The Young Widow Page 15

  “Right-ho. Talk to you then.”

  Bethancourt hung up the receiver, determined about one thing. Whether there was evidence to back it up or not, he had to find out for sure whether Annette Berowne was guilty or innocent. At the moment, he was not at all sure which answer would be best for his friend.

  He had known Gibbons well for several years now and had seen him through the acquiring and subsequent loss of three or four girlfriends, but he had never seen him in this kind of stew over a woman before. Gibbons’s previous liaisons had been casual affairs, begun usually with a burst of enthusiasm quickly subsumed by his devotion to his work. He had not seemed to care much when things ended; on one occasion he had admitted to Bethancourt that he was relieved. Only once had he been truly upset by the end of a relationship and had complained bitterly of Lisa’s lack of understanding about the hours that his job entailed. Bethancourt had forbore to point out that Lisa’s objections had not been to the hours, but to the fact that she never crossed Gibbons’s mind during them. Well, he thought wryly, that was one complaint Annette Berowne couldn’t make.

  Bethancourt tried to turn his attention to other matters, but he could not concentrate. He told himself that there was nothing he could do until the evening, but it made no difference; he could not settle to anything. Finally he gave up the unequal struggle and spent an hour outlining the facts of the case on his computer. When it was finished he stared fruitlessly at what he had done for another half-hour before abandoning it in disgust and venturing out to take Cerberus across the Thames for a long walk in Battersea Park.

  When he returned, he was still so anxious to get on with the evening that he showered, shaved, and dressed and was ready to go well before time. He left anyway, arriving at the servants’ entrance to Hurtwood Hall a full fifteen minutes early. If Kitty Whitcomb had only known how unheard-of an occurrence this was, she would have been flattered.

  She had dressed up for the occasion in a leather miniskirt and a close-fitting twin set trimmed with satin. Bethancourt gazed at her admiringly.

  “You look lovely,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  The restaurant she had chosen was in Guildford, a small, intimate place with candlelit tables and snowy linen. Kitty appeared to be well-known here; she was greeted effusively by the maitre d’, kissed by the waiter, and assured that Anton would be out to see her as soon as he could manage it.

  Bethancourt settled himself in his chair, lit a cigarette, and raised his eyebrows. “Do you come here every night you have off?” he asked.

  “It’s amazing how you do that,” Kitty said, eyeing him.

  “Do what?”

  “Manage to get so comfortable,” she answered, surprising him. “You did it in my kitchen, too. You just seem to settle in, as if you were as comfortable as you would be at home.”

  “I am comfortable.”

  Kitty abruptly returned to his original question. “I do come here fairly often,” she said. “I also used to date the chef.”

  “Anton?”

  “Anton.”

  Bethancourt considered. “You seem to be on very friendly terms.”

  “We are. Why shouldn’t we be?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’ve often wondered why, when people break up, they so often never want to see each other again. After all, they presumably had something in common to begin with.”

  “I know it happens that way sometimes,” she agreed, “but it never made any sense to me. I’m still friends with all of my old boyfriends.”

  Bethancourt was smiling at her, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “My,” he said, “you’re almost aggressively practical, aren’t you?”

  She didn’t like that; she shrugged and said, “Practical, certainly. I don’t know about aggressive.”

  They were interrupted by the waiter who had brought the wine list and stood holding it, hesitating between them.

  “The gentleman’s paying, Mark,” said Kitty, indicating that the list should be given to Bethancourt.

  “Thank you,” he said, “but I think you’re probably a better judge of wine than I am. You take it. And,” he added as the waiter departed, “don’t stint. I can afford one splendid night out.”

  “I’ll take you at your word,” she warned.

  “By all means, do. In fact, you can order the entire meal if you like. I’m sure you know Anton’s cooking better than I do, too.”

  She shot him a curious glance, but merely said, “Very well,” and returned her attention to the wine list.

  The ordering taken care of, the wine brought and approved, Kitty propped her elbow on the table, rested her chin on the heels of her hands, and said, “So what exactly do you have to do with the police?”

  Bethancourt had no intention of impugning Scotland Yard’s honor by revealing his true status. Discretion, in this case, was definitely the better part of valor.

  “Consultant,” he answered. “But actually, I don’t get called in very often, mostly just when they want a new slant on things.”

  “And what do you do when you’re not consulting?”

  “Try to look after my investments,” said Bethancourt deprecatingly.

  Kitty’s eyebrows rose and her eyes ran over his clothes, as if trying to gauge their worth.

  “So what you’re really saying is that you’re independently wealthy.”

  “You could put it that way, depending on your definition of wealthy.”

  “But then why Scotland Yard?”

  “Because I enjoy it,” he answered. “Most of the time, anyway,” he added, thinking of the wrinkle that had been introduced to this case.

  The same thing had apparently occurred to Kitty, for she said slowly, “I rather thought you and Sergeant Gibbons were friends.”

  “We are. We’ve grown quite close over the years.”

  “He was at the estate yesterday,” said Kitty. “I didn’t see him, but Mrs. Berowne was all flushed and happy when she got back from her walk with him. She hasn’t looked like that since the murder.”

  Bethancourt sighed. “I know,” he said. “I don’t know what will come of that—nothing good, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t like her.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I like her fine, if she’s not a murderer.”

  “But you’re not attracted to her,” said Kitty. “Maddie pointed that out to me yesterday.”

  “Well, no,” admitted Bethancourt. “I expect it’s because I like independent women. Mrs. Berowne is more the let-me-understand-you type.”

  Kitty sipped at her wine. “She could be innocent,” she said, as if considering a new and troublesome idea. “I haven’t told you yet what I found out from my aunt. I had to drag it out of her—she’s the loyal retainer type and doesn’t approve of gossip—but I got it in the end. And it does rather give Mr. Paul a motive.”

  Bethancourt settled his glasses more firmly on his nose. “I’m all ears,” he said.

  “It was about five years ago,” began Kitty. “Paul and Marion had been married for three years or so and they weren’t very happy. At least, Mr. Paul wasn’t. He’d been having an affair with some woman in Town and wanted a divorce. According to Aunt Janet, Marion was devastated. She’d had a miscarriage the year before and was just beginning to come out from under the depression when Paul told her he wanted a divorce. Mr. Berowne—Geoffrey, that is—didn’t approve of divorce and insisted that they go to counseling. That didn’t go too well and the divorce probably would have happened, but then Marion found out she was pregnant again.”

  “And Geoffrey wasn’t about to let her wander off with his grandchild.”

  “It was more than that.” Kitty took a sip of wine, holding it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Geoffrey didn’t approve of divorce, but he was dead set against it if there were children involved. Marion held out for a while, hoping Paul would come around, but when he didn’t, she went to Geoffrey and told him everything. They hadn’t told him about Paul’s affair befo
re, and when he found out that Paul was still seeing this other woman and had been all along, he was really furious. He always had a bit of a temper, but it was usually one big flash and it was over. This time, he stayed angry. Maddie tried to calm him down, but she’s not much good as a peacemaker and just ended up having a fight with him herself. Geoffrey laid down the law to Paul. He said if Paul didn’t drop this other woman and do his duty by Marion, he’d disinherit him and kick him out of Berowne Biscuits.”

  Bethancourt frowned. “But I thought he had already settled a large sum on Paul when Paul married.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Kitty slowly. “I think it was just a nice start—the big money came from the promotion and raise he gave Paul later on. Geoffrey raised Paul’s salary to match his own.”

  “I see,” said Bethancourt. “I take it Paul caved in to his father’s threats then?”

  “Not right away. He did leave the estate, and my aunt thinks he was looking for another job, but didn’t find one. In any case, he came back after about five months or so and accepted his father’s terms. Geoffrey apparently tried to make it up to him, but Aunt Janet says it was never the same between them after that. They’d been close before, but since that time there was a kind of wall between them.”

  “Isn’t that interesting?” mused Bethancourt. “And about a year later, Geoffrey marries Annette. Yes, I can see why he wasn’t prepared to put up with much guff about her.”

  “But don’t you see the motive this gives Paul?” asked Kitty. “If he had found another lover, it would be the same thing all over again unless Geoffrey was out of the way.”

  “You said you didn’t think he was having an affair.”

  “I didn’t,” she answered. “But I could have been wrong.”

  “Even if he wasn’t,” said Bethancourt, “he could have just been so fed up that he would have done anything to get out. Yes, Kitty, this definitely constitutes a lead. I, as well as Chief Inspector Carmichael and Sergeant Gibbons, am very grateful to you. Do you know who the other woman was?”

  Kitty grinned. “I thought you’d ask that,” she said. “Aunt Janet didn’t remember her name, but she thought it was either Amy or Ann, and her last name began with an ‘S’. She was a solicitor acting for some firm Berowne Biscuits was taking over, that’s how she and Mr. Paul met.”

  “That’s certainly enough to go on,” said Bethancourt, jotting the information down in the back of his address book. “Here, let me have your aunt’s address, too—I’m sure Carmichael will want to talk with her.”

  Kitty gave it readily enough, but added, “She mightn’t admit it all to him. And, by the way, I would appreciate it if my name wasn’t mentioned when they talk to Maddie and the Berownes. Maddie will probably fire me if she finds out I sent this investigation in any direction but straight at Mrs. Berowne.”

  Their starters arrived then, putting off any further discussion of murder in favor of one about food. Bethancourt eyed Kitty speculatively as they ate. In this atmosphere, she sparkled and he found himself more attracted to her than he had expected.

  It was a very enjoyable dinner. The food was excellent and Anton, when at last he appeared, was a pleasant addition. Bethancourt, who enjoyed dining out, was almost reluctant to leave the restaurant and move on to Paul Berowne’s favorite pub.

  CHAPTER 9

  An hour before closing on a Sunday night, the pub was quiet. There was a group of regulars huddled at the far end of the bar and a young couple installed at one of the tables against the wall, but that was all.

  It was an old pub, dark and small, with low ceilings and odd nooks and crannies stretching out at the back. A young, auburnhaired woman was perched on a stool behind the bar, reading the evening paper; she looked up as they came in and smiled.

  “Kit!” she said, and then her eyes travelled over Bethancourt, assessing him. She and Kitty exchanged a look Bethancourt could not read.

  “This is Phillip Bethancourt,” said Kitty, sliding onto a barstool. “Phillip, Mira Fellows.”

  “What can I get you?” asked Mira, stowing away her paper and rising.

  “We’ve already had brandies at Anton’s,” said Kitty. “I think I’ll stick with that.”

  “Me, too,” said Bethancourt. “And let me buy you something.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mira produced the drinks, pulled a half-pint for herself, and settled opposite them, resting her elbows comfortably on the dull wood of the bar. Blue eyes regarded Bethancourt with both humor and intelligence, and she exchanged another glance with Kitty, which this time Bethancourt interpreted as approval of himself, whether of his appearance or his trustworthiness he did not know.

  “So,” said Mira, “you want to hear about Paul Berowne.”

  “That’s right,” said Bethancourt. “Anything you can tell me.”

  “There’s not much to tell really.” She shrugged and sipped her beer. “He comes in three or four nights a week, but keeps to himself.” She jerked her head over her shoulder. “There’s a table in the back where he always sits and usually he’s got a book or some papers. On busy nights when it’s crowded, he joins the regulars there at the bar, but he doesn’t say much.”

  Bethancourt considered this singularly unhelpful statement while he lit a cigarette. Mira was watching him; there was more she hadn’t told him yet.

  “So he doesn’t talk to anyone here?” he asked.

  “Not about the kind of things you want to know.” Mira spread her hands. “He chats to me sometimes on quiet nights when he comes up for his drinks. We talk about films, or the book he’s reading, or local gossip. A few times, when he’s been particularly down and maybe had a few too many, he’s told me how worried he is about his work and how inadequate he feels. But nothing more personal than that, nothing about his family.” She hesitated. “He strikes me as a deeply unhappy man,” she summed up. “From what he’s said to me, he doesn’t think much of himself and I have the impression that he only goes on because he hasn’t the strength of mind to kill himself. But if he hated his father, or had some other reason to wish him dead, he never told me about it.”

  “Mira!”

  Two of the men at the far end of the bar raised their empty pint glasses.

  “Coming,” she said, and pushed herself away from the bar. “I’ll be right back.”

  Bethancourt watched her as she walked back to her other customers. So Paul Berowne had found that his own self-worth had been the price of his father’s bargain and, having lost that, he had had no will left to reject it again. It was not the portrait of a man bent on murder, but Bethancourt still felt that Mira was holding something back. When she returned to them, he asked, “Do you like him?”

  Mira, whose expression had been remarkably open and frank before, now dropped her eyes and shifted her elbows on the bar.

  “I suppose I do,” she answered unwillingly.

  “She feels sorry for him,” put in Kitty disapprovingly. “Deep down, Mira’s a softie. You should see her collection of stray cats.”

  Mira shrugged this away impatiently. “Paul’s a sad person,” she said. “Naturally I feel sorry for him.”

  Bethancourt glanced at Kitty, who was leaning over the bar.

  “Well, go on, Mira,” she said. “God knows it’s taking long enough.”

  “Not everybody is as cold as you about these things,” retorted Mira. “Some of us have feelings.”

  Kitty groaned and rolled her eyes and Bethancourt was suddenly enlightened.

  “You slept with him,” he said to Mira.

  She flashed him a startled glance. “You’re bloody quick, aren’t you?”

  “I have my moments of perception,” said Bethancourt. He turned reproachfully to Kitty. “You told me Paul Berowne wasn’t having an affair.”

  “One night isn’t an affair,” retorted Kitty. “And since I knew he was spending so much time here, I figured he wasn’t seeing anyone.”

  “Anyone else, you mean,” corre
cted Bethancourt. He turned back to Mira. “When did this happen?”

  Mira was hugging her elbows, but this time she met his eyes. “About a fortnight before the murder. It had been a busy night and I had just finished pushing everyone out when I realized Paul was still back in his corner. I thought maybe he’d had too much to drink and was having trouble standing up, but when I went back he wasn’t drunk. He just looked utterly miserable, so I told him to stay put and I’d bring him another one and we’d have a good talk. And, well, one thing led to another.”

  Kitty was shaking her head over her friend’s deplorable lapse. “Only you could go from pity directly to passion,” she said.

  “It’s not as if he’s unattractive, Kitty,” said Mira. “And by the time we got to that, I’d had a few drinks myself.”

  “And he never tried it on again?” asked Bethancourt.

  “He couldn’t very well after he’d insulted her,” said Kitty. “Tell him, Mira.”

  “He came in the next night,” said Mira, “and took me aside to explain that he hoped I wouldn’t take last night the wrong way, and would I please not tell anyone. I was rather offended. I mean, it was he who made the first move and if he thought it was such a terrible mistake, then he should have thought twice. And as for thinking I would blurt it all out to everyone in the pub, well, it was just insulting.”

  “But you did tell Kitty,” pointed out Bethancourt.

  “Well, I’d already told her,” said Mira defensively, “and she was the only one. I made it perfectly clear it wasn’t to go further.”

  “You have to admit it was offensive,” said Kitty.

  “Quite,” said Bethancourt. “I do admit it. Did he come in again after that?”

  “Not for more than a week,” said Mira slowly. “In fact, it was the night before the murder that he came back and apologized.”

  “Ah,” said Bethancourt, watching her. “And that led back to the bedroom, did it?”

  Mira was staring at the countertop while Kitty sipped her brandy and confidently waited for her friend to deny this.