Village Affairs (6 page)

Marla gave in grudgingly. “Very well,” she said. “But if you’re not back here in half an hour, I shall be on the next train to London.”

“I will be,” he promised.

Bethancourt heaved a deep sigh and rang off just as Gibbons and Carmichael emerged from the pub.

“You can see the church from here,” said Carmichael, pointing at the steeple that rose from among the trees. “The vicarage is just beyond it, I believe. We’ll walk, Gibbons.”

The vicarage was a large, late-Victorian house with a well-tended garden in front. They let themselves in at the gate, and walked up the path to ring the bell.

“Hullo?” came a voice from above them, and Carmichael hastily came out of the porch to look up at the first floor. A dark-haired man in his early thirties was hanging bare-chested out of an upstairs window. He looked a little startled not to recognize his visitors, but called amiably, “Were you looking for me?”

“We’re looking for the vicar and his wife,” replied Carmichael, shading his eyes against the sun. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Carmichael from Scotland Yard.”

“Oh!” said the man, pulling on a black T-shirt that someone in the room behind tossed at him. “I’m Richard Tothill. Is this about Charlie Bingham, then?”

“Yes, sir,” said Carmichael. “If this is an inconvenient time—”

“No, no, not at all. We’ll be right down.”

He disappeared and Carmichael returned to the porch.

“We seem to have caught the vicar changing,” he said.

But when the door opened, it was a woman who stood there. She was remarkably beautiful, her cornflower-blue eyes and ebony hair set off by a pale, creamy complexion. The sweater she wore fit closely enough to reveal a full bosom and slender waist, and her bare legs beneath the hem of her skirt were long and shapely. They paused, a little startled by this vision, and the thought popped into all their minds that perhaps the vicar had not been merely changing after all.

She smiled and held the door open for them.

“I’m Leandra Tothill,” she said. “Richard will be right down—he’s doing up his buttons. Do come in and sit down. Oh, what a beautiful dog.”

“He’s mine,” said Bethancourt. “He can wait outside if you’d rather.”

“No, of course not. I love dogs.”

She ushered them into the front parlor, giving Cerberus a last pat before excusing herself to fetch some coffee.

“She doesn’t look much like a vicar’s wife,” whispered Gibbons.

“No,” agreed Carmichael. “She doesn’t, does she?”

“Not like any vicar’s wife I’ve ever seen,” said Bethancourt. “I wonder what he’s like—oh, here they come.”

Richard Tothill, suitably attired in a worn black cassock, entered carrying the coffee tray with his wife bringing up the rear. He was a tall, thin man with a pleasant face and a quiet manner; there was nothing about him to indicate how he had come by such an extraordinary wife.

He and Leandra sat together on the sofa, and Bethancourt was struck by how natural they seemed with each other, as if they belonged together and knew it. It was clear, from the glances they exchanged, that they adored each other, and Bethancourt wondered how long they had been married.

“Yes, it was very distressing,” the vicar was saying in a calm, deep voice that seemed made for the pulpit. “Charlie wasn’t a churchgoer, but he was a sociable man and had become a friend. And he did like music—I was sure he’d be good for a subscription to our Christmas concert. So I went along there on Monday morning to ask him, but right away I knew something was wrong. I could see the sitting room lights were on as I came up the drive, which struck me as odd, the more so when I knocked and got no answer.”

“So you entered the house?” asked Carmichael.

“Yes—the door was open. I saw him at once in the sitting room, slumped over in his chair, but he was quite cold when I felt for a pulse. I knew he was dead.”

“You didn’t, I understand, ring for an ambulance?”

Tothill looked surprised. “No,” he answered. “Why should I have? There wasn’t an emergency. I rang Dr. Cross—he’d been taking care of Charlie—and he said he’d be right over.”

Carmichael nodded. “And then?”

“I didn’t like to just leave him,” said Tothill. “So I waited until the doctor came. I tidied up a bit—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Carmichael. In his voice was his deep dislike of tidying up murder scenes. “What exactly did you tidy?”

“Well, I washed up the glass of whisky he’d left, and looked to see what might spoil in the refrigerator. That was all, really.”

“And emptied the ashtray,” supplied Bethancourt helpfully.

The vicar did not immediately reply and his brown eyes looked reflective.

“No,” he said finally, “I didn’t. There was nothing in the ashtray and there should have been. The glass was less than half full and Charlie was a heavy smoker. If he’d sat there and drunk off most of a glass of whisky, he would have been smoking. I never noticed at the time.”

“That’s it then, isn’t it, Chief Inspector?” Leandra Tothill turned her clear eyes on Carmichael. “You don’t think he died there, do you?”

“No,” replied Carmichael. “It doesn’t look like it. But please go on, Reverend.”

“Where was I? Oh, yes, I washed up the glass, looked in the refrigerator, and then went out to the desk to look for his daughter’s address. I found that and his solicitor’s number and made a note of them, and then Dr. Cross arrived. He examined the body and rang the hospital. He said it looked like a heart attack, but there would have to be a postmortem. While we waited for the ambulance, we agreed that I would try and contact the daughter. I went back out to the kitchen and took the milk and cream over to Mrs. Eberhart and broke the news to her. She came back with me—she had a spare set of keys, you see—and shortly after that, the ambulance arrived and Dr. Cross went off with them. I tried to ring the daughter in Paris, but there was no answer, and then Mrs. Eberhart locked up and I left.”

“I understand from the local police that you later succeeded in leaving a message at Miss Bingham’s flat?”

“That was me,” said Leandra.

“Lee’s French is better than mine,” said the vicar with an admiring look at his wife.

“I spoke to Miss Bingham’s maid,” continued Leandra. “Miss Bingham had left town for a few days and the maid wasn’t sure when she’d be back. I didn’t like to leave a message saying her father was dead, so I just left our number and said it concerned Charlie. But she hasn’t rung back.”

“I see,” said Carmichael, glancing at Gibbons. Miss Bingham had not yet responded to the message left by the police, either. If they did not hear from her soon, they would have to go looking. Carmichael only hoped she was not as inveterate a traveller as her father. She could be in Bangkok by now.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Bingham?” Carmichael continued.

“I saw him at Saturday’s market,” said Leandra. “But Richard wasn’t with me then.”

“Did he seem just as usual?”

“Oh, yes. We had a cuppa together, in fact. He was always very bright and cheery, with a sly sense of humor. I liked him enormously, even when he was playing devil’s advocate. Which he did a good deal.”

“He flirted shamelessly with you,” said her husband, but not as though he minded.

Leandra smiled. “I suppose he did,” she said. “But he never meant anything by it. It was only amusement for him.” She looked at the detectives. “I don’t mean to give you a wrong impression of him,” she said. “He wasn’t one of those older men who are always pinching girls’ cheeks. He liked to banter and flirting was the way he did that with me. In a funny sort of way, he meant it. It would have tickled his fancy to be sleeping with the vicar’s wife—it’s the kind of thing that would have appealed to his sense of humor. On the other hand, he never actually expected it to happen. He knew it wasn’t on.”

“That was because he liked you as a person,” said the vicar. “Which he wouldn’t have done if you had slept with him. He could be perfectly scathing about anyone he didn’t like.”

“Was he generally popular?” asked Carmichael, who had been listening intently to these reminiscences.

“I’d say so,” answered the vicar. “Of course, he was still the new man in town, so there was a lot of talk about him, but most of it was in his favor, I think. Don’t you, Lee?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “The Eberharts liked him, and that went a long way with people. They both grew up here, you see,” she added to the policemen.

Carmichael nodded. “Were either of you aware that Mr. Bingham was rumored to have a secret girlfriend?”

Both the Tothills laughed.

“Oh, yes,” said Tothill. “I never asked him about it, because, frankly, I rather thought the lady must be married. But it seems I was wrong.”

“Oh?” Carmichael cocked his head, as alert as a pointer. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I did ask him about her,” said Leandra. “I’m not absolutely sure she wasn’t married, though.”

“What did he say?”

Leandra smiled. “He wouldn’t tell me a thing, although he didn’t deny there was someone. All he said was to tell Richard there was nothing to concern him in his clerical capacity.”

“Which I took to mean that the woman wasn’t married after all,” put in Tothill. “Surely that’s what he meant.”

“Probably,” agreed Leandra. “It’s only that I wouldn’t put it past Charlie to lie to me, just so my conscience wouldn’t be bothered. I don’t think we can really tell the chief inspector that for sure.”

Carmichael smiled. “I don’t need sureties,” he said. “Every little bit of information can help in a case like this. Now, one last question. Would you say he was a man of independent means?”

Tothill shrugged. “He was retired. I think everyone assumed he was living comfortably on his pension, within his means. He once told me he’d managed to put away a bit over the years.”

“You would be surprised then to learn that he was a very wealthy man?”

Both the Tothills smiled. “Oh, yes,” they agreed.

There was a pause while the implications of the question sank in, and then Leandra, with her eyes wide and the smile gone from her face, said,

“You mean he was?”

“Exceedingly,” replied Carmichael.

Marla was somewhat appeased by Bethancourt’s prompt appearance and the bouquet of autumn flowers he brought with him. Presents counted for a lot with Marla.

In an attempt to spark some tolerance of the case from her, Bethancourt announced that the dead man had been the father of the socialite Evelyn Bingham.

“Eve Bingham?” repeated Marla.

“Yes,” answered Bethancourt. “I think we’ve seen her in clubs a time or two. You must remember.”

“Of I course I do,” said Marla. “I know her.”

“You do?” said Bethancourt, nonplussed.

“Yes. When I went to Paris last year for the shows. She was hanging round with the lead singer of Who Else, and the drummer was seeing Carol, who was doing Lacroix with me. You remember Carol?”

Bethancourt thought so.

“Anyway,” Marla went on, turning back to flower arranging, “I ended up seeing quite a bit of her. She was fun—rather high-spirited. She drank a lot.”

“I doubt if she’ll be much fun when she gets here,” said Bethancourt.

“Not a very cheerful time for her,” agreed Marla, stepping back to view her handiwork.

“Do you think you’d better rally ’round?” asked Bethancourt, hope dawning that Marla might actually take some interest in this case. Or at least be preoccupied while he was with Jack.

“I might,” said Marla. “Depending on who’s with her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s not the type that goes anywhere without an entourage,” answered Marla.

“Oh,” said Bethancourt, privately wondering who of the glitter crowd would be willing to bury themselves in the Cotwolds in October.

“Hullo,” said Astley-Cooper, coming in. “Did you get yourselves a drink? No? Let me then.” He paused on his way to the drinks cabinet and added, “Those are lovely flowers.”

“I brought them for Marla,” said Bethancourt. “As an apology for deserting the two of you today.”

“We had a lovely time without you,” said Marla, her jade eyes sparkling at Astley-Cooper. “Didn’t we, Clarence?”

“Quite right,” replied that gentleman, avoiding Bethancourt’s eye and pouring the scotch liberally.

Bethancourt only grinned at him. He was quite used to Marla chatting up the nearest man whenever she felt herself neglected. The fact that this ploy seldom, if ever, succeeded in making Bethancourt jealous did not stop her from trying.

“I met the vicar and his wife today,” said Bethancourt conversationally. “He’s quite a young man, isn’t he? Somehow one always thinks of vicars as older.”

“So did everyone here,” said Astley-Cooper, handing ’round the drinks. “Considering that the previous man was ninety if he was a day. There was quite a lot of objection to Richard Tothill when he first came, but people got over it. Lord knows he’s much easier to get along with. Doesn’t badger people, and if you go to him for advice, it’s usually sensible, not a lot of muck about sinning or not sinning.”

“That must make him popular.”

“It does, but as I say, it took awhile. And then just as everyone was getting used to him, he went off and married Leandra. That caused quite a ruckus.” Astley-Cooper appeared to savor this past sensation.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Marla. “Surely if he’s young, people must have expected him to get married.”

“First off, she’s beautiful,” said Astley-Cooper with relish. “Vicars’ wives aren’t supposed to be good-looking, they’re supposed to be motherly. You, for instance, Marla, should never consider marrying a clergyman. You’re far too lovely and nobody would ever like you. Secondly, Leandra’s a woman with a past. She was a singer in London and ran, I gather, with a somewhat racy crowd. Well, musicians and all that. She met Richard when she was singing at a wedding. She’s put new life into the choir, I can tell you that, and she’s very active in the parish. But people looked askance at her when she first came.”

“It doesn’t sound so awful to me,” said Marla.

“My dear, you don’t have a village mentality. They would much have preferred her to be plain, and have been a nurse or something. Anyway, you’ll meet her tonight if you come ’round after choir practice, and you can see for yourself. Do come, by the way. Everybody turns out for a drink at the pub on Wednesdays—it’s one of our social nights. You can look over all the suspects, Phillip.”