Village Affairs (41 page)

Astley-Cooper just shook his head, looking very somber, and Bethancourt experienced a wave of doubt.

“At least, I thought it was,” he amended. “I was nearly certain of it. What makes you think they actually slept together?”

Astley-Cooper flinched at this bald description, but retorted, “What on earth else would they have been doing?”

“Well,” said Bethancourt, tapping his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, “they might have been looking at Towser’s paintings. Did Mrs. Tothill tell you differently?”

Astley-Cooper shook his head. “Of course not,” he replied, “but apparently she confessed to Richard when she came to in the hospital. He’s not taking it well.”

“Oh, dear,” murmured Bethancourt, an anxious frown appearing between his brows.

“I don’t think,” continued Astley-Cooper, “Leandra remembers what she told him last night. When I was at the hospital she was asking after him as if there was not the least thing wrong in the world.”

Bethancourt raised an eyebrow, faith in his own perceptions returning.

“So,” Astley-Cooper went on, “I stopped by the vicarage to wake Richard up and send him back to the hospital, only I found he hadn’t been to sleep. He was just sitting in his study, looking all hag-ridden, and muttering about how he didn’t know how he’d get on without her.”

“That’s not good,” said Bethancourt. “But did you find out what she actually said to him? There’s an enormous difference between confessing to infidelity and confessing to an indiscretion.”

“I don’t know what she said, but Richard seemed to have no doubt about it.” Astley-Cooper sighed heavily. “It took me some time to make sense of it all—it was as if he were in shock and couldn’t put two words together. But when I suggested he should go back to the hospital and talk to her, he flatly refused. Said he couldn’t stand to see her.” Astley-Cooper paused and took a healthy swallow of wine.

Bethancourt, remembering the joy the Tothills had always seemed to take in each other, drank deeply as well.

“Last night in the hospital,” said Astley-Cooper after a moment, “we were both praying like mad while we waited for word. And when we heard she was all right, Richard went on praying, this time in thanksgiving.”

“That’s natural enough,” said Bethancourt.

“Yes, indeed,” said Astley-Cooper. “But this morning he wasn’t praying at all. I even suggested it, Phillip—that he pray for guidance, you know—and he only shook his head. I’m terribly afraid he’s lost his faith as well as his wife.”

“He hasn’t lost his wife,” objected Bethancourt. “He’s casting her off—it’s quite a different thing. Did you try the bit about forgiveness and turning the other cheek?”

Astley-Cooper nodded glumly. “It didn’t work,” he said. “Nothing I said made any difference. I’m not sure he was really listening.” He hesitated and then went on, “I rang the hospital on my way here and left a message to say Richard wouldn’t be coming, that there had been a parish emergency. I didn’t want Leandra to fret, and I
did
want my lunch. And I wasn’t sure what to do. I thought she might take it better coming from a female friend, but I don’t like to spread this about the village—Richard might come around. Really, she should have family with her, but I’ve no idea how to get in touch with her sister or her parents.”

Bethancourt considered this, swirling the last swallow of wine in the bottom of his glass.

“Getting hold of her people shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “The vicar no doubt has their telephone numbers. And I think you’re right not to spread this about the village. Frankly, Clarence, I remain unconvinced that actual, physical infidelity took place.”

“What other kind is there?” asked Astley-Cooper.

Bethancourt sighed. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “In any case, there’s no need for the entire village to be privy to the intimate details of their marriage. Bad for morale and all that.”

Astley-Cooper agreed, but then looked discouraged. “I expect that leaves me with the job of telling Leandra,” he said gloomily. “I can’t possibly put her off until her people can get here.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Bethancourt, taking pity on his host. “I can quite see how awkward it would be for both of you. The news might come better from a relative stranger, like me.”

Astley-Cooper looked up hopefully. “Do you think so?” he said.

“It’s bound to be a bit of an awkward scene,” replied Bethancourt, “and at least this way, she won’t be reminded of it every time she sees you—always assuming things work out in the end. I’ll go along to the vicarage with you and help wrestle the phone numbers out of the reverend. Then, once you’ve rung Mrs. Tothill’s people, I’ll trot off to the hospital while you stay and try and talk Tothill ’round.”

Astley-Cooper looked greatly relieved. “Bless you, Phillip,” he said. “I was really dreading that. I don’t mind admitting that this kind of thing isn’t my line of country at all, not at all. I suppose,” he added doubtfully, “you’re quite sure Leandra didn’t, er …”

Bethancourt shrugged. “Even if I’m wrong,” he said, “I still think they ought to try and reconcile. If I ever saw two people who were meant for each other, it’s the Tothills. It would be a pity for them to lose that because of a single mistake, however large.”

“Do you really?” asked Astley-Cooper, apparently heartened by this sentiment. “I must say, I’ve been thinking the same thing, but of course I can’t really imagine how Richard feels. I suppose with Marla, you’ve got a much better grasp of these affairs.”

Bethancourt laughed and Astley-Cooper, realizing the implications of the way he had expressed himself, reddened.

“I didn’t mean,” he said, “that Marla would ever … that is …”

“It’s all right, Clarence,” said Bethancourt, still amused. He had, in fact, certain suspicions about what might have gone on during one or two of Marla’s out-of-town photo shoots, but he had never inquired too particularly into the matter. He still thought that the wisest course. “Though of course Marla and I are not the same thing at all,” he said. “She’s only my girlfriend, not my wife, and she’s been that for less than a year. If she was unfaithful, it would be ridiculous to suppose I could feel the same sense of betrayal as the vicar.”

“Well, yes, certainly,” agreed Astley-Cooper. “But it does give you a different viewpoint, as does your age. I sometimes think,” he added reflectively, “that we older people are too set against change. It’s a natural instinct, to want to keep things the way you’re comfortable with them. But it’s not always the best thing, and one does have to guard against it. I’m very glad to have the opinion of someone younger.”

“I’m happy to give it,” said Bethancourt. “Oh, here’s Mrs. Cummins with the coffee.”

No one answered Astley-Cooper’s knocking at the kitchen door of the vicarage. Undaunted, he opened it himself and stepped inside.

“Richard’s probably still in his study,” he told Bethancourt, leading the way. “That’s where I found him this morning. I let myself in thinking he was still asleep, you see, and meaning to wake him. Richard!” he called out as they made their way down the hall. “It’s Clarence again.”

Tothill was, as Astley-Cooper had said, still sitting listlessly at his desk, and it was obvious from his rumpled appearance and drawn expression that he had neither slept nor washed. His eyes, as he turned to look up at them, had a desperate, lost look in their depths.

“Oh, hullo,” he said, but it came out as more of a croak and he tried to clear his throat, appearing slightly embarrassed to see Bethancourt.

Pushed to one side of the desk was half a bottle of Bell’s and an empty glass, but Bethancourt, viewing the vicar with an experienced eye, did not think the man was very drunk. He seemed, as Astley-Cooper had said, to be in shock.

“I’m afraid I rather seem to have fallen apart,” said Tothill, running a hand down his creased cassock. “Very odd, really. I’m usually quite good in a crisis, Clarence here will tell you …”

“Yes, indeed,” said Astley-Cooper with forced cheerfulness.

“But they’re not usually your own crises, are they?” said Bethancourt, sitting down in the chair meant for parishioners and signaling to Cerberus to lie down at his side.

“Er, no, I suppose not,” muttered Tothill, apparently a little discomforted by this evidence of Bethancourt’s intention to stay.

Bethancourt and Astley-Cooper exchanged a look.

“We’ve come,” said Astley-Cooper, “to get the numbers of Leandra’s sister and mother from you. You must have them written down somewhere, I expect?”

Tothill flinched at the mention of his wife’s name, but he nodded, looking a little confused.

“I’ve got them in the address book,” he said. “But why do you want to ring them?”

“We thought someone ought to go and sit with her,” answered Bethancourt, lighting a cigarette. “She is in hospital, after all, and she’s had a very nasty experience.”

“Oh. Oh …”

“And of course,” he continued, “she’ll want someone with her when she finds out you’re leaving her—she’s bound to be upset, and what with the trauma she’s already undergone, well, a family member seemed best.”

Tothill stared blankly at him.

“Where’s this address book, Richard?” asked Astley-Cooper.

“What? Oh, in here …”

Tothill opened the desk drawer and pulled out a black, leather-bound book, which Astley-Cooper took from him, flipping through the pages.

“Ah, yes, here we are,” he murmured to himself, holding the book at arm’s length and squinting at the page. “I thought that was the name … I’ll just nip into the parlor and ring from there, shall I?” he added, looking up again. “Be back in a moment, Richard.”

“Yes, of course,” said the vicar vaguely. “Yes, I should have rung them myself. I never thought …”

His voice trailed off as Astley-Cooper disappeared and with an effort he brought his eyes back to the relative stranger sitting opposite him.

“I expect you’re not thinking quite straight at the moment,” said Bethancourt kindly. “What you want is a wash and a bite to eat and a nap. You’ll have a better perspective on things after that.”

Tothill rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe,” he muttered, unconvinced. And then, with sudden bitterness, “You can’t know how it feels.”

“No, of course not,” said Bethancourt, still sympathetic. “But all those things would do anyone who’s had a shock good.”

“It’s been a shock, right enough,” said the vicar. He had hunched his shoulders and was staring down into his lap. “I thought I knew her,” he muttered, so low that Bethancourt could barely make out the words. “I thought we knew each other. I trusted her completely—how could she? And I loved her so much …”

“As she does you,” said Bethancourt.

“She can’t. Not the same way,” said Tothill flatly.

“Of course she does,” said Bethancourt, a little impatiently. “And, yes, I know I’ve never been married. But I have been unfaithful, and it never has anything to do with how I feel about my girlfriend. It has to do with the madness of the moment, and being too weak to resist temptation at that moment, on that night.”

“I wouldn’t know,” snapped Tothill, a spasm of pain flashing across his face.

“No, I expect not,” said Bethancourt. “But that doesn’t make it untrue.”

Tothill merely shook his head mutely, not as though he were denying Bethancourt’s words, but as if he simply could not cope with the subject.

“Look here,” said Bethancourt. “I know we don’t know each other terribly well, so it’s impertinent of me to pry into your affairs, but are you really quite sure Mrs. Tothill said she committed adultery?”

Tothill stared at him as if he had gone mad.

“What in God’s name do you think I’m so upset about?” he demanded.

“It’s just,” persisted Bethancourt, “that I was so entirely sure what she was feeling guilty about was forgetting her position as vicar’s wife and going off to Towser’s by herself.”

Tothill looked outraged. “And I don’t expect you’re ever wrong about people, are you?” he snapped, but then immediately shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t seem to be thinking very clearly just now.”

“Of course not,” said Bethancourt. “Nobody could without any food or sleep or anything. Ah, here’s Clarence.”

“All set,” said Astley-Cooper, coming back in and replacing the address book in the desk. “I spoke to the sister, who’s coming on at once. She said it would be best if I let her tell her parents, so I agreed.”

“Then I’d better push off,” said Bethancourt, rising. He glanced at Astley-Cooper and made a slight motion with his head.

“Right,” said Astley-Cooper. “I’ll just see you out, shall I? Be back in a moment, Richard.”

Tothill waved vaguely.

“He seemed quite sure of himself,” said Astley-Cooper in hushed tones once they had reached the kitchen.

“Yes,” said Bethancourt, who was having further qualms about his own opinion. “But even so, it may not be hopeless. Try to get him to bathe or at least eat something—something plain,” he added hastily, remembering the
poularde a la D’albufera
. “A scrambled egg and some toast, perhaps.”

“I can do that,” said Astley-Cooper. “But what he really needs is sleep. I was thinking—do you think Dr. Cross might give him something ? He’d be safe enough with the secret, anyway; doctors are always keeping things quiet.”

“I don’t see why not,” said Bethancourt. “If you can’t persuade him to lie down, have the doctor in by all means. I’d better go now. Cerberus, come.”

Bethancourt made his way back to the car and lit a cigarette as he settled himself in the driver’s seat. He was conscious of a deep reluctance to get on with his self-imposed task, but he quashed the feeling firmly and drove off, albeit at a very moderate speed, for the hospital.

Gibbons, emerging from his room at the pub that evening, found his mobile ringing and answered it hopefully. He had not heard from Bethancourt since before dinner.

“Hullo,” said his friend, and he sounded tired. “What are you doing?”

“Just heading down to the pub for a pint,” answered Gibbons. “Where are you?”

“I’m leaving the hospital,” answered Bethancourt. “I’ll meet you—I could do with a drink.”