tell me now,” he said, not unsympathetically. “You’ve shown your hand, you see. Even if you don’t say another word, I’ll know you’re hiding something. If you tell me now, perhaps it won’t be important, and I can forget it straightaway—although I warn you, that seems unlikely to me. But if you don’t tell me, I shall have to try to find out what it is. Which I would not do alone.”

“Yes, I see that,” she said miserably. She took a deep breath and ventured a glance at him. She saw only a fair-haired young man, perfectly calm, who looked at her kindly through his glasses. Her eyes roved over his angular frame as if searching for something in him that she could trust. At last she sighed and said, “That Sunday night when Charlie was killed, I went to the pub. I often stop in on Sundays while Richard’s off playing chess. Derek Towser was there and we got to talking about his work. He suggested I go over to his place and look at some of his paintings. So I did.”

“You left the pub separately,” said Bethancourt tonelessly. “You left ten minutes or so before he did.”

“That’s true,” she answered. “You know the rumors about him. I felt if I was seen to be going off to his cottage alone with him, no one would ever believe it had been to look at pictures.”

Bethancourt was surprised to find he did believe it. He had some experience in being deceived by women—beautiful women, he had noticed, generally appeared to be better at it—but although the woman before him was certainly beautiful, she did not, to his eye, appear deceptive.

But on the other hand, it was ludicrous to think that any village vicar’s wife would not have realized the impropriety of such a visit.

“Does your husband know?” he asked.

“That’s the awkward part,” she answered, her eyes on her handbag once again. “I didn’t tell him. I—I knew I shouldn’t have gone, you see, and I really couldn’t bear to have him reproach me about it.”

“I see,” said Bethancourt, realization striking him. “You didn’t stop to think how it would look. Not until you were there and Towser actually tried it on.”

Leandra flushed and looked away.

“No, no,” she said. “Derek wouldn’t do something like that.”

This time Bethancourt did not believe her, although he understood now how it had happened. A friendly drink and a discussion about art had contrived to remind her of the bohemian life she had once enjoyed before her marriage. Probably she had not been aware of missing her old life, so delighted was she with the new; Bethancourt remembered once asking her if she missed London and the way she had evaded a reply. But the invitation to recapture that life, if only for an evening, had proved irresistible to her. She had likely not realized her mistake until Towser had made his move. That, of course, had brought her to her senses and shown her just how far she had strayed from her proper path.

He looked at her, standing there and watching him, waiting to see if he would accept this story, too proud to admit she was ashamed of her transgression or to protest how deeply she loved her husband, and how she would do almost anything to keep from hurting him. Anything but let an innocent man be arrested for murder.

“And now,” he said, dropping the subject, “Towser has had the fear of God put into him by my Scotland Yard friends, and is begging you to come forward.”

She nodded. “I thought I could tell you, and you could keep it to yourself unless it looked like the police were really going to arrest him.”

“That might be entirely possible,” he replied. “But let’s get things straight first. What time did you arrive and when did you leave?”

She was relieved to deal with the mundane. “It must have been a quarter to seven when I got there, perhaps a little after that. I meant to stay only a short while, but we were chatting and I lost track of time. It was past ten when I left. I was worried that Richard might get home before me and be concerned, so I borrowed Derek’s bicycle.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Bethancourt, the light dawning. “Don’t tell me—you had a puncture just outside Bingham’s cottage.”

She looked surprised. “Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”

“We found some nails in the road, and the marks of a bicycle just inside the hedge.”

“Oh. I never thought you’d know about the bike. But you’re right, of course, and it was very inconvenient. I hadn’t time to take the thing back, and it would have taken years to walk it home, so I just shoved it behind the hedge and went on. I rang Derek when I got in to tell him where it was, and I suppose he went and got it the next morning.”

“But why,” asked Bethancourt, “didn’t Towser simply drive you back if you were concerned about the time?”

She looked surprised that he should ask. “It was only just after closing time at the pub,” she said. “Everyone would have been on their way home—someone would have been sure to see us.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” said Bethancourt. “I was forgetting—it was Sunday and early closing. Oh, by the way, while you were stowing the bicycle, did you notice if Bingham’s car was there?”

“Oh, yes. It was there and his lights were on. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, of course, beyond being careful he didn’t see me.”

“Of course.” Bethancourt glanced at his watch. “We had better be getting on,” he said, “or tongues will be wagging about us. It might tarnish your reputation in Chipping Chedding, but Marla would have my head if she ever heard about it.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “You are very understanding. And you won’t say any thing?”

“Not unless I must,” he answered. “And I doubt it will come to that. Cerberus, time to go, boy.”

On the short walk to the Deer and Hounds, he tried to recapture the casual air of their previous encounters, and partly succeeded, encouraging her to talk about music. Inwardly, he was so astonished by her confession that he found it difficult to concentrate on her replies to his questions.

It preoccupied him all evening, as he sat by Astley-Cooper’s side and watched the Tothills together. They still struck him as one of the happiest couples he had ever seen.

And perhaps, he thought to himself, they were. If he had learned anything in his study of human nature, it was that people were complicated, and more than capable of feeling two quite different things at the same time. Leandra might be head over heels in love with her husband, delighted with the life they were building together, and yet still be capable of regret over what she had given up.

In any case, decided Bethancourt, it was none of his business. If things came to a head, the only story Gibbons was going to hear from him was one about a woman concerned for her reputation who had gone to look at some art.

Gibbons, having gone to dinner with some of the SOCKOs after they had finished at Joan Bonnar’s house, reached his own flat at about half nine to find a message from Carmichael awaiting him. The chief inspector did not sound as if his mood was much improved from earlier in the evening and Gibbons sighed as he dialed Carmichael’s home number.

“Good, you got my message,” grunted Carmichael when he came on the line. “We’re not starting for Chipping Chedding in the morning after all.”

Gibbons’s hopes would have risen if Carmichael’s tone had not been so dour. “Has something happened, sir?” he asked.

“Something’s happened, right enough,” agreed Carmichael. “Assistant Commissioner MacDougal’s got his knickers in a twist is what’s happened. He’s decided there’s nothing for it but to hold a full-bore press conference tomorrow afternoon and, since he knows nothing about the Bonnar case, he wants to meet with me and Superintendent Lugan at noon tomorrow so we can fill him in.”

“I see, sir,” said Gibbons sympathetically.

“It’s lucky for us MacDougal’s morning is already booked solid or you and I’d be down at the Yard this minute. As it is, I think we’d better start early. I want all my ducks in a row before I walk in there.”

“Of course,” said Gibbons. “What time would you like to meet?”

“Eight will do, I think,” replied Carmichael. He sighed heavily. “I don’t like bringing in the higher-ups so early, Gibbons. It only complicates things.”

“I suppose there’s no help for it with a celebrity like Joan Bonnar,” said Gibbons.

“No, and I should have seen this coming. The press office’s been on to me every chance they get—it was only a matter of time before the AC got dragged in. Well, there’s nothing for it but to do our best. I’ll see you in the morning, lad.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. “Good night.”

He went to bed that night feeling, for once in his life, actually grateful that he was not the lead detective on a case. He did not think the AC was going to have a very high opinion of their reasons for believing Joan Bonnar had been murdered.

CHAPTER
17

B
ethancourt’s outlook the next morning was decidedly gloomy. He had had a terrific row on the phone with Marla just after breakfast, which left him uncertain that he still had a girlfriend at all. He had not had any new thoughts about the case, and today it appeared to him to be unsolvable.

The day outside was not encouraging; it was gray and rainy, a typical late-autumn day. Bethancourt stared out at it through the very fine bay window of Stutely Manor while he waited for Gibbons to ring. The detectives were due back this morning, but it was nearly noon now and Bethancourt had heard nothing. He smoked moodily, watched the rain, and began to feel that Astley-Cooper might have a point about architectural features praised for being a fine example of their period; their very fineness could be quite irritating.

He answered the phone when at last it rang like a tiger pouncing on its prey.

“I hate this case,” stated Gibbons unequivocally. “I don’t know what really happened, I shall probably never know what really happened, and I shall still be a detective sergeant when I’m sixty.”

Bethancourt’s spirits immediately plummeted further. “There was nothing in Joan Bonnar’s town house?”

“Nothing to do with the case,” responded Gibbons. “We’ve accomplished nothing really since we left, and now we’re stuck here until the assistant commissioner’s had his press conference. Although,” he added, “I don’t know what there is to get back for—we’ve got no leads that I can see.”

“Stuck?” asked Bethancourt, surprised. “You’re not ringing from the village?”

“No, I’m at the Yard. I’m sorry I forgot to let you know, but the AC decided last night that he wanted to know all about the case so he could appease the press this afternoon. Carmichael’s just gone off to meet him.”

“That sounds rather grim,” said Bethancourt.

“It is, to hear him tell it,” said Gibbons. “You haven’t got anything, have you?”

“No,” said Bethancourt. “Well, at least nothing important. Marla got back from Paris yesterday and says Eve’s friends report she and her father appeared to be on very affectionate terms when he visited her on his way to England last year. I took Eve out last night,” he added.

“You did what?”

“I got Eve to come to choir practice last night. I thought she needed cheering up.”

“It’s nice to have you on a case,” said Gibbons sarcastically. “I can always count on you to take care of details—we wouldn’t want a murder suspect getting depressed.”

“Well, I suppose I also thought that if I got to know her a little better—oh, never mind. Nothing came of it, and anyhow, it wouldn’t prove anything. People quite often go insane over just one thing and are perfectly normal in all other respects.”

“Like me,” said Gibbons. “I’ve gone insane over this case.”

“At least you don’t have to worry about redheads thirsting after your blood.”

“Marla?”

“Got it in one,” said Bethancourt gloomily.

“Angry about your taking Eve around last night?”

“Well, no,” admitted Bethancourt. “Actually, I haven’t told her about that. She’s angry because I sort of gave her the impression I would drive back to London today.”

“I didn’t know you had planned to go back,” said Gibbons, surprised.

“I didn’t.”

Gibbons was confused. “Then why did Marla think you were going to?”

“I expect it was because I told her I would,” said Bethancourt despondently. “I had to say something, and, frankly, nothing else occurred to me at the time. I meant,” he added, “to think of some way of appeasing her when I did tell her I wasn’t coming, but, well, I never did.”

“Dear God.”

“She’s not speaking to me,” continued Bethancourt. “After she’d finished her tirade and hung up on me, I tried to ring her back. She hung up on me again.”

“Did you try more than once?”

“Yes. Same result. Then she just stopped answering—probably unplugged the phone.”

“Well,” said Gibbons, “I don’t know as there’s much to keep you there; we seem to have struck a dead end. You could probably come back and try to make it up to her. By the time you get here, she may have cooled off a bit.”

“Maybe,” said Bethancourt doubtfully. “When’s the inquest?”

“On Saturday. We’ll get it adjourned, of course, but I can’t see that we’ll have much more for them when it comes up again.”

“No,” agreed Bethancourt with a sigh.

There was a long, dispirited silence.

“So,” said Bethancourt at last, trying to recover a positive attitude, “are you coming back here today?”

“After the press conference, Carmichael says,” answered Gibbons. “I’ve got no notion what he plans to do once we arrive,” he added glumly.