The Young Widow Read online

  Kitty had turned thoughtful, gazing after the boys with an uncertain look in her eyes.

  “Is it certain,” she asked, “that one of the family killed Mr. Berowne? I mean, the gates are always left open except at night. Couldn’t someone else have come in?”

  “It would have to be someone else who knew his habits,” answered Bethancourt. “Someone who knew he was usually in his study in the mornings, and knew that he had coffee brought in at eleven.”

  Kitty shook her head. “No, that’s not likely, is it?” she said. “Just wishful thinking on my part. It’s been so awkward here lately, you see. Maddie’s convinced Annette did it, and I suppose the rest of us think the same, but we’re not sure. Ken Mills and I usually go for a run early in the mornings, and I’ve caught myself wondering about him. I know he’s wondered about me.”

  “But you have an alibi,” said Bethancourt.

  “Yes, but Ken doesn’t know that. I mean, he hasn’t been running round checking times and talking to Fatima. He can’t be sure.”

  “And you can’t be sure about him.” Bethancourt spread his hands. “I wish I could reassure you. Mills is far from being our chief suspect, but he did have the opportunity, so he can’t be ruled out altogether.”

  Kitty sighed and started to reply, but then her eye caught the clock. She sprang out of her chair as if propelled. “I’ve got to start lunch,” she said. “And you’d better check on those boys.”

  “True.” Bethancourt rose and Cerberus, too, got to his feet and shook himself. Kitty eyed him.

  “I think you’d better stay down here, my lad,” she said. “I’m not sure Mrs. Berowne would appreciate your magnificent fur all over her parlor carpet.”

  “Fair enough,” said Bethancourt. He patted the dog’s head. “Stay, Cerberus,” he said. “You mind Kitty.”

  Cerberus looked at him reproachfully and, with an enormous sigh, laid back down.

  “There,” said Bethancourt. “Now, where is this piano?”

  Kitty explained and Bethancourt went off. But when he reached the parlor, it was quite empty. The piano was closed and the music stood neatly on its rack. Bethancourt bent to look at it and found it to be a Beethoven sonata, quite beyond the capabilities of two little boys. He glanced around, becoming more convinced every moment that the boys had never been here. He checked the drawing room next door, but it was empty and also in pristine condition. Hastily, he retraced his steps to the kitchen.

  “Kitty,” he said, “they’re not there.”

  “Not there?” She swung around, alarm spreading over her face.

  “I don’t think they ever were,” said Bethancourt. “Is there another piano?”

  “No—oh, Lord, yes, of course there is.” She laid down the knife she was holding and made for the door. “There’s one at Little House—that’s probably where Edwin meant to go all along. At least, I hope so.”

  Bethancourt followed her through the length of the house, past the infamous study and out through the side door. Once off the terrace, they broke into a run along the little path that led them past the gardens and under the shelter of the budding trees. Above, the clouds were rolling in, gunmetal gray and threatening. Cerberus broke into a canter and ran ahead of them.

  “There’s no real danger, is there?” panted Bethancourt. “I mean, they wouldn’t have left the estate?”

  Kitty shook her head. “No. But there’s the pond or the brook. Oh, they must be at Little House.”

  Cerberus was waiting for them on the doorstep. The door was closed, but not locked and in a moment they were inside. There was no sound of a piano. Kitty raced up the stairs with Bethancourt at her heels.

  “Thank God,” said Bethancourt. From an open door at the end of the corridor he could hear the boys’ voices.

  “Well, there you are,” said Kitty as they rounded the doorjamb.

  The schoolroom was large and open, remarkably bare of furniture. At one end stood a baby grand and beside it was a collection of various-sized children’s chairs and desks, an upright blackboard and, beyond them, an easy chair and table. At the opposite end the wall was covered with bookshelves and cabinets, the latter of which were arrayed with a jumble of stuffed animals, sporting equipment, and open volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica.

  The two boys were playing with a veritable army of small toy soldiers spread out in the middle of the floor. They looked up, surprised at their elders’ entrance, but neither Kitty nor Bethancourt scolded them. They had, after all, asked permission to go and play the piano and they could not really be blamed for the fact that the adults had had a different piano in mind.

  “Well, I’ve got to get back” said Kitty.

  “I’ll look after them,” said Bethancourt. “They might as well finish their game here, and I’ll bring them back for lunch.”

  Kitty nodded. “All right,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “Uncle Phillip,” said Denis. “Cerberus is standing on the soldiers.”

  “Sorry,” said Bethancourt. “Cerberus, come.”

  Cerberus came to heel whilst his master wandered about the room, idly inspecting some of the toys and books. He ended up by the piano and sat on the bench for a few moments, looking over the music displayed and taking note of the portable tape deck that sat beside the music stand. It was, he saw, one of those which could record tapes as well as play them.

  The boys were still fully occupied with their game. Bethancourt patted his dog and removed himself to the easy chair, leaning back comfortably while Cerberus lay down at his feet. He lit a cigarette and glanced out of the window. Above the trees, the sky was very dark and, even as he watched, the first heavy raindrops splattered against the window. He hoped it was going to blow over before he had to take the boys back for lunch. He hadn’t brought an umbrella, and Denis’s raincoat was in the Jaguar. He could imagine what his sister would have to say about that oversight.

  He turned his attention to the apparently fierce battle being conducted on the carpet. The soldiers were a mismatched lot, representing as they did everything from Napoleonic calvary to modern-day commandoes. He reflected that Edwin must have a passion for the things; even Denis didn’t have this many. A horrible thought crossed his mind and looked around for his nephew’s canvas bag. It had been pushed into a corner and looked considerably depleted.

  He cleared his throat diffidently. “Denis,” he said, “are all these soldiers Edwin’s?”

  Denis, in the process of advancing his toy lorry—now apparently a tank—looked up. “Oh, no,” he answered. “Some of them are mine.”

  “I see,” said his uncle nervously. “I don’t suppose all the ones on your side are yours and vice-versa?”

  “No,” Denis replied, looking puzzled. “We divided them up.”

  “We had to,” explained Edwin, “so both sides would be even.”

  “And what,” asked Bethancourt, “gave you the idea that battles are ever even? Oh, never mind,” he added, as both boys merely looked confused. “Carry on.” He glanced at his watch, estimating the maximum amount of time he could allow the game to continue before he would have to stop it and get down to the complicated business of trying to sort out which soldiers were whose.

  The rain was really pelting down now, running in broad rivers down the panes of glass. Bethancourt leaned back and relaxed again. He couldn’t possibly walk the boys back through this. If it didn’t let up before one, he would just have to forage for lunch here. He felt a pang as he thought of Kitty’s cooking.

  One o’clock was drawing near when he heard footsteps in the hall and Marion Berowne appeared. The strained look was even more apparent in her face, and dark circles beneath her eyes indicated sleepless nights. But she greeted him pleasantly.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling. “Kitty told me you were baby-sitting.”

  “Hello, Mummy,” said Edwin, sitting up.

  “Hello, darling.”

  “Denis,” said Bethancourt, “say hello to Mrs. Berowne. This is
my nephew, Denis Sinclair-Firthing.”

  Marion looked startled. She replied automatically to Denis’s greeting and then looked at Bethancourt with new eyes.

  “Sinclair-Firthing?” she said, her eyes travelling over his face. “Not Margaret Sinclair-Firthing?”

  “That’s her,” agreed Bethancourt. “Mrs. Arthur. Do you know her?”

  Marion laughed. “I’ve just been having a meeting with her,” she answered.

  “Really?” Bethancourt raised his eyebrows. “What a coincidence. The orphans’ charity?”

  “That’s right. My first mother-in-law did a great deal of charity work and I got involved in a small way through her. I don’t do as much since I had Edwin, but I like to keep up with the orphans. I was one myself, you see.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Bethancourt. “It must have been rather awful.”

  She shrugged. “You can’t miss what you’ve never had,” she answered. “My parents died when I was very young. My grandparents took me over, but they didn’t want me—they were done with children. By the time my grandfather died and my grandmother had to go to a home, I was too old to be adopted, but too young to be on my own. So I finished up in the orphanage.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bethancourt. “It must have been very difficult after having your own home.”

  “Yes and no,” she answered. “It’s true that the orphanage wasn’t a very nice place, but there was a matron there who was very attentive to me, and, as one of the older children, I got to take care of the younger ones quite often. In a way, it was the first time I’d ever felt wanted or needed. I think we all need a bit of that, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” answered Bethancourt. “It’s a natural part of the human condition.”

  She smiled deprecatingly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t usually go on about it, but I’m afraid these meetings always bring my own experiences to mind.”

  “Not at all. I found it quite interesting,” said Bethancourt truthfully.

  “Well,” she said, pushing back a lock of damp hair, “I’d better get out of these wet things. Would you mind keeping watch a few minutes longer?”

  “Of course I will. Only,” he added, indicating the soldiers, “I’m afraid I’m not much good at it.”

  Marion reviewed the game with a practiced eye. Then she sighed. “They’ve mixed them up thoroughly, haven’t they?” she said.

  “Thoroughly,” agreed Bethancourt. “It’s rather a pity there seem to be so many duplicates.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Well, let me change and then we can sort it all out.”

  Happy to be relieved of sole responsibility, Bethancourt sat back in the armchair and lit another cigarette. Marion rejoined him in a few minutes, now clad in a royal-blue jumper and a pair of gray slacks, with her hair tied back. Somehow she looked younger in these more casual clothes.

  “By the way,” she said as they knelt together on the carpet, “I told Kitty I’d keep the boys here for lunch if that’s all right with you.”

  “That would be splendid,” replied Bethancourt. “I was wondering how I’d get Denis back in this downpour.”

  “All right, Edwin, Denis,” said Marion, “here are three identical ones. Two of them are Edwin’s. Which one is yours, Denis?” This took some discussion and Marion turned back to Bethancourt. “I didn’t know whether you’d rather stay here or go back to the house for lunch, so I told Kitty you’d ring if you weren’t going to eat there. Kitty’s rather a martinet about meal times,” she added.

  “I know,” said Bethancourt with feeling. “If you truly don’t mind keeping Denis for me, I think I should go back and check in with Sergeant Gibbons.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” she answered. “It’ll be nice to have a playmate for Edwin. No, no, boys,” she said to the children, who had divided up the three identical soldiers and gone off in search of more interesting pursuits. “You mixed them up and now you have to help unmix them. Don’t you know that generals have to look after their casualties once the battle’s over?”

  Bethancourt helped to sort out the rest of the soldiers and then, borrowing an umbrella from Marion, made his way back along the soggy path to the main house. He wondered if Gibbons had managed to finish his walk before the rain began.

  CHAPTER 7

  Gibbons had not managed it. He had had his doubts before they even started, but Annette had seemed quite eager for the outing, insisting that they would have plenty of time before the storm broke.

  So they set out under the gray skies, Gibbons carrying an umbrella in one hand while his other arm was taken by Annette. He had not offered it—he was not of a generation which thought of such things—but she slipped her hand around his elbow quite naturally as they left the house. It was just another instance of her complete comfort in the presence of the police and it added to his growing conviction that she was innocent. He checked his watch as they made their way down the terrace steps, Annette pointing out the different beds of flowers to him. He kept her on this topic for a while, trying to tactfully discover if her horticultural knowledge was great enough to encompass the lethal quality of lilies of the valley, but gave it up in the end. After all, even if she knew nothing about plants, she could easily have read about the poison in her husband’s book.

  As they left the estate and started up the narrow path through the woods, Annette gave a little sigh of contentment and smiled up at him.

  “I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed having someone to walk with,” she said. “I remember, after William died, I felt the same way. Before those last few months, we used to walk around the garden together in the afternoons, and our pace always matched so perfectly.”

  “I hope I’m matching your pace now,” said Gibbons, a little anxiously. “It wouldn’t do at all for you to go quicker than you did that morning.”

  “No, no, you’re fine,” she said, with a reassuring squeeze of his arm. “Not quite like William, because he really couldn’t walk any faster, but you’re letting me lead, so to speak.”

  “That’s good,” said Gibbons. “It sounds like you enjoyed those walks.”

  “Oh, yes.” She sighed a little and was silent for several steps. “Although I’m afraid my second marriage was rather a mistake,” she said at last. “Eric’s death hit me very hard—harder than I realized at the time. William was so kind and helpful, and I’m afraid I let things go too far before I even knew what I was doing.” She looked up at him with questioning eyes. “Do you understand what I mean?” she asked.

  Gibbons hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Are you trying to say that you, well, grew emotionally dependent on him without knowing it?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, satisfied. “That’s it exactly.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “At the ski lodge. He was staying there, too.”

  “At the ski lodge?” echoed Gibbons, astounded. “But I thought he was in ill health.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t skiing.” She smiled at the notion. “He was on his way home from a clinic in Berne. Some friends of his had rented a chalet nearby and he had stopped to visit them. They hadn’t room to put him up, so he took a room at the lodge. We used to spend the afternoons together while everyone else was skiing. We enjoyed each other’s company very much, but of course most of my attention was taken up with Eric.”

  Whose attention, thought Gibbons, was probably wholly on his skiing. He did not voice the thought, however, and asked instead, “So William was there for some time?”

  “Not really, no,” she answered. “It was only three or four days. He was due to leave the day Eric had his accident, but canceled his plans and stayed to take care of things. I really wasn’t much good at the time. William dealt with the undertakers and arranged to have Eric shipped back to England. He travelled back with me and stayed for the funeral. Then he persuaded me to come back to Kent with him until I could decide what to do next.”

  “And you stayed there and married him.�
��

  “Yes. You see how it was. I was so crushed when Eric died I really barely noticed William. And then, when it was all over and I finally came out from under, there was William and I had already got used to depending on him. And he wanted me to marry him.” She sighed. “I knew he was very ill, of course.”

  “Was it a relief when he died?” asked Gibbons gently.

  “I suppose it was in some ways,” she answered. “It was a relief not to see him suffering anymore, and I was rather exhausted from nursing toward the end. But,” she added, lifting her chin, “it wasn’t at all a relief to be left alone again. I hate being alone; I’m just no good at it. And I can’t see,” she said, almost fiercely, “that there’s anything wrong with that. People are meant to be together.”

  “It’s certainly the happiest state of affairs,” said Gibbons, who had not previously considered whether or not it was. “But I sometimes wonder if people were meant to be happy.”

  “I’ve wondered the same thing,” she said in a faltering voice.

  “I’m sorry,” said Gibbons. “That was a dreadful thing to say under the circumstances.”

  “No, no,” she said, smiling up at him. “It’s true whatever the circumstances. Don’t feel badly.”

  She squeezed his arm with the hand that rested in the crook of his elbow and he smiled back at her.

  The path had widened and leveled off, and they had come out from beneath the trees. A stone wall ran along their left, separating the footpath from a wide meadow sparsely dotted with sheep. To their right was another meadow, unfenced and hedged in by the trees. It was undeniably a pretty spot, but Gibbons was made uneasy by the look of the low, swiftly moving clouds.

  “I wonder if we shouldn’t turn back,” he said. “It’s looking very threatening.”

  “Oh, I think it will be all right,” she said, adjusting her grip on his arm. “We’re almost halfway there now.”

  Gibbons acquiesced only because if they were halfway to the village, it would do no good to turn back. He checked his watch; they had been walking for almost twenty minutes.

  “It was just about here,” said Annette, “that I remembered about my library card and stopped to check my purse.”