Village Affairs Page 10

  Gibbons promised that he or another policeman would be there tomorrow at five and rang off.

  Bethancourt had abandoned his chair to perch on the windowsill and flick his cigarette ash out of the open casement. He had opened a small, leather-bound book and was smiling down at it.

  “Marla’s going to be in Paris for four days,” he said.

  “You keep her itinerary in your diary?” asked Gibbons.

  “Yes. I started noting down when she would be gone last spring, after the charity ball debacle.”

  “What charity ball debacle?” said Gibbons.

  “Oh, you remember.” Bethancourt waved a hand. “I had taken tickets for the ball, only to find that Marla was spending that weekend working in Greece. Tickets to charity balls are expensive, so rather than waste them, I took my friend Claire. It was all perfectly innocent, but when Marla came back and found out about it, she was furious.”

  As far as Gibbons was concerned, Bethancourt and Marla were always having one row or another, and he had never bothered to keep track of them.

  “Oh, yes,” he said vaguely.

  “In any case,” continued Bethancourt, “I thought Marla, as she’s going to be in Paris, might as well dig up what she can about Eve Bingham while she’s there. Particularly anything about the visit Charlie paid her last year on his way home.”

  Gibbons stared at him incredulously. “And why would Marla do that?” he demanded. “She loathes murder investigations.”

  “Yes, but she’s taken an interest in this one because of Eve,” replied Bethancourt. “I think the idea that she might actually be acquainted with a murderer has been very unsettling for her. If I take the right tone, I’m sure I can get her to do it.”

  Gibbons shrugged. “Well, you needn’t bother,” he said. “The girlfriend is still our most likely suspect in any case. And Carmichael’s already spoken to the Surete about Bingham’s visit to his daughter.”

  “Not the same thing at all,” said Bethancourt. “Nobody gossips to officers from the Surete. Whereas Marla might find out all sorts of interesting things. If you’re wrong about the girlfriend and Eve did kill her father, then her relationship with him must be at the core of this case.”

  “If she killed him,” said Gibbons, returning his attention to his list. “I suppose anything that sheds light on how she felt about him might give us a line to follow, but it won’t prove anything one way or another.”

  “You can’t solve a puzzle without all of the pieces,” said Bethancourt, undeterred. He took a last puff of his cigarette and tossed the butt out the window. “Truly, I think we’ve become far too fixated on this mysterious woman. When you stop and think about it, nearly anyone might have killed him.”

  “Not anyone,” protested Gibbons. “By all accounts, Bingham was well-liked in the community.”

  Bethancourt waved away this detail. “What about other family members?” he asked. “Were there any?”

  “Bingham had a sister,” said Gibbons, crossing out an item on his list, “but she’s dead. There’s a nephew in Lincoln.”

  “It would also be interesting to know who Eve Bingham left her fortune to.”

  “On the chance we’ve got a serial killer on our hands?” asked Gibbons sarcastically. “Anyway, most of the money and investments are Eve’s already.”

  “But our killer might not realize that,” said Bethancourt. “And it doesn’t have to be a serial killer—he could be planning to marry her.”

  “Marla might know if Eve is planning to get married,” said Gibbons, retuning his attention to his notebook.

  “She might at that,” said Bethancourt. “Or at least she might find out while she’s in Paris.”

  They were interrupted by the entrance of Constable Stikes, who smiled broadly when she saw them.

  “There you are, sir,” she said. “I’ve found that garage you wanted.”

  “Garage?” asked Gibbons.

  “Yes, sir. Where Mr. Bingham got his tire repaired. The chief inspector mentioned it this morning.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Gibbons, who had clearly had no idea she intended following up on this lead. “Well, that’s good work, Constable. You’ll have to write up a report for the case file, but you can just give me the gist now.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the constable, leaning comfortably against the doorjamb. “It’s a place out on the A40. Mike Nelson is the chap’s name. He’s closed Sundays, but his house is close by the garage, and Bingham pulled in before teatime on Sunday. Three thirty is as close as Nelson can come to the time, though I would put it a bit earlier if Bingham drove straight there.”

  Gibbons raised an eyebrow. “Even allowing time for him to discover the puncture, pull over, and have a look himself ?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the constable, straightening just a little. “Not much earlier, mind you.”

  Gibbons nodded and waved a hand. “Go on then.”

  “Right, sir. There was a nail in the right front tire, and Nelson helped Bingham get it off and they patched it up together. There wasn’t a spare. Nelson says he never saw Bingham before that, at least not that he can remember, but he was impressed with how he knew what to do. Bingham apologized for getting him out on a Sunday, and said he could fix it himself, if Nelson would just let him have the use of his tools, but Nelson’s a careful bloke and stuck with him. Says it took them close on an hour from the time Bingham pulled in to when he left, maybe a bit less.”

  “That ties up beautifully,” said Gibbons. “The scene-of-the-crime men found a few nails scattered in the road just at Bingham’s cottage. He could easily have picked it up there. I don’t suppose Nelson kept the nail?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It might explain the bicycle, too,” put in Bethancourt. “You know, the marks they found by the hedge. Someone could have picked up a nail in their bicycle tire, stashed the machine in the hedge, and gone on, picking the bike up again on their way back.”

  “That’s true,” said Gibbons thoughtfully. “We’ve been assuming that it was the murderer’s—that he drove Bingham’s car back and used the bicycle to get away. But you could certainly be right, and it might have nothing to do with the murder at all.” He paused a moment and then retuned his attention to the constable. “You say Nelson’s place is on the A40? That would mean Bingham was heading toward London, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s the way most people take.”

  “Well, thank you very much, Constable. I’ll let the chief inspector know as soon as I hear from him, and—” He broke off at the sound of the telephone. “That’s probably him now.”

  Stikes nodded and, with considerable tact, wandered out again. She was clearly enjoying this departure from her daily routine, and Bethancourt was betting that she had stopped just outside the door, out of sight, but not out of earshot.

  “Gibbons here … oh, Marla, hello.” He raised inquiring eyebrows at Bethancourt, who jumped to his feet at the sound of his girlfriend’s name and began to make hasty denial gestures, pointing repeatedly to the door. “No, I’m afraid he’s left already,” said Gibbons smoothly.

  “I’ll ring you later about tomorrow,” hissed Bethancourt, edging toward the door.

  “He said he was going back to the manor,” said Gibbons into the phone. “He left a few minutes ago.”

  He nodded and waved at his friend as Bethancourt, calling his dog to heel, disappeared.

  CHAPTER 7

  Thursday nights in Chipping Chedding were reserved for the meetings of the Women’s Institute. This meant that on Thursday night Astley-Cooper was forced to cook his own dinner, since both his cook, Mrs. Cummins, and his housekeeper, Mrs. Leggett, were stalwart members of the WI. Not that Astley-Cooper minded. Mrs. Cummins was an excellent cook, but confined herself to good, basic English food, while Astley-Cooper had occasional cravings for more exotic fare, a taste he had developed during his misspent youth in London. Thursdays, therefore, were his night for experimenting.

&n
bsp; Tonight, in honor of his guests, he was experimenting with Beef Tenderloin en Chemise Strabougeoise, as his cookbook termed it, although, as he confided to his guests, he rather thought it was beef Wellington himself. Bethancourt, a fine cook in his own right, thought it was ambitious. Marla, eyeing the ingredients suspiciously, thought with resignation that one meal, however large, was hardly likely to spoil her figure. Marla’s own cooking seldom advanced beyond scrambled eggs, but she had, in deference to the do-it-yourself atmosphere prevailing in the kitchen, tied a towel around her waist to protect her jade-green satin lounge suit.

  Bethancourt poured out some of the fine wine he had purchased to augment this repast, while casting a dubious eye on Astley-Cooper’s ministrations to the filet of beef with a brandy-soaked tea towel.

  “Here you are, my love,” he said, handing Marla her glass. “Uh, I’ll just put yours over here, out of the way, Clarence,” he added.

  “Right!” said Astley-Cooper, cheerfully brandishing a large knife. “Thank you, Phillip. Now then, I’ll just slice this lovely filet into six equal parts.”

  “You’re cutting it up?” Bethancourt was alarmed.

  “No, no; you don’t slice all the way through,” said Astley-Cooper confidently and obscurely. “Perhaps you and Marla wouldn’t mind just spreading a little foie gras on that ham over there.”

  “Ham?” said Bethancourt wildly. He could not recollect ham ever having played a major part in the beef Wellingtons he had previously consumed.

  “Ham,” repeated Astley-Cooper firmly. “I’ll need five thin slices.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bethancourt. Behind his glasses, his eyes looked doubtful. “I’ll slice, Marla, and you can spread.”

  Marla, perfectly content that this was not beyond her culinary capacities, obediently joined him at the counter.

  “How was Eve today?” asked Bethancourt, slicing capably.

  “Fine,” answered Marla. “Better than I expected, actually. Considering the circumstances, she seemed quite cheery.”

  “Well, I gather she and her father weren’t close, which makes a difference. You were wrong, by the way; she came without an entourage.”

  “Yes,” said Marla reflectively. “I was rather surprised about that.”

  “I do hope,” said Astley-Cooper, “that you invited her to dinner. It must be difficult for her, all alone. Good job you happened to be here.”

  “I did invite her,” said Marla, licking a pâté-smeared finger, “but she begged off. She was awfully tired, having been up most of last night.”

  “Is she staying in the cottage?”

  Marla laughed. “It’s hardly up to her standard, is it? Frankly, she was appalled. No, she’s staying at a hotel over in Cheltenham.”

  “It’s really quite a nice cottage,” said Astley-Cooper, glancing about his own huge, seventeenth-century kitchen. The fireplace hood was considered particularly fine, and his gaze rested balefully upon it for a moment. “I’m ready for that ham any time.”

  “I suppose it is,” said Marla, answering his first thought. “But Eve is one of those people who consider anything less than luxury in bad taste.” She carefully picked up the ham slices, liberally smeared with foie gras, and transported them to her host.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said absently. “Well, probably that’s what it’s like to be truly rich. Here, Marla, if you could just hold the filet while I wrestle this ham into the slits I’ve made.”

  “Phillip’s truly rich,” said Marla, “and he’s not like that.”

  “I am not,” replied Bethancourt, who was letting Cerberus lick the pâté off his fingers, “as rich as Eve Bingham. Nor do I find her sort of lifestyle very tempting.” He leaned back with his wine and watched in fascination while Astley-Cooper recklessly hacked off the edges of the ham that were left exposed outside the filet.

  Marla had backed away from Astley-Cooper and his knife, which was flailing rather dramatically. “And you must be rich yourself,” she said to him, kneeling to let Cerberus have a turn at her fingers.

  “Nonsense,” replied Astley-Cooper. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Well, this house and all.”

  Astley-Cooper looked immediately depressed. “This house,” he said, “would be a drain on anyone’s resources. It’s no wonder I haven’t any money left. It’s a miracle the bloody thing is still standing. ‘Built to last,’ indeed!” He snorted.

  “You’ve missed a bit,” said Bethancourt, pointing at the filet.

  “Ah, yes.” Astley-Cooper attacked the offending piece of ham, which seemed to restore his good cheer.

  “Getting back to Eve Bingham,” said Bethancourt, “is she seeing anyone, do you know, Marla?”

  “Three or four that I’ve heard of.”

  “But no one serious? Not contemplating marriage or anything of that sort?”

  “Goodness, no. She spreads her favors around where it amuses her, that’s all. So far as I’ve heard, no one’s managed to amuse her for very long.”

  “Running with the wrong crowd,” remarked Astley-Cooper. “What people like that need is stability—oh, dear.”

  “What is it?” asked Bethancourt, moving forward.

  Astley-Cooper had stepped back from the counter and was gazing dolefully at his creation. “They say to reshape the filet, but it won’t reshape; it’s gaping.”

  Gaping, Bethancourt thought, described it very well.

  “String,” he said succinctly.

  “What a marvelous idea. I wonder where Mrs. Cummins keeps it.”

  This involved a rummaging through all the kitchen drawers, which were numerous. Bethancourt, glancing at his watch, decided that dinner could not possibly be ready before half ten, and was thankful that he had bought three bottles of wine. He poured himself another glass.

  It was Marla who eventually found the string. Astley-Cooper cut off about four yards and proceeded to tie up the meat in as many directions as possible. Bethancourt, amazed, hovered nearby to watch.

  “There!” exclaimed Astley-Cooper, surveying his handiwork. “Now, we’ll just pop it in the oven for exactly …” he consulted his cookbook, “twelve minutes. It says to baste frequently. Phillip, can you take care of that while I just roll out this pastry dough? There’s some beef stock in the refrigerator.”

  Bethancourt basted while Astley-Cooper exuberantly covered the counter in flour and began to roll out the dough. Once he glanced suspiciously at Bethancourt, who had sat down at the table and was lighting a cigarette.

  “It says to baste frequently, Phillip,” he said reproachfully.

  “Frequently does not mean constantly,” retorted Bethancourt. “Really, Clarence, if I don’t leave it alone part of the time, it’ll never cook properly.”

  “Yes, well, there is that, I suppose.” Astley-Cooper flourished his rolling pin. “So,” he said, rolling industriously, “why all the questions about Eve Bingham? Do you think she murdered her father?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Bethancourt equably.

  “Phillip,” said Marla sharply, “you can’t possibly think—why, he was her only family, for God’s sake.”

  “By her own admission, she barely knew him,” said Bethancourt.

  “That doesn’t mean she killed him.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I didn’t say that it did.” He rose. “Twelve minutes are up.”

  “Perfect timing,” said Astley-Cooper. “I’ve just finished the dough. My, doesn’t it look lovely. Now, all we need do is slap a layer of foie gras over the filet and pop it into the dough.”

  “Um,” said Bethancourt diffidently, “don’t you think we’d better take the string off first?”

  “Oh, yes—I’d forgotten it.”

  It took several minutes of silent struggle to remove the vast web of string, but at last it was done, with only minimal damage to the filet, and Astley-Copper and Bethancourt began coating it with the pate.

  “I say,” said Astley-Cooper after a moment, “it doesn
’t stick very well, does it?”

  “It’s supposed to be a thin layer,” replied Bethancourt, doggedly spreading. “I think we just have to go more carefully.”

  Careful was not a term descriptive of Astley-Cooper’s method of cookery. It was quite some time before the filet was appropriately coated. They shifted it over to where the dough lay, and Astley-Cooper began folding the pastry around it and muttering to himself.

  “Phillip,” whispered Marla, “what about things to go with? Vegetables, I mean.”

  “He’s probably forgotten,” Bethancourt whispered back. “I’ll try and bring it up tactfully once the thing’s in the oven.”

  Marla nodded. “I’m awfully hungry,” she said wistfully.

  “Have some more wine.”

  “Phillip,” called Astley-Cooper, “do you think you could help with this? It doesn’t seem to be going awfully well.”

  Bethancourt sighed. “I know absolutely nothing about wrapping beef in pastry,” he said.

  “Well, neither do I,” retorted Astley-Cooper.

  Bethancourt went to help.

  “Perhaps,” he said, picking gingerly at the dough, “Marla should start on the vegetables or whatever while we’re working on this.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Astley-Cooper. “I always forget. Well, there’s probably a packet of frozen peas in the freezer.”

  Marla pronounced herself capable of dealing with frozen peas. She cast an extremely doubtful eye at the dough-encased filet as it was conveyed to the oven. One slender eyebrow rose.

  “I hope it’s edible,” she muttered.

  In the event, it was not too bad. The pastry was, admittedly, rather soggy, but the beef itself was tasty enough, and Marla had done an admirable job with the frozen peas. Of course, they were all a little drunk by the time it was served which, as Bethancourt later remarked to Marla, probably helped.