Village Affairs (40 page)

“Yes,” he answered. “I think there’s no doubt of it, Miss Bingham. James Benson confessed last night.”

There was a long pause in which Gibbons searched for something comforting to say and found no words.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” she said at last. “In that case, I wish to inform you that I will be leaving for Paris this evening. I believe the police wished to be informed of my movements?”

Her tone now was cool and Gibbons grimaced.

“No, need, Miss,” he said politely, “not now the case has been concluded.”

Despite the lateness of the hour at which he had retired, Astley-Cooper woke at seven, his accustomed time. He felt quite bleary, but knowing that further pursuit of sleep was hopeless, he rose and made ready to face the day. He was irked to discover, when he emerged from his bedroom, that Bethancourt was still asleep and showed no signs of stirring. While he ate his breakfast, he considered waking his guest, but decided in the end against it, as being somewhat inhospitable.

“Will Mr. Bethancourt be wanting breakfast this morning?” asked Mrs. Cummins, looking in from the kitchen. “I only ask, sir, as I’ve noticed he doesn’t seem to eat in the mornings, only having coffee.”

“True,” agreed Astley-Cooper, who had noticed the same thing. “No, just get a pot of coffee ready for him. I’d better run back to hospital and make certain the Tothills are all right, but I should be back for lunch. Tell young Bethancourt that when he comes down, will you?”

Mrs. Cummins agreed to relay this message, and Astley-Cooper bustled off, sincerely hoping that Bethancourt would give him the whole story at lunch.

At the hospital, he found Leandra awake and picking at the breakfast she had been served. She smiled wanly up at him.

“I have a terrific headache,” she confided. “It doesn’t do much for one’s appetite.”

“Haven’t they given you anything for it?” asked Astley-Cooper.

Leandra sighed. “Yes, they have,” she answered. “It doesn’t seem to help very much. Where’s Richard?”

Astley-Cooper looked around. He had assumed, when he had not found the vicar at the bedside, that Tothill was off procuring his own breakfast, and said so.

“No,” said Leandra. “He was here when I first woke up last night. It’s all a bit hazy now, though I believe I cried all over him, but the nurse says he left soon after I went back to sleep.” She frowned. “I don’t know what time that was—perhaps it was later than I’d realized.”

“Probably,” said Astley-Cooper. She looked so confused, he did not like to tell her that her encounter with her husband had occurred sometime after four A.M. “I’m sure he’s still asleep,” he said instead. “He was awfully worried last night. I’ll stop by the vicarage on my way home and wake him up—he’d want to be here if he knew you were up. Are you feeling all right apart from the headache?”

Astley-Cooper settled himself in the visitor’s chair and prepared to be sympathetic. It was always difficult, he had found, to carry on much of a conversation with people in the hospital, but they seemed to like the company. On this occasion, however, he was rather unsure of what to say. Could he refer to the events of last night without upsetting her? And, if not, what else was there to talk about? Should he tell her about his effort to make
poularde a la D’albufera
or was that too mundane a topic?

His dilemma was cut short by the appearance of Constable Evans, who had returned to take Mrs. Tothill’s statement, always assuming she remembered anything.

Leandra frowned. “I remember rather more than I’d like to,” she said.

Evans smiled sympathetically and turned to Astley-Cooper. “Then if you wouldn’t mind giving us a moment, sir?” he asked.

“Not at all,” said Astley-Cooper, rising and collecting his coat. “I’ll just run over to the village, Leandra, and let Richard know you’re awake.”

He made good his escape, rather relieved at not having to bear the burden of cheering her up alone. It was, he told himself, her husband she wanted in any case, and he would do best by supplying him as promptly as possible.

Bethancourt did not wake until almost eleven, being a man who liked his eight hours of sleep a night, and who seldom had cause to deny himself in this. When at last he rose, found himself eyed pleadingly by his dog, and hurried to bathe and dress so that he could venture downstairs and let his pet out. Mrs. Cummins delivered Astley-Cooper’s message with the coffee, and Bethancourt assured her he would be at lunch, feeling rather badly that his host had had to wait so long for an explanation of the night’s events.

But one o’clock came and went without Astley-Cooper’s arrival.

“Shall I hold lunch, sir?” asked Mrs. Cummins. “He hasn’t rung to say he wouldn’t be here.”

“Does he usually?” asked Bethancourt.

“Oh, yes, sir. He’s a very considerate man, is Mr. Astley-Cooper.”

“Then we’d better wait,” said Bethancourt, a little reluctantly since he was unusually hungry. “He’s probably just running a bit late.”

He was over half an hour late in the end, and did not seem pleased when he did arrive.

“I want my lunch,” he declared peevishly as he divested himself of his coat. “Lunch and an explanation. What on earth happened last night?”

“I’m very sorry,” said Bethancourt soothingly, following his host into the dining room. “I never meant to run off like that, but events rather overtook me. Here, would you like me to open the wine?”

“Please,” said Astley-Cooper, seating himself. “I find I’m just a little tired after staying at the hospital so late last night. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Cummins. Yes, we’re quite ready. So, Phillip, what
did
happen last night? Why in heaven’s name should the Bensons want to attack Leandra?”

“Because of Mrs. Potts’s ring,” answered Bethancourt, pouring. “I thought I told you that last night.”

“You did,” muttered Astley-Cooper. “It didn’t make any sense then, either.”

“Well—Ah, roast mutton! That smells very good.”

“It does indeed,” agreed Astley-Cooper. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Cummins, that’s excellent. Here, Phillip, help yourself.”

“Cheers,” said Bethancourt, spearing a thick slice of mutton. “I haven’t really eaten since lunch yesterday.”

“I missed dinner myself,” said Astley-Cooper, helping himself in turn. “Unless one counts that dreadful sandwich at the hospital last night.”

“The sandwiches are just as bad at the police station,” said Bethancourt, applying gravy with a liberal hand, and handing the boat to Astley-Cooper.

For the next few moments they applied themselves to their food in silence, but then Astley-Cooper glanced at his guest and demanded,

“Well? What
did
happen last night?”

Bethancourt, swallowing, made haste to explain the night’s events while he ate.

“If only Mrs. Tothill had stopped to think,” he ended up, “she would have realized Mrs. Potts could never have managed Bingham’s murder alone, which naturally makes the Bensons spring to mind. But as it was, she thought James was innocent, and there was no harm in asking if they had all happened to stop by Bingham’s on the way home from church that Sunday. And that made James panic.”

“So he struck Leandra over the head and dragged her off—where?” asked Astley-Cooper incredulously. “What on earth did he think he was doing? You can’t mean to say that he intended to murder her, too?”

“Well,” said Bethancourt, “he admitted he thought of simply dumping her in the lake, but wasn’t at all sure he could face it. He realized he’d made a terrible mistake as soon as he’d knocked her out, you see, but couldn’t think what to do next. What he really wanted was to talk to Julie, but she had her mobile turned off while she was at the cinema. So he carried Mrs. Tothill off just to give himself time. When he heard us coming along behind him, he dragged Leandra off the path a few feet in the hope we wouldn’t stumble over her, and then took off for home as fast as he could.”

Astley-Cooper shook his head, sighing, and fed himself an enormous bite of mutton and gravy. He was thoughtful as he chewed and at last asked, “Did James tell you why they wanted to kill their mother to start with?”

“In part,” answered Bethancourt, pausing with a forkful of peas poised. “Though I imagine Julie would have been more forthcoming had she chosen to speak. They’ve always hated her, but of course they didn’t have to see much of her, and they had their own place, here in the village, where they weren’t known only as Joan Bonnar’s children. But Joan was planning to marry Bingham and come back to live in the farmhouse the Bensons had always considered theirs. Her presence here would totally disrupt their lives, not to mention the fact that they were rather afraid it would be suggested that they should move into Bingham’s cottage.”

“It’s quite a nice cottage,” said Astley-Cooper. “Georgian, you know. Never needs much doing to it.”

“Yes, but it’s tiny compared to the farmhouse and, anyway, it’s the farmhouse that’s been their home all these years. And,” he added, “to top it off, they, like everyone else, still believed Bingham had no real money. In that case, their mother would be sure to settle something on him, perhaps quite a lot, and that would cut into the Bensons’ inheritance.”

Astley-Cooper nodded, chewing slowly, and looking rather pained. “That’s—that’s rather awful,” he said. “I quite realize she wasn’t much of a parent to them—it was remarked on in the village at the time, when they were young yet—but, still, there was a relationship there. She did provide for them, and handsomely, too. All those horses of Julie’s, and the cars …” His voice trailed off and he shook his head, taking another large bite of potato.

They were silent again, giving their attention to their meal, until at last Astley-Cooper paused to savor a mouthful of wine and leaned back in his chair, saying, “It’s an odd way to murder someone. Did they expect the whisky and drugs to kill their victims?”

“No,” answered Bethancourt, sipping his own wine. “That part of the plot was actually based on an incident from several years ago, after Eugene Sinclair’s death. Apparently there was a morning on which Julie went to wake her mother and was unable to rouse her due to the amounts of alcohol and sedatives Joan had taken the night before. When they decided their mother had to die, Julie remembered that and used it to devise a plan to make the murder look like an accident. The original idea was what they eventually did do, which was to drug her while she was here, at the farmhouse, and then drown her in the lake. But they seized their chance when the opportunity presented itself.”

Astley-Cooper nodded understanding. “The weekend when she wasn’t seeing Charlie. Only he went up to visit her unexpectedly. I suppose he got at the whisky before Joan came home?”

“That’s right,” said Bethancourt. “James drove up to town while Joan was at that interview and substituted the doctored bottle of scotch for the one in Joan’s house. He was then supposed to wait and watch for Joan’s return, but he was feeling nervous without Julie by his side, and went off to a pub to have a drink to calm himself down.”

“No wonder,” muttered Astley-Cooper. “I should have needed several drinks, myself.”

“I suppose it was natural,” agreed Bethancourt. “If, that is, one can say anything about the business is natural. Anyway, once he did return, nearly the first thing he saw was Bingham’s car parked in the square. He was horrified and raced in to switch the scotch bottles back, only to find Bingham was already dead. He rang Julie at once, of course, and she had the wits to see that they couldn’t possibly kill off their mother and her fiancé all in one evening, and decided to try to make Bingham’s death look natural. She had James replace the drugged whisky, and drive Bingham back to Chipping Chedding in his own car. You know the rest.”

Astley-Cooper finished the last bite of his mutton and leaned back with a well-satisfied air, wineglass in hand.

“I’m surprised,” he said, “that they dared to try again after that.”

“James didn’t want to,” said Bethancourt. “He’d had a bad fright, but Julie, having been on the verge of getting rid of her mother, couldn’t stand to wait. She switched the whisky bottles that night and presented James with a fait accompli. He nearly balked, but in the end she talked him into it and together they got their mother downstairs and trundled her down to the lake in a wheelbarrow. They tipped Joan into the water and that was that.”

Astley-Cooper shuddered. “That’s very cold-blooded,” he said. “Quite awful.”

“Murder,” said Bethancourt grimly, “usually is.”

“It makes me quite ill to think of,” said Astley-Cooper, resting a hand on his abdomen.

“Probably you’ve eaten too much,” said Bethancourt, finishing his own prodigious portion and washing it down with the last of his wine. He refilled his glass carefully and topped up his host’s for good measure.

“Thank you,” said Astley-Cooper absently, taking a sip. He ruminated silently for a moment, turning it all over in his mind. Then he sighed deeply.

“Well,” he said, “it’s good to have it all cleared up at last, although knowing the truth is almost as unsettling as the uncertainty. And at least you were quick enough to save Leandra.”

“Thank God for that,” said Bethancourt, lighting a cigarette. “How is she, by the way? Awake, I gather, since she gave a statement to Constable Evans this morning.”

“Oh, yes, she’s awake,” said Astley-Cooper gloomily. “She probably wishes she wasn’t.”

“Why?” asked Bethancourt, concerned. “I didn’t think she was that badly hurt.”

“Well, she has a pretty nasty headache, I gather.”

“Oh,” said Bethancourt, rather at a loss. “A bad patient, is she?”

“No, no. I don’t think you could say that.” Astley-Cooper darted a look at his guest. “I thought you said you knew,” he went on, obviously uncomfortable.

Bethancourt frowned. “Knew what?” he asked.

“Well, you know … about Leandra and Towser.”

“I know she was up at his cottage the night Bingham died,” said Bethancourt. “Is that what you’re on about?”

“Well, yes,” said Astley-Cooper. He added indignantly, “You needn’t pretend it was all innocent for my sake.”

“But it was,” protested Bethancourt.