Village Affairs (37 page)

“It was the night Leandra was here,” answered Towser. “The night Charlie died. Leandra took my bicycle to go home and got a puncture just by his place. When she got off to look at the tire, she found Martha’s ring there on the ground. She picked it up and gave it to me the next time we saw each other to give back. You see, there was always the chance Martha would remember where she’d dropped it, and then Leandra would have to explain how she’d happened to be in Charlie’s driveway. Only after she gave it to me, I forgot all about it.”

Gibbons nodded. “But what made Mrs. Tothill change her mind tonight and tell you to keep the ring?”

Towser spread his hands helplessly. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “She said something about a collection plate, but that meant nothing to me.”

Bethancourt, however, started and stared at him, drawing Gibbons’s attention.

“What is it, Phillip?” he asked.

“The collection plate,” echoed Bethancourt. “Mrs. Potts dropped her ring into it and didn’t notice. James had to fish it out for her when the plate got to him.”

“So?” demanded Gibbons.

“I think—yes, I’m sure—it was the Sunday of Bingham’s death,” said Bethancourt.

“When Mrs. Potts went straight off to visit her sister,” Gibbons finished the thought. He turned back to Towser. “Mrs. Tothill didn’t say anything about that? About Mrs. Potts?”

Towser was looking confused. “No,” he answered. “Leandra’s main point was that we should have to hand the ring over to the police and whether or not we could say I had found it instead of her. I wasn’t sure I liked that idea, and we agreed she should come ’round and talk it over. Here it is,” he added, pulling a gold signet ring out of his pocket. “I went to look for it after Leandra rang because I couldn’t remember what I’d done with it. You’d best take it now, I expect.”

Gibbons accepted the ring automatically, while Bethancourt asked, “So Mrs. Potts doesn’t know you have it?” There was a kind of desperation in his voice.

“Well, I’m not sure,” said Towser. “Leandra did say something about her coming to get it.”

The sick feeling in Bethancourt’s stomach got worse.

Gibbons was looking at his watch, calculating. “So Mrs. Tothill spoke to you, what, at about six thirty?”

“About that, I suppose,” answered Towser.

“And you arrived back here at seven twenty or so?”

Towser nodded silently.

“Then they can’t have left very long before that,” said Bethancourt.

“No,” agreed Gibbons. “Let’s go—we might catch them up. Where’s this path to the lake, Mr. Towser?”

“At the bottom of the garden,” he replied, looking puzzled. “But surely you don’t think Martha would have—”

“If there was a car, it’s hopeless,” said Bethancourt, nevertheless making for the back door.

“But there mightn’t have been one,” said Gibbons. “People stick to what they usually do. I’ll fetch the torch from the car and meet you.”

Bethancourt nodded, moving into the kitchen and flinging open the back door there. Cerberus bounded ahead of him into the garden while his master fumbled for the outdoor lamp switch.

“Here,” said Towser, who had followed him, and flicked it on.

It illuminated a small, mostly untended garden. There was a short stretch of lawn beyond it, hemmed in by the trees. Cerberus had paused at the edge of it, but, seeing his master following, he returned to nosing the grass before trotting confidently toward the trees.

“Where’s he going?” asked Towser, producing his own torch.

Bethancourt merely shrugged and started after his pet, though the thought hovered in his mind that Cerberus had taken to Leandra in quite an extraordinary way for a normally aloof dog.

Gibbons came after them, flashing the beam of a far more powerful torch than Towser’s. He started at a run for the trees, Bethancourt and Towser following behind.

Beneath the boughs it was dark and the path, though clear and broad, was hardly smooth and they were forced to slacken their pace.

“Leandra!” called out Bethancourt, though it seemed futile, and behind him Towser echoed the call.

“That’s odd,” muttered Bethancourt, struck by a sudden thought, but in the next moment he forgot it as the path ahead of them split in two, one direction leading downhill where the twinkling of lights could just be made out between the trees, the other leading upward in the dark. In the lead, Cerberus had paused, but before they caught him up, he turned into the right-hand way.

“That’s the way to the lake,” gasped Towser. “The other path leads down to the cottages—you can see the Eberharts’ lights.”

They followed the great dog, the light from the torches bouncing as they moved along at the best speed they could manage, the sheen of the dog’s fur moving in and out of the light with every jolting step.

“If we’re right,” panted Bethancourt to Gibbons, “she can’t have gone far. Leandra Tothill’s not a large woman, but she’s no tiny thing, either.”

Gibbons only grunted and called out again, bellowing Leandra’s name into the dark, though none of them really believed she would answer.

And then suddenly Cerberus was gone, between one bounce of the light and the next, and they all stumbled to a halt.

“There!” cried Gibbons, flashing his torch about and catching the white of the dog’s coat.

They surged ahead again, off the path to the right, crashing through the bracken to where Cerberus stood beneath a large oak, his tail waving like a beacon. Beside him lay the still form of Leandra Tothill. Gibbons fell to his knees beside her at once, feeling for a pulse, with Bethancourt and Towser hovering over him. And as they stood there, silent except for their labored breathing, they heard the sound of running footsteps somewhere ahead in the distance.

Gibbons leapt to his feet.

“Ring for an ambulance, Phillip,” he shouted as he ran off in pursuit.

Bethancourt took his place beside Leandra, nearly falling to his knees in relief.

“Thank God,” whispered Towser behind him, and Bethancourt thought he was crying.

He fumbled out his mobile and dialed 999, while with his other hand he felt for the reassuring pulse in Leandra’s throat. When he had finished giving directions, he sat back on his heels, gently stroking the hair out of Leandra’s face in the light from Towser’s torch.

“You’d better go back,” he said, “and wait for them. They’ll need someone to show them the way out here.”

“But that will leave you without a light,” objected Towser.

“I’ll be all right,” answered Bethancourt. “I don’t need light to stand guard here. Go on.”

“Very well,” said Towser. He hesitated. “She is all right, isn’t she?” he asked.

“Her pulse seems strong,” replied Bethancourt. “She’s been knocked on the head, I think—I got blood on my fingers when I was moving her hair. But the sooner the paramedics can see to her, the better.”

“Yes, of course,” said Towser, and turned abruptly away.

Bethancourt settled himself on the ground and called to his dog, who was trying to apply the universal canine remedy for all ills—licking. Cerberus obeyed, coming to lie down beside his master, who reached out to fondle his ears.

“Good lad,” he said.

Behind him, he heard Towser’s retreating footsteps, and then quiet descended. Thoughts flickered through his brain. He remembered what had struck him as odd earlier, a memory of searching for Joan Bonnar through the woods with Julie Benson, who had never once called out for her mother though she had appeared frantic enough to find her. And then there was the signet ring, Marla surrounded by admirers in the Deer and Hounds while he stood by her side, and lastly he thought of the whereabouts of everyone on the Sunday of Bingham’s death, working through each of the villagers in turn.

He had not, up until then, particularly noticed the chill of the evening, but as he sat there in the dark, he found he was growing increasingly uncomfortable, and the thought occurred to him that lying on the damp ground could hardly be good for a traumatized body. He stripped off his jacket and laid it over Leandra and then urged Cerberus to lay down close to her. He moved to her other side and took her hands in his, noticing how cold they felt.

It seemed an age before anyone came, and when he first heard the sounds of someone approaching, it was not reassuring, coming as it did from the direction of the lake. But in the next instant a light swept over him and Gibbons’s voice called, “Phillip? Are you there?”

“Here,” he shouted, and the light turned in his direction.

“I couldn’t remember how far along it was,” said Gibbons, turning off the path to join him.

“Did you—?”

“No, I lost them,” answered Gibbons ruefully. “I’ve been up to the old farmhouse, but no one’s answering the door there. One of the cars is gone, but I’m sure I would have heard it start up as I came along, so likely it was gone before. Our culprit is either still out here somewhere, or else hiding in the house. How’s Mrs. Tothill doing?”

“Cold,” answered Bethancourt. “I wish they’d come.”

“Here, take my jacket, too. They should be along soon now.”

Gibbons shrugged out of his jacket and while Bethancourt tucked it around Leandra, he bent to feel for the pulse again, his fingers finding the place on the throat far more quickly than Bethancourt’s had earlier.

“Still regular,” he grunted, and played his torch over her still form.

“I think it’s a head wound,” offered Bethancourt. “Here, by her temple.”

Gibbons’s light found the spot. “That’s nasty,” he said. “I don’t think we’d better try to move her—I don’t know much about head wounds, and I wouldn’t like to take the chance of making it worse. She hasn’t shown any sign of waking up, has she?”

Bethancourt shook his head. “No,” he answered.

Gibbons sighed and, straightening, leaned back against the tree.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Bethancourt, gently rubbing Leandra’s hands between his own. “I’m not sure Mrs. Potts is our killer after all.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” agreed Gibbons. “She looks a sturdy specimen and all, but she’s also well past fifty—I can’t see her dragging Mrs. Tothill all this way and then successfully sprinting off into the night. Although,” he added, “I can’t say I’ve worked out how Bingham’s murder was done.”

“I think I have,” said Bethancourt. “I was remembering that first night we were here, when Marla and I went to the pub with Clarence and the rest of the choir. Half the village had turned out and they made a terrific fuss over Marla. We were standing at the bar together and I remember thinking that no one would ever remember I had even been there.”

“I see what you’re thinking,” began Gibbons, but he was cut off by the sound of his mobile ringing. He dug it out of his pocket and consulted the display. “It’s Carmichael,” he said, and answered promptly.

“Gibbons here … yes, sir, I’m fine … no, I lost them, sir. I’m back with Mrs. Tothill now … . Well, sir, we could do with that ambulance—it’s damned cold out here on the ground …”

Bethancourt stopped listening; he thought Leandra had stirred and he bent over her.

“Leandra?” he said hopefully, but she did not reply.

Gibbons was rapidly filling in the chief inspector on the events of the evening and their conclusions. In a few moments he rang off and turned back to Bethancourt.

“Carmichael’s going up to the farmhouse himself,” announced Gibbons. “He and Constable Stikes have just arrived at Towser’s. Stikes will bring the paramedics up as soon as they come.”

“Just let it be soon,” said Bethancourt.

It was, in fact, not very much longer. Stikes and Towser led the way up the path with powerful torches, and Bethancourt and Gibbons gave way to the three paramedics, who examined Leandra briskly and transferred her to a stretcher, replacing the men’s jackets with blankets.

“How is she?” Gibbons asked them.

“I think she’ll do,” answered one of the paramedics cautiously. “No telling until the doctor sees her, of course. You did quite right to try to keep her warm without moving her—that’s a very nasty crack on the head she’s got.”

They lifted the stretcher and started back, Towser leading the way while Stikes hung back to have a word with Gibbons. Bethancourt followed last of all, with Cerberus at his side. He reached down to pat the dog while he pulled his mobile from his pocket and rang Stutely Manor.

“Ah, Phillip, there you are,” said Astley-Cooper cheerfully. “The chicken’s not done yet, but I’ll have it in the oven directly.”

Bethancourt, who felt as if an age had passed since they had left the manor, was surprised to find that the evening was still relatively young.

“You’d better leave the bird,” he told Astley-Cooper. “I need you to find Reverend Tothill and drive him to hospital.”

“Hospital?” asked Astley-Cooper, confused. “Is he ill?”

“No, but his wife’s on her way there now,” answered Bethancourt. “She was attacked tonight, Clarence. The paramedics seem to think she’ll be all right, but she’s unconscious.”

“God above,” whispered Astley-Cooper. “What is happening to us all? You’ve got to get to the bottom of it, Phillip. We can’t go on much longer like this.”

“I think we’re almost there,” said Bethancourt grimly. “You’ll find the vicar, then? I don’t know where he is, although I suspect he’s not at the vicarage.”

“Oh, I know where he is,” replied Astley-Cooper. “It’s the Parish Council meeting tonight. I’ll run right over and give him the news, make sure he’s all right. I’ll speak to you later, Phillip.”

“Thank you, Clarence,” said Bethancourt, and rang off.

Ahead of him, Stikes appeared to be giving Gibbons directions to someplace, which he was attempting to note down as they walked, the constable shining her torch on his notebook. Bethancourt felt emotionally and mentally spent; he was still not certain of exactly how everything had come to pass, but his brain refused to process any further information. They had saved Leandra Tothill. He clung to that single, most important fact as he trailed along in the dark.

As soon as they emerged from the trees, he paused and lit a cigarette, which he had been wanting badly for some time, but which he had not liked to do for fear of further contaminating a crime scene over which they had already run roughshod.