The Young Widow (20 page)

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Authors: Cassandra Chan

BOOK: The Young Widow
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“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons, relieved that he was not going to be kept at his post until all hours of the night, but careful not to show it. Showing one's superiors that you were eager to go home was not the way to advance in the police.
“In fact,” said Carmichael, “you can have a nice lie-in tomorrow.”
“I can?” said Gibbons, startled.
“Yes. I'll ring you in the morning once I've brought Berowne in and you can run down to Hurtwood Hall and talk to Maddie Wellman and Marion Berowne. Check out one of the cars tonight when you leave, and you can start straight from your place in the morning.”
“I'll do that,” said Gibbons. “Anything special you're hoping to get from the women, sir?”
Carmichael rubbed his chin. “It's too much to hope for any confirmation from either of them,” he said, “but get what you can. In particular, find out if either of them suspected he was sleeping with Mira Fellows. I'd also like to be sure that this is what Maddie Wellman was keeping back from me. I'd rather like to tackle her myself, but there's no help for it. If I went down to talk to her, she'd be on the phone to her nephew before I was well out the door.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gibbons. “I'll do my best.”
“I know you will, Sergeant. Come straight back here when you're done and you can give me the high sign if you've anything urgent to report. I doubt you will have,” he added. “It's a long shot that they'll tell you anything at all, but it's got to be tried.”
T
he King's Head and Eight Bells was Bethancourt's local pub and Gibbons found him there that evening, ensconced in a corner with the
Guardian
and a pint of bitter, his dog stretched out beside his feet. He looked, from the doorway, abominably comfortable and at ease, but his face was worried when he raised his eyes from the paper and saw Gibbons approaching.
“What's up?” he asked. “Is there a fly in the ointment?”
“No, no,” Gibbons hastened to reassure him. “Everything's ticking along like clockwork.”
Bethancourt let out a long-drawn breath and reached for a cigarette.
“You really shouldn't do that to me, Jack,” he said. “I thought for sure you'd found out Paul Berowne had an ironclad alibi when you said you hadn't brought him in for questioning.”
“The wheels of justice grind slowly,” said Gibbons, bending to pet Cerberus. “Carmichael wanted to come at him fresh, and it was
late this afternoon when he got back from talking to Mira Fellows. We're bringing Berowne in first thing in the morning. Just let me get a drink and I'll tell you all about it.”
Gibbons returned shortly and settled himself opposite his friend, taking a long draft of his beer and leaning back with a sigh.
“It's looking very good, Phillip,” he said, “and it's all due to you. Carmichael said to pass along his thanks.”
“I was lucky,” answered Bethancourt. “If Kitty hadn't taken to me, I never would have found it out. So it's all standing up?”
“Perfectly,” Gibbons assured him. “I talked to Amy Sullivan today—that's the lady Berowne had the affair with—and she bears out everything Kitty told you. Mira came through with the chief and confirmed that Berowne left the pub that morning no later than ten-forty, giving him plenty of time to poison his father and get to the garage by noon. The only thing that's not ideal is that Carmichael couldn't get McAllister to place Berowne at the scene. On the other hand, McAllister is rock-solid on the fact that anybody could have come or gone and he wouldn't necessarily have noticed them. And anyway, I've high hopes Carmichael will wrangle a confession out of Berowne tomorrow. Berowne doesn't strike me as a hardened man; I'm sure he must bear a terrible burden of guilt for what he's done.”
“And it is a bloody strong motive,” sighed Bethancourt.
“It is that.” Gibbons paused, considering his friend. “What would you have done, Phillip?”
“Done?” asked Bethancourt, puzzled.
“You're a rich man. What would you have done if your father threatened to cut you off?”
“It would be an idle threat at this point,” mused Bethancourt. “The money from my portfolio is mine absolutely. But imagining, for the moment, that it was not …” He smoked thoughtfully and then shook his head. “It's silly to speculate. My father is not Geof frey Berowne, and surely the relationship between father and son
had just as much to do with the outcome as the threat itself. And even if that were not so, with Paul Berowne's example staring me in the face, I could hardly say I would choose as he did.”
“No, of course not. It's just, well, my father has never had anything to give me besides his good opinion. I'd do a lot to keep that, but if I lost it, I wouldn't be out on the street.”
“Oh, I imagine it was more than just the money,” said Bethancourt. “Remember, Paul Berowne was living entirely in his father's world—his home was his father's home, his job was his father's job. A man defines himself, in a sense, by where he lives and what he does for a living. When Paul left, it was more than just money he left behind.”
Amy Sullivan had said much the same thing, and Gibbons nodded. “Anyway,” he said, “I'm to go down to Hurtwood Hall in the morning to talk with Maddie Wellman and Marion Berowne. Did you want to come? I can't imagine Carmichael would make any objections if you did.”
“I'll come,” said Bethancourt. “I take it there are no other leads at the moment? You never did tell me how the interviews with Mrs. Simmons's children went.”
Gibbons waved a hand. “Nothing there. I admit, Phillip, that I was beginning to wonder where to look next when you rang this morning.”
“And what about Mrs. Berowne?” asked Bethancourt. “What were you up to at Hurtwood Hall last night?”
Gibbons froze and his shocked silence told Bethancourt all he needed to know. His heart sank.
“Nothing,” said Gibbons. “Just a bit of hand-holding.”
“I see,” said Bethancourt as neutrally as he could, knowing it was a mistake to have asked. The atmosphere between them was suddenly charged with tension.
“And what do you mean by that?” demanded Gibbons.
“Nothing at all,” said Bethancourt, striving for an even tone. “Your hand-holding is none of my business.”
But Gibbons's own guilt over what had so nearly occurred the night before had already put him on the defensive.
“For God's sake, Phillip,” he burst out, “I don't know what you're implying. Surely you don't think I would be mad enough to start an affair with Annette.”
“What does that matter?” retorted Bethancourt. “Do you think if lust was at the bottom of this I would be so concerned? Having sex doesn't mean you're in love and abstinence most assuredly doesn't mean you're not.”
“Sex matters to most people,” said Gibbons hotly. “It would certainly matter to the prosecuting attorney.”
“I don't give a damn about the prosecuting attorney,” said Bethancourt. “It's you I'm worried about.”
“I see,” said Gibbons coldly. “You still think she did it, even with what you uncovered about Berowne last night.”
“I don't know if she did or not,” answered Bethancourt. “But her motive remains just as strong as Paul Berowne's and there's no proof either way. And I have to say her actions strike me as suspicious.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but it was too late.
“What actions?” demanded Gibbons incredulously.
“Never mind,” muttered Bethancourt.
But Gibbons was too intelligent not to work it out for himself. His blue eyes were frigid pools as he glared at his friend.
“So you think she's deliberately set out to ensnare me in order to make certain she's not arrested for murder. God, how ludicrous! Is it so impossible for you to believe that a pretty woman might be attracted to me?”
“Of course not,” said Bethancourt. He had gone too far and knew it. “Look, Jack, I didn't mean to say that. I just think getting involved with a suspect is a bad idea, that's all.”
“I'm not involved with her,” Gibbons fairly shouted. “How often do I have to tell you? Yes, I'm attracted to her, but that means nothing and it is certainly not affecting my view of this case.”
“All right,” said Bethancourt wearily. “I don't want to be having this conversation. All I did was ask what you were doing there last night—it was you who flew off the handle.”
“Only after you implied you believed I was sleeping with her.”
“I didn't mean to.”
Gibbons relapsed into silent fuming while Bethancourt drank off the rest of his beer and silently rose to fetch another from the bar. Gibbons's outburst had merely served to convince him that his friend was indeed deeply involved with Annette Berowne. The fact that he refused to admit it only made it worse, and far more dangerous. And his angry denial that he might have slept with Annette assured Bethancourt that he had thought of doing so, and not in some abstract fantasy. At some point, Bethancourt was sure, Gibbons had nearly taken the step that would lead to his downfall.
He brought two pints back to the table and said, “Look, Jack, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that there was anything wrong with Annette, or that your mind wasn't on the case.”
Gibbons rubbed his face. “I know you think I'm inexperienced with women,” he said, “and maybe I am, at least compared with you. But I'm not stupid enough not to know when I'm being made use of. Annette and I get on together, that's all.”
“You know I don't think you're stupid, not in any way at all,” said Bethancourt.
There was an awkward silence. Gibbons broke it by sighing and saying, “In any case, it may all be over after Carmichael has a go at Berowne tomorrow. I've seen him crack tougher nuts than he.”
Bethancourt raised his glass. “Let's drink to the chief inspector's success then,” he said.
The conversation languished thereafter and when Bethancourt
suggested they move on and get some dinner, Gibbons refused the invitation, saying he had better get home.
Bethancourt cursed himself for a fool. He had known better than to interfere, but his concern for his friend had overridden his good sense. He had hoped, he supposed, that Gibbons would tell all, thereby allowing Bethancourt to judge how deliberate Annette's effort to get Gibbons into her bed had been. Despite what had been discovered about Paul Berowne, Bethancourt remained deeply suspicious of Annette.
He told himself as he lay in bed that night that he was overreacting; just because Gibbons looked to be chucking his much-beloved career away on this woman didn't mean she was guilty of murder. Paul Berowne was the chief suspect now, and with good reason. Probably he would confess tomorrow, and it would all be over.
Nevertheless, it was some time before he fell asleep.
 
 
Bethancourt was not sure
that Gibbons would still want him along in the morning, but the detective rang shortly before ten to say he was starting for Surrey, and did Bethancourt still want to come?
“Of course I do,” said Bethancourt. “Is Berowne at the Yard then?”
“Yes—Carmichael just rang me to say I could start. We'll take the Rover, if you don't mind, since I've already got it here.”
“Fine. It will be fun to be chauffeured for a change.”
But Gibbons was uncharacteristically silent on the trip down, driving steadily with his attention on the road.
“Thinking about what's happening back at the Yard?” asked Bethancourt finally.
Gibbons colored, which proved to Bethancourt he had been thinking nothing of the kind, and answered, “No. I was thinking about Maddie Wellman and Marion Berowne. I'm a little nervous, actually.”
Bethancourt raised his eyebrows. “Why?” he asked. “You've interviewed dozens of witnesses before—why should these two make you nervous?”
“Because Carmichael would rather have done these himself,” answered Gibbons. “God knows it's going to be delicate work, and I've not really taken this kind of thing on before. I'm just trying to think how Carmichael would have gone about it.”
“You'll be brilliant,” said Bethancourt with assurance. “Don't underestimate yourself. You're very good at your job.”
“I suppose,” said Gibbons, still worried. “Well, we're almost there now—time to screw my courage to the sticking point.”
 
 
“I was a fool,”
said Marion Berowne bitterly. “I thought that since we had once been happy together, we could be happy again if only he would give up that woman. I thought it was my depression over the miscarriage that had driven him away, and with a new baby, things would be different.” She gave a humorless laugh. “I couldn't have been more wrong.”
She had not denied the story when it was presented to her, nor even asked why they should dredge it up. Instead, their questions had immediately plunged her into a gloom in which she seemed not to care what they asked.
“Then the reconciliation wasn't a success?” asked Gibbons.
“God, no. He never forgave me for not letting him go. Even Edwin—Paul seemed to resent him instead of caring for him.” She drew a deep and ragged breath. “I've spent years regretting that I went to Geoffrey—but I was so sure then that we could be happy again.”
“And yet you've stayed married?”
“What other choice was there? And there's not been much reason to fight for a divorce again. Paul and I have organized our lives so that there's very little time we have to spend together. What
would be different if we divorced? I'd move into the main house, no doubt, but that's not very appealing with Annette there. I'm sure Paul thought the same.”
“Then you were unaware,” asked Gibbons gently, “that your husband had begun another affair?”
She was startled, and stared blankly at him for a moment.
“I don't think he was,” she said shakily.
“We have testimony to that effect,” said Gibbons.

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