The Young Widow (23 page)

Read The Young Widow Online

Authors: Cassandra Chan

BOOK: The Young Widow
4.97Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“It's true that you'd only slept with her twice before your father
was murdered,” agreed Carmichael, “and I suppose that hardly constitutes a full-blown affair. But that's changed since he died, hasn't it? You've spent many nights with her since then. You can hardly expect me to believe your desire for her company would have dissipated had your father lived.” Berowne only shook his head in reply.
“Let's move on,” said Carmichael, leaning back in his chair. “Miss Fellows says you left her at about ten-thirty, perhaps a few minutes later. Would you agree with that?”
“Yes, I expect that's about right.”
“And yet it was nearly noon when you returned to the garage. I doubt it took you an hour and a half to walk back to the estate, Mr. Berowne.”
“No, of course not. I was a little upset after I spoke to Mira and I didn't want Mills to see anything was wrong. So I stopped at the house and got a cup of coffee before going on to the garage, just as I told you I had.”
“Ah, so that bit was true as well, was it?”
“I didn't actually lie, Chief Inspector,” said Berowne. “I simply omitted any mention of my visit to Mira. Everything else occurred exactly as I told you.”
“I see,” said Carmichael, pretending to consult his notes, although Paul Berowne's earlier statement was engraved on his memory. “Yes, you said your wife had already gone upstairs with Edwin, and you heard Mrs. Simmons hoovering in the living room, which was why neither of them saw you. But you didn't mention the time. It was a long cup of coffee, Mr. Berowne. By the account you're giving me now, you sat over that cup for nearly an hour.”
“As I said, I was upset.”
“Why? Did you and Miss Fellows argue?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“You were upset, perhaps, at the idea that you couldn't see her again and that, in fact, it would be wise if you were to abandon your habit of spending the evenings at the pub altogether?”
Berowne said nothing at first and then, in a moment, he nodded.
“And surely you must have been at least a little concerned that these precautions were coming too late, that your father might find out about it all in any case?”
This time Berowne refused to reply at all.
“And if he did, what could be done? You'd already failed out on your own; it's hardly likely it would be any different this time. You'd truly backed yourself into a corner. I don't imagine you would have killed him if you had seen any other way out.”
“I didn't kill him.”
“I think you did, Mr. Berowne. I think you sat over your coffee until you'd worked yourself up to it and then you went to the study and poisoned his coffee. Or perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps you thought of all this on your walk back from the village, and went straight to your father's study. And then you had the coffee to calm yourself down before you had to face Mills.”
Berowne was staring down at his hands and made no reply.
“B
loody hell!” shouted Gibbons.
He was alone in his office at the end of a very long day, having just left an equally weary and frustrated Carmichael. Paul Berowne had not confessed.
The most harrowing experiences of Berowne's personal life had been probed to their depths and at this point the man was an emotional wreck, but he still insisted he had not killed his father. In the afternoon, as the interrogation had become ever more torturous, he had finally asked for his solicitor, but even with the man present they had kept at it until well past dinnertime. Carmichael had given up then, telling Gibbons he would speak to Berowne again in the morning, but that there was little hope of a confession then and after that they would have no choice but to let him go.
Gibbons kicked viciously at the legs of his desk and swore again. He was certain Berowne was guilty; he was the only suspect whose situation had recently changed—all the rest of them had been putting up with their unhappy circumstances for years. And yet, he had
also been certain that Berowne was essentially a weak man who would crack under Carmichael's expert interrogation. He didn't like the thought that his judgment of the man had been so wrong.
Caught up in the tension of the day-long interrogation, he had not realized until now how much he had been looking forward to reporting to Annette tonight that it was over, they had their man, and no one would any longer believe her guilty of murdering her husband. Now he would have to tell her that all their efforts had failed.
It never entered his head that he would not go and prepare her for Berowne's release in the morning, although he would not have considered such a thing in another case. He would, he decided, go home and shower before he drove down.
 
 
“What on earth's wrong
with you, Phillip?” demanded Marla exasperatedly. “You haven't heard a word I've been saying.”
They were in a taxi on the way to a charity ball and Maria was in a very testy mood. Attendance at the ball was mandatory for Bethancourt because it was one of his sister's charities and he would never have heard the end of it if he had not appeared. Previously he had avoided taking Marla to such affairs, since he did not look forward to the reception she would receive from Margaret, but he had known he could not avoid the meeting indefinitely.
Marla, although she would rather have died than admit it, was nervous at the thought of meeting the Sinclair-Firthings. To ameliorate this, she was splendidly dressed in green satin and Bethancourt had been extremely complimentary. But now he seemed distracted and was clearly paying her no attention at all.
“I did hear you,” replied Bethancourt automatically. “You said it rained nearly all the time you were in Ireland.”
“But you aren't thinking about it,” said Marla, unappeased. “What
are
you thinking about?”
“Jack and his new lady-love. I think he's truly head over heels.”
“What of it? They'll go out for a while, she'll throw him over, and it will be done. God knows it's not pleasant, but it's hardly earthshattering. It happens all the time.”
There was nothing else Bethancourt could say without referring to the murder investigation, whose existence he had thus far managed to keep from her. Even if he was going to tell her about it, now, when she was tense, was hardly an opportune moment.
“Quite right,” he said. “I don't know why it's got me down this way.”
“We're here,” announced Marla, dropping the subject abruptly. “Do try to pull yourself together, Phillip.”
Bethancourt succeeded in this tolerably well, although the evening was difficult. Marla was not pleased with the reception given her by Margaret, which was exquisitely polite and lacking in any warmth whatsoever. Fashion models did not belong to the social strata to which Margaret aspired. Arthur Sinclair-Firthing was more admiring and Marla exerted all her charms on him, which did not go unnoticed by Margaret. Before they had been there an hour, Bethancourt had a headache.
“I do hope, Phillip,” said Margaret acidly as he guided her around the dance floor, “that you are planning to take her with you when you leave. I don't want to have to detach Arthur from her myself.”
Bethancourt glanced over to where Marla and Arthur were dancing, admittedly closer than was strictly necessary.
“I'll take care of it,” he murmured. “I'll collect her after this dance.”
“Good.”
“I don't see Marion Berowne here,” said Bethancourt. “Isn't she on the committee?”
“Yes, but there's been a death in her family—” Margaret cut herself off and looked at him suspiciously. “Which you know perfectly well,” she continued, blue eyes narrowing. “I thought it odd when
Denis said you'd taken him to the Berownes, but I didn't take the time to put two and two together. This is one of those cases you're meddling in, isn't it?”
“My friend Jack Gibbons is working on it, yes.”
“My God, Phillip, and you dragged my five-year-old son into the middle of it? What on earth possessed you?”
“He was hardly in the middle of anything,” protested Bethancourt. “He spent the day playing soldiers with Edwin, who, I should have thought, is a perfectly acceptable playmate.”
“And who was watching them while you were grilling suspects?”
“Jack was grilling suspects, not me,” answered Bethancourt, not entirely truthfully. “I stayed with Denis.”
The music ended before she could reply, and Bethancourt gratefully led her off the floor. Marla was making her way toward the ladies' room, so he returned his sister to her husband and melted away into the crowd.
“You dance beautifully, Phillip,” said Rosemary Chilton. “I only wish Dick would do as well. He's perfectly happy to come along, but he won't step a foot on the dance floor.”
Rosemary Chilton, reflected Bethancourt, was also on the committee, in addition to being an inveterate gossip.
“Then won't you let me?” he responded, offering his hand.
She accepted with a smile.
“It's a wonderful evening,” said Bethancourt, clasping her firmly about the waist and falling into step with the music. “You've all surpassed yourselves.”
“It has come off rather well, hasn't it?” agreed Rosemary. “Though it's been a madhouse in the last fortnight. Poor Marion Berowne broke down completely and suddenly couldn't do anything.”
“Really?” asked Bethancourt. “Where is she tonight? I haven't seen her.”
“Oh, my dear, she isn't here. We've hardly seen her for the last
two weeks. Nancy Clarendon may say what she likes, but I think it's that miserable husband of hers.”
“Has she a miserable husband? I don't think I've met him.”
“Perfectly dreadful man,” Rosemary assured him. “Not unattractive, mind you, but the way he treats her, well!”
Bethancourt pretended to be aghast. “He doesn't beat her, does he?”
“Oh, no, nothing of that sort,” said Rosemary. “But when Marion was pregnant, he went off and had an affair and even tried to divorce her before the baby was born.”
“Presumably he came to his senses before the blessed event?” asked Bethancourt, curious as to how the affair had been seen from the outside.
“The way I heard it, Paul only went back to poor Marion because his father threatened to cut him off without a penny if he didn't.”
“But why would she want him back on those terms?”
Rosemary shrugged. “Hormones, probably—she was pregnant after all.”
“But surely that's all water under the bridge by now.”
“It would be if they'd ever made it up properly. Marion tries to put the best face possible on it, but when she does manage to drag him out to affairs like this, they barely speak to each other. He could at least pretend—it's so terribly obvious to everyone.”
“There's no excuse for bad manners,” agreed Bethancourt. “But surely she could have come tonight without him?”
But something else had caught Rosemary's attention. She stiff ened suddenly in his arms and stared daggers at someone past his left shoulder. Bethancourt turned his head and saw Marla dancing with Sir Rodney Randolph. He smiled to himself. Randolph, darkly handsome and very charming, was notorious for having affairs with other men's wives and for successfully conducting several of these
affairs simultaneously. Bethancourt did not like him, but he felt Marla was perfectly safe from his blandishments. She would not know of his reputation, but she dealt regularly with the attentions of men who were looking for trophies and was not likely to mistake Randolph's intentions.
Rosemary Chilton was another matter. Bethancourt had been joking the other morning when he had suggested to his sister that Rosemary might be Randolph's latest conquest, but now his words came home to roost. From the look on her face, it was quite obviously true, and if looks could kill, Marla would have ceased living in the last few seconds.
“I see Rodney has found my girlfriend,” he said.
“Oh, did she come with you?” said Rosemary with a strained effort to be casual. “She's very pretty.”
“I think so,” said Bethancourt. “Lucky for me that Rodney's not her type. She's a model, you know, and sees all too much of perfect looks like his.” He grinned. “That's why she's dating me.”
Rosemary relaxed a little, though not entirely. Knowing that Randolph's charms would fail with Marla was not the same as knowing he wasn't trying. But she smiled back at him and said, “Are you fishing for compliments, Phillip? I wouldn't have thought it of you.”
“Not at all,” protested Bethancourt. “And just to prove it, I'll return to our previous topic of conversation. If I can remember what it was.”
“Marion Berowne,” supplied Rosemary. “You were asking why she wasn't here tonight. Nancy Clarendon says it's delayed shock over that business with her father-in-law, though Marion was simply a trooper right after it happened.”
“Her father-in-law? Has he forbidden her to go to balls like Cinderella's stepmother?”
Rosemary giggled. “No, hush, it's not funny at all. The man was murdered.”
“What?” Bethancourt appeared surprised. “Oh, Lord, of course.
The Geoffrey Berowne case. I've seen it in the papers, but I never connected it with Marion Berowne. Stupid of me.”
“They say the wife did it,” confided Rosemary.
“Really?” said Bethancourt. “From what you've been telling me, I should have thought the son was a good candidate.”
“You really shouldn't make fun,” said Rosemary, giggling again. “It's quite serious. And just because a man's a rotten husband doesn't mean he's a murderer.”
Which, thought Bethancourt, was quite true.
He recaptured Marla from Randolph as the dance ended and found her in need of refreshment.
“I need a drink,” she declared. “And to sit down. My feet are killing me.”
“In those shoes, no wonder,” said Bethancourt sympathetically. “Go on into the next room and I'll fetch the drinks.”
But when he brought her champagne, he found her surrounded by half a dozen men and it was all he could do to push through and deliver her glass. She showed no immediate desire to be rescued, so he slipped away to find a quiet corner in which to telephone Gibbons.
“Quite the belle of the ball.”
Bethancourt, emerging from the crowd, turned and saw Randolph beside him.
“It does seem that way,” he agreed blandly.
Randolph turned away from his contemplation of Marla and scanned the crowd. “Have you seen Margaret?” he asked. “I was looking for her.”
“Not since the last dance,” answered Bethancourt and was about to excuse himself when Randolph continued, “She's a fine-looking woman, your sister.”
His tone was that of a man admiring his possession, both smug and fond. If Bethancourt had not known better, he would have assumed Randolph and Margaret were sleeping together, and he was correspondingly infuriated.
“As her brother, you'll have to excuse me from commenting,” he said coolly. “Speaking of looking for people, Rosemary was asking for you a little while ago. I think that's her, over there.”
Randolph looked suddenly a little uncomfortable, and Bethancourt smiled and slipped away on his errand.
He found some quiet in the building's lobby and dialed Gibbons's number on his mobile phone. His friend's description of the day's interrogation had been abbreviated since he had rung while Bethancourt was dressing for the ball, and Bethancourt was eager for more details. But although it was now past eleven, Gibbons did not answer his phone.

Other books

Wear Iron by Al Ewing
Rise of Keitus by Andrea Pearson
Covet by Melissa Darnell
ARC: Assassin Queen by Anna Kashina
The Wayfarer King by May, K.C.
Mad About the Boy by Suzan Battah
Goldie and Her Bears by Honor James
Trail of Broken Wings by Badani, Sejal
People of the Wolf by Gear, Kathleen O'Neal, Gear, W. Michael