Village Affairs (3 page)

Astley-Cooper looked confused, but all he said was, “Of course, whatever you like.”

They had a very pleasant evening. A few people from the shoot were staying over at the old coaching inn in Stow-on-the-Wold, so they all gathered there for dinner, Astley-Cooper charmed to be included in this exotic party. Carol Morwood, probably the most famous model there, seemed to take a positive delight in flirting with Astley-Cooper, and he was pink with pleasure by the time the main course was served.

Since there was really nothing known about the murder, Bethancourt was able to keep his mind on their party and not appear absentminded in the least. It was this that usually signaled to Marla that murder had once again raised its ugly head, for, far from being absentminded, Bethancourt was normally completely captivated by whatever circumstances he found himself in, and it was only when investigating a case that his thoughts tended to stray. He himself could not say where this fascination with murder came from, and it was looked on by his friends as merely one more eccentricity in a man who had a flat full of coffee tables (he was very fond of them) and chose to keep a large Borzoi in London. They had learned, however, that he was serious about this rather grubby hobby and that, when an investigation was in hand, all the other details of his life were tossed unheeding to the four winds.

But on this evening, there was not much to think about, beyond wondering if Gibbons would be assigned to the case and, if so, whether it would prove complicated enough to distract his friend from heartache. Before he had fallen in love with Annette Berowne, Gibbons’s paramount interest had always been his career, and he had excelled at it, gaining promotion from detective constable to sergeant in record time. But since the breakup, Gibbons had merely been going through the motions, though to be fair, none of the cases to which he had been assigned had held much interest. Bethancourt had been praying for a really tough case for nearly a month now.

“He’s a funny old thing, isn’t he?” said Marla in a low voice. “I thought he must be gay, but now I’m not so sure.”

Bethancourt turned to find her contemplating Astley-Cooper, across the table from them. He was chuckling at something Carol had whispered in his ear.

“Oh, I think not,” said Bethancourt, eyeing their host. “Probably just terrified of women, or at least of sex.”

“Do you think that’s why he never married?” asked Marla. “He must be fifty if he’s a day.”

“About that, I believe—he’s a year or two younger than my father. They were at school together. But he seems quite fussy in his habits, and relationships tend to be messy.”

“Well, I like him anyway.”

Bethancourt smiled. “So do I. Here, Tony,” he added, raising his voice, “you might pass some of that champers this way.”

CHAPTER
3

E
ight o’clock on Wednesday morning found Detective Sergeant Jack Gibbons driving a police Rover along the M4, accompanied by Detective Chief Inspector Wallace Carmichael. The chief inspector was a large man with bushy white eyebrows, bright blue eyes, and a cigar. Having got this last going to his satisfaction, and having rolled down the window in deference to his subordinate’s nonsmoking habits, he settled back and opened the case file on his lap.

“They haven’t given us much,” he remarked.

“No, sir.”

“Of course, they only got the pathologist’s report late on Monday, so forensics is just getting to work.”

“On a scene of the crime that’s been greatly tidied up,” said Gibbons.

Carmichael sighed. “I know, lad. But there’s no help for it. The pathologist found whisky and a good dose of strong sedative in the stomach. He says that with a weak heart, that was enough to do it.”

“He could have taken the sedative himself,” said Gibbons, guiding the Rover past a lorry. He did not see that there was much of interest about the case, and rather resented having to drive all the way out to Chipping Chedding just to prove it.

“So he could,” agreed Carmichael. “But time of death was put at about seven P.M. on Sunday. Bingham’s next door neighbor, a Mrs. Eberhart, says that he left in his car on Sunday afternoon at about three, and that the car was not back, nor were there any lights on in his cottage at nine thirty P.M. However, she did notice lights in the cottage at eleven, when she went to bed.” Carmichael puffed reflectively for a moment. “They’ve had the local rural police officer gather statements from everyone in the village who was well-acquainted with the victim, but there’s nothing obvious in any of them. In fact, no one admits to having left Chipping Chedding last Sunday at all.”

“Well, they might not have, sir. Gloucestershire seems to think Bingham went to London to see someone, who murdered him there.”

“True, true. It’s no good theorizing ahead of our data, which apparently we’re to gather from the constable, a Pat Stikes.”

“Do you think he’ll be any help, sir?”

“She,” corrected Carmichael. “It’s a woman, and Chief Inspector Darren seems to think highly of her. She grew up in Chipping Chedding and knows everyone. And I rather imagine she’ll be eager to do what she can, if I know anything about these rural beats. Most of her duties will be dealing with tourists, and the season’s over. If she’s as bright as Darren says, she’ll be bored with nothing on her plate and happy to give us a hand.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” said Gibbons glumly. He was not looking forward to dealing with a bright rural constable, and a woman at that. These days, he did not feel charitably toward women in general.

Carmichael was gazing thoughtfully out the window.

“Frankly,” he said in a moment, “I think the chief constable has got ahead of himself on this one. There’s no real evidence the man was murdered.”

“No, sir,” agreed Gibbons. “He might easily have had a heart attack elsewhere and whoever was with him panicked and decided he was better found in his own house. That’s very possible if a woman was involved—we’ve known it to happen before.”

“Even more possible if the lady was married.” Carmichael paused, his eyes on the file. “They don’t seem to know much about the victim down there. Charles Bingham, aged fifty-five, in residence at Chipping Chedding for just under a year, previous address unknown, but believed to have lived in China. London firm of solicitors.”

“I looked him up, sir,” said Gibbons. “He was an inventor. He invented a new flush contraption for toilets.”

The white eyebrows went up. “Did he, indeed?”

“Yes, sir.” Gibbons grinned. “It’s not quite as silly as it sounds. It’s made him a fortune. This was all some time ago—I’ve written down the dates—but he was in his twenties at the time. He was married about then, and had one daughter. His wife died in a car accident three years later. And he was still, at the time of his death, a partner in the firm that manufactures the flush device.”

“What you’re telling me, Gibbons, is that he was a very wealthy man.”

“It would appear so, sir.”

Carmichael carefully rolled the ash off his cigar into the ashtray and glanced sideways at his sergeant. There was more, he knew; Gibbons did his work thoroughly. “What else did you find out?” he asked.

“Well, he became interested in anthropology and went off to Africa a few years after his wife’s death. Ever since then, he has seldom been resident in England. Africa occupied him for several years, but he seems to have spent most of the last ten years in the Far East. I’ve made notes of it all, but that’s the essence.”

“Good work, Gibbons.”

“Oh, one other thing, sir. His daughter’s Eve Bingham.”

Carmichael frowned. “That sounds familiar.”

“She’s a socialite, sir. Occasionally makes the tabloids.”

“Ah, yes, that’s it. All those copies of
Hello
magazine my wife is always reading. Well, that certainly implies money.”

Gibbons glanced sideways at his superior. Carmichael was ruffling through the brief reports in the case file and puffing contentedly on his cigar.

“I thought I ought to mention, sir—not that it has anything to do with the case—that Phillip Bethancourt is in Chipping Chedding. He went up for a couple of day’s holiday on Monday.”

“Did he indeed?” the chief inspector transferred his gaze to Gibbons, who kept his eyes firmly on the road. He sighed. “That’s all right, Gibbons.” It would have to be, with Bethancourt’s father so friendly with the chief commissioner. “Still, I can’t say I understand it, however. If he’s so interested in our work, why doesn’t he join the force?”

“He’s really quite rich, sir,” replied Gibbons.

“I know that, Sergeant.”

Carmichael did not really mind Bethancourt’s poking about. On several previous cases he had been quite helpful, and he always stayed in the background. But that the idle rich should spend their time involving themselves in police cases did not seem to him appropriate. Carmichael was an old-fashioned man who had worked his way up from the lowest rung of the ladder, but he liked to think himself adaptable. He had certainly adapted better than others to the idea of university-educated detectives, and he was good with his subordinates. He let them think for themselves and was credited with almost superhuman patience in listening to the sometimes absurd theories put forth by newly made detectives. For this reason, he was often saddled with mere sergeants as assistants, something he did not usually mind. He liked to think he could see the chief inspectors of tomorrow in them. Gibbons, for instance: Oxford-educated no less, but as respectful as the lowest constable; a bright lad and a hard worker who would almost certainly advance into the ranks of senior officers. Carmichael liked to see that sort of thing, which was why Bethancourt, who was no part of this grand tradition, bothered him.

He sighed. “Well,” he said aloud, “there may not be much here for Bethancourt or any of us. I fancy it can be cleared up rather quickly, once we discover where Bingham spent Sunday afternoon. I hope to God they’ve had the wits to put forensics onto his car. We’ll call in at the local station and then go out to the cottage. Probably we’ll find Bethancourt waiting for us there.”

“Probably, sir.”

At that moment, Bethancourt was in bed, but by ten thirty he was at the cottage next door to Bingham’s. A phone call from Gibbons the night before had alerted him to the imminent arrival of the detectives, and he might have sought out Pat Stikes at her office in the Stow-on-the-Wold police station, explaining that he was a friend of those about to arrive from Scotland Yard. But there was nothing like doing a bit of investigating on his own, and a chance remark of Astley-Cooper’s about the local vet sent him on a different course.

He had neatly diverted Marla, who was still in blissful ignorance of the fact that there had been a suspicious death in the neighborhood, by explaining that Cerberus, the Borzoi, seemed to be off his food. With that as an excuse, he had bundled the dog into the Jaguar and ostensibly set off for the veterinary surgery in the village. Instead, he had driven to the vet’s home, which happened to be the cottage next to Bingham’s, and where the vet’s wife and baby son were in residence.

It was a pretty place, a mile or so along the Chedworth road out of the village. The two cottages, standing side by side, were small, built of the golden Cotswold limestone, and late Georgian in appearance. The road swept around them, curving away to the left, and they were separated from it by a low hedge, neatly trimmed along the front of the cottages and growing to massive proportions as it disappeared around the bend.

Before the first cottage was parked an ancient Morris, which was mud-splattered and exhibited several dents. The second cottage had no car and it was here that Bethancourt eased his grey Jaguar to a halt, sniffing appreciatively at the brisk autumn air as he ushered his dog out of the backseat. He was thoroughly enjoying this visit to the country after a long summer in London, and a spot of detective work seemed just the thing to top it off.

Mrs. Eberhart answered the door with her baby on her hip, a plump young woman with dark brown hair scraped back into a wispy ponytail. A pack of dogs ranged around her legs, barking excitedly. Bethancourt ignored them and stooped to beam into the baby’s face.

“What a charming little fellow,” he said. “What’s his name?”

“Er, Daniel,” said the mother.

“Hullooo, Daniel,” cooed Bethancourt, rescuing his glasses from a diminutive fist, but keeping his smile intact. Daniel grinned back at him and gurgled.

Mrs. Eberhart shushed the dogs and shifted her baby so that she could disengage his fingers from her visitor’s hair.

“Can I help you, Mr.—?”

“Bethancourt,” supplied Bethancourt, straightening and transferring his smile from the baby to his mother. “And this,” he added, motioning toward the Borzoi at his side, “is Cerberus.”

Mrs. Eberhart, not having been blessed with a classical education, passed over the odd name and reached out to fondle the dog’s ears. Cerberus, who was intent on the Eberhart dogs, ignored this.

“He’s a beautiful animal, Mr. Bethancourt,” she said.

“Thank you.” Bethancourt patted his dog’s flank. “I’m very fond of him, of course, and I daresay it’s nothing.”

Mrs. Eberhart did not look enlightened.

“But Clarence said better safe than sorry and told me to come here.”

Mrs. Eberhart seized on the one intelligible piece of information in this declaration.

“Would that be Clarence Astley-Cooper?” she asked, and then looked doubtfully at Bethancourt. “Are you a model, then?”

“Heavens, no,” answered Bethancourt. “You must not read many fashion magazines. Oh, dear, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You look quite lovely, I’m sure.”

This elicited a smile.

“I
don’t
read fashion magazines,” said Mrs. Eberhart with a laugh. “Or much of anything else, lately,” she added, jiggling her son.

“I can understand that,” said Bethancourt. “How old is the little chap?”

“Almost six months—he’s sleeping through the night now.” She smiled. “Mostly.”