Village Affairs (38 page)

“Hurry up, Phillip,” called Gibbons. “Or aren’t you coming?”

Bethancourt eyed his friend, who appeared alert and ready for action rather than spent.

“Yes,” he said, “I’m coming. Where are we going?”

“To Stow, of course,” answered Gibbons. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“I was ringing Clarence,” said Bethancourt. “He’s going to fetch the vicar to the hospital.”

Constable Stikes started and looked faintly guilty. “Thank you for thinking of that, sir,” she said. “I should have done it myself.”

“You just get yourself up to the farmhouse as soon as you can, Constable,” said Gibbons.

“The minute the forensics team arrives, sir,” Stikes promised.

“Right, then,” said Gibbons, turning away. “Come along, Phillip. We’ve got to be off.”

Bethancourt, still unsure of where they were going or why, but unwilling to be left behind, followed his friend out to the Rover and ushered Cerberus into the back of the car before settling himself in the passenger seat. Gibbons, starting up the engine, was already on the phone to Carmichael.

“I’m on my way, sir,” he reported. “The constable seems to have set everything up, and she’s given me directions …” He tugged his notebook out of his jacket pocket and tossed it in Bethancourt’s lap. “At the back,” he whispered. “What? No, nothing, sir …”

Bethancourt adjusted his glasses and flipped open the notebook, turning to the back as directed. He peered at the writing there, tilting the page so the light from the dashboard fell on it.

“I can’t read this,” he announced as Gibbons rang off. “It’s in shorthand.”

“Hell, I forgot,” said Gibbons. “Give it here.”

Bethancourt handed it back. “So we’re going back to Stow?” he asked. “What for?”

“To break the Bensons’ alibi,” replied Gibbons, stepping on the accelerator as he reached the A-road.

Carmichael sat on the front steps of the farmhouse and bent his head to light a cigar. The evening was chilly, but he could see the stars peeking out from between the clouds that hovered overhead and the air was fresh and clean. In his heavy coat, he was not uncomfortable, and he had resigned himself to a bit of a wait.

In a few minutes, he heard the sound of a car coming up the drive, but he did not stir, almost certain it was merely Constable Stikes returning, and this was borne out in another moment as her Ford appeared and drew up neatly beside the other two cars already parked beside the house.

“Everything all right, sir?” Stikes asked as she emerged.

“Perfectly quiet, Constable,” answered Carmichael. “Come have a seat. Have forensics arrived then?”

“Yes, sir.” Stikes walked over and seated herself on the step beside him. “They’ve got it well in hand down at Towser’s cottage, and he’s shown them the path up to the lake and where they found Mrs. Tothill. Oh, and Constable Evans rang, sir. He’s at the hospital, looking after her. He’ll report back as soon as she comes to and says anything.”

“Good, good,” said Carmichael, and puffed on his cigar while the constable fidgeted beside him. He glanced at her between puffs and asked, “So what do you think, Constable? Is Sergeant Gibbons right?”

Stikes sighed. “He must be, sir, particularly if he’s certain whoever he was chasing didn’t leave in the car that’s missing.” She pointed at the two vehicles parked beside her own. “That sporty model is James Benson’s and the BMW next it is his sister’s. The one that’s missing, the Volvo estate wagon, is the general run-about car and the one Mrs. Potts uses.”

“So you deduce she’s the one who’s absent.”

“That’s right, sir. Mind you, either or both of the Bensons might be with her—they often take the Volvo when they all go out together—but if either of the twins had gone out without Mrs. Potts, they would have used their own cars.”

Carmichael nodded. “And do you think all three of them were in it together?”

Stikes hesitated. “I don’t know, sir,” she said reluctantly. “The only thing I’m certain of is that James didn’t act alone. He hasn’t the gumption or the brains to think it all out for himself. And he’d do whatever Julie or Mrs. Potts told him to. It’s either all three of them, or the Bensons together.”

“But not Mrs. Potts alone, despite the evidence of her ring?”

“As for the signet ring, sir,” said Stikes, “Mrs. Potts is always losing it—and there’s no denying the Bensons are the likeliest people to have found it. It seems far more likely to me that Mrs. Potts lost it somewhere before she left for her sister’s that Sunday and Julie or James picked it up and pocketed it to give back when she returned.”

“And then it would have fallen out of the pocket while they were moving Bingham’s body.” Carmichael nodded. “And do you agree with Gibbons that Mrs. Potts couldn’t have carried Mrs. Tothill so far? You’re about the same height and build as she is.”

“It seems very unlikely, sir.” Stikes considered a moment. “I think I could just have managed it,” she added.

“But she’s twenty years older,” said Carmichael.

“Exactly, sir. I think the sergeant is right—it must have been James Benson he was chasing.” She shook her head. “What I can’t understand is why any of them should want to kill Mr. Bingham.”

“Neither do I, Constable,” said Carmichael, blowing out a stream of smoke and carefully rolling the ash off his cigar against the step. “But I have one or two ideas. We’ll get to the bottom of it, never fear.”

They fell silent then for a space, the countryside laying dark and silent all around them.

The same question was plaguing Gibbons as he parked the Rover along the High Street in Lower Oddington.

“It would seem to me,” he said, swinging open the car door, “that killing Joan Bonnar would have done well enough. And I’ll swear they weren’t lying when they claimed to have no antipathy toward Bingham.”

“I’ll take your word for that,” agreed Bethancourt. “And since Bingham didn’t need money, there was no need for Joan to alter her bequests. In light of that, it does seem unreasonable for the Bensons to have murdered Bingham. It gained them nothing.”

He let Cerberus out of the back while Gibbons leaned into the car to retrieve the envelope of photos they had picked up from the local newspaper editor in Stow-on-the-Wold. The editor was well-acquainted with Constable Stikes and had been happy to let her Scotland Yard colleague have several pictures of the Benson twins, taken at various local events over the years. He had even found one of Julie Benson at a charity ball, when she had worn her hair down. It was five or six years old, but she had not changed very much in that time, and it was still a good likeness.

A lot of people in the area apparently liked to start their weekend early, and the Kestrel pub was crowded, its dining room doing a brisk business. They had to wait several minutes at the bar before the landlord could attend to them. He proved just how good his memory for a face was by recognizing Gibbons straightaway.

“Well, you’ve had a lot on your plate since I saw you last,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You know, this is generally a quiet part of the country—not much goes on in the usual way of things.”

Gibbons grinned at him. “And I wouldn’t be here if these were ordinary times,” he said. “No, thank you—we haven’t time for a pint tonight. I just want to know if you still remember that couple we talked about the other day.”

“Well enough,” said the landlord, shrugging. “I haven’t seen them again, if that’s what you want to know.”

“No, this time I have pictures,” said Gibbons, producing them from the envelope.

The landlord identified Julie Benson at once, but he took longer over the pictures of her brother, considering several of them carefully before he said, “I don’t think this is the man. I didn’t see as much of him as I did the girl, but the man that was here was blonder and heavier than this fellow, and, well, rounder in his features if you know what I mean.”

Gibbons assured him that he did, and thanked him as he gathered up the photos and took his leave.

“That’s it then,” he said to Bethancourt as they emerged from the pub. “I’ll wager if we can discover which innocent friend of the Bensons was here that night with Julie, the landlord will pick him out for us.”

Bethancourt agreed, but he frowned as they started back for the car. “But doesn’t it strike you as odd,” he said, “that they arranged such an elaborate alibi for Bingham’s murder, and yet had virtually none at all for their mother’s death?”

“It is odd,” admitted Gibbons, and sighed. “We’re still missing something, Phillip. I can’t think what, but it doesn’t all quite tie together.”

“It’s almost as if Joan Bonnar’s murder was done on the spur of the moment,” continued Bethancourt. “Like an afterthought.”

“Can murder ever be undertaken as an afterthought?” asked Gibbons. “I really don’t think so.”

“I didn’t mean that it was one,” retorted Bethancourt. “Just that it seems that way from the outside. We’ve agreed that their mother’s murder had to be the more important one.”

“And they might have brought that one off, if it had occurred alone,” said Gibbons. “Even now, there’s not much evidence to say it wasn’t an accident.”

Bethancourt seemed about to agree, when he suddenly stopped dead and said, “Dear God. Of course. It would explain everything.”

“What?” demanded Gibbons.

“If Bingham’s death was an accident,” said Bethancourt. “Jack, supposing it was Joan who was supposed to die that night? The Bensons have their alibi ready—and, mind you, it’s for the time after Joan arrived home, not for the time of Bingham’s death—and the likelihood is that it will be taken for a tragic accident anyway.”

“Only,” said Gibbons slowly, working it out, “Bingham drives up to see Joan on impulse and drinks the whisky meant for her. And, with his weak heart, instead of merely knocking him out, it kills him. It does make sense, Phillip.”

“I think it does,” said Bethancourt with satisfaction.

“Let me ring Carmichael,” said Gibbons, pulling out his mobile as they resumed their walk to the car. “I hope the Bensons haven’t turned up yet.”

They had not. Constable Stikes, growing chilly, had risen and begun to pace while she spoke with her counterpart at the hospital. He was reporting that Mrs. Tothill had been taken in to the operating theatre, that the doctors were still optimistic about her prognosis, but that it was unlikely she would recover consciousness until morning. Her husband had arrived and was sitting in the waiting room with Clarence Astley-Cooper.

Having absorbed this information, Stikes rang off and turned back to the chief inspector, who had taken a call of his own while she had been speaking with Constable Evans. His cigar was clamped between his teeth, and his eyes were narrowed under his bushy brows while he articulated a series of grunts, culminating at last in the words, “Very good, Gibbons, I agree. What? No, wait a moment.” He looked up at Stikes and asked, “What’s the word from the hospital?”

“Mrs. Tothill is in surgery, sir,” replied Stikes. “They still think she’ll be all right in the end, but they’re not expecting her to wake up until morning.”

Carmichael nodded and spoke into his phone. “You might as well come back, Gibbons,” he said. “I can’t see what more we can do tonight, and Mrs. Tothill is still out at the hospital. All right then.”

He rang off, and said with satisfaction, “Well, Constable, you’ll be pleased to know that alibi’s gone south. There’s still a bit more to be done there, but I think I’m safe in saying there’s no longer an obstacle to our theory.”

“That’s good news, sir,” said Stikes.

Carmichael squinted at his watch. “What is it, coming up to ten? Surely if Mrs. Potts’s outing is a legitimate one, she ought to be back soon.”

“I should think so, sir,” answered Stikes. She did not know whether to hope that Mrs. Potts was indeed involved in the crimes, which would at least prevent her from having her heart broken when she realized what the twins had been up to, or to hope that the woman was innocent. Stikes had always liked Mrs. Potts.

“You might as well check ’round the back again, Constable,” said Carmichael. “See if there’s been any change there. We’ll wait it out a while longer, at least until my sergeant returns, but then I’m thinking of calling it a day.”

“Yes, sir,” said Stikes. She retrieved her torch from the step and was about to set off when she paused, hearing a car coming up the drive.

“Ah,” sad Carmichael, rising with a grunt. “That must be her. We’ll see what she has to say about the whereabouts of the Bensons.”

In another moment, headlamps swept over them as the Volvo Estate pulled up before the house, coming to a stop beside the other cars.

“Is that you, Constable?” came Mrs. Potts’s voice as the engine died and the passenger door swung open. She climbed out of the car a moment before a second figure emerged from the driver’s side.

“It’s the chief inspector, too,” said Julie Benson. “Has something happened?”

Carmichael watched their faces as they came forward into the light from the door lamp. “There’s been a spot of bother down at Mr. Towser’s cottage,” he affirmed. “Have you both been out long?”

“We’ve been to a film,” answered Mrs. Potts. “The new Hugh Grant one—I thought it would help take our minds off our troubles.”

Carmichael’s eyes strayed toward the car. “Mr. Benson isn’t with you?” he asked.

Julie laughed. “No, James isn’t much for romantic comedies,” she answered. “He stayed home and watched a DVD.”

“He doesn’t answer the door,” said Carmichael.

Mrs. Potts looked alarmed and moved at once toward the door, digging in her bag for a key. “His car’s here,” she said. “I can’t think …”

“Perhaps he went for a walk,” suggested Julie. “It’s a nice night out.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Potts uneasily as she unlocked the door and flicked on the hall lights. “James! James, are you here?”

There was no answer at first as they all moved into the house, but then a voice came down the stairs.

“Coming, Marty.”

“Oh, thank God.” Mrs. Potts sagged in relief against the hall table.

“Marty, are you all right?” asked Julie, coming to her side.

“Yes, yes, dear. It’s just that, with your mother and Charlie, well, never mind. It was silly of me to be worried.”