The Dressing Table Murder Read online

  Gibbons found Bethancourt outside, sitting on the front stoop with the dog, Cerberus.

  "All done?"

  Gibbons nodded.

  Bethancourt glanced at his watch. "A quarter to three. I expect we'd better run up and find the girls," he said, without much enthusiasm.

  "You'd better," retorted Gibbons. "I've got to go to the office and write a report. I've got to make sure the coffee analysis is marked down for first thing in the morning. I've got to put someone on the track of those two sons in Cirencester. There are dozens of things I've got to do and somewhere in between them all I may find time for a ham sandwich."

  "See here," said Bethancourt, alarmed, "you can't leave me to face Marla's wrath alone."

  Gibbons grinned ruthlessly. "Oh, can't I?" he said. "Anyway, it's your own fault. You knew she'd be angry when you insisted on coming with me."

  "Ah, well, I thought it would be worth it. And it has been. It's a very interesting problem and I'm going to enjoy working it out for you. Come, Cerberus," he added, ignoring his friend's protests. "It' seems we are being deserted in the face of the enemy. Into the breach, old fellow."

  ***

  Jack Gibbons, having had a very long and busy day, leaned back comfortably in one of Phillip Bethancourt's roomy armchairs, planted his feet on one of the several coffee tables in the room, and took a deep swallow of single malt scotch. Bethancourt occupied a spacious and very comfortable flat, if a trifle oddly furnished. It had been decorated solely by its owner, who had money enough but a very eccentric taste. He was very fond of coffee tables.

  He emerged now from the kitchen, a cigarette between his lips.

  "The lasagna is in the oven," he said. "It should take about half an hour." He turned to the bar to replenish his drink.

  "I would have thought," ventured Gibbons, "that you would have been busy with Marla tonight. After yesterday, I mean."

  Bethancourt made a face. "She's angrier than I gave her credit for," he admitted, seating himself in one corner of the sofa. "She didn't go to the Gardens yesterday—she took the car all the way to Brighton just to make sure I wouldn't find her and would spend a lot of time looking. We had a beautiful row last night," he concluded glumly.

  "Appalling."

  "Yes, it was rather." Bethancourt shrugged and turned to other things. "What did the post mortem find?" he asked.

  "Delia MacGruder died of cyanide poisoning."

  "In the coffee?"

  "There was nothing in the coffee but cream. Neither was there anything in the pot, which figures, as the maid had also been drinking out of it."

  "But it would be very easy to poison one cup and then, once it had done its work, take it away, wash it out, and fill it with fresh coffee."

  "It would only be easy if you were the maid, as you pointed out yesterday. And if she really did do it, why should she claim to have been in the drawing room, making it impossible for anyone else to get to the coffee? She could just as well have been cleaning the study or the bathroom or anywhere else in the house."

  "She could be shielding someone else," suggested Bethancourt. "Possibly she let someone into the house."

  "Possibly. It's also perfectly possible that someone else came in through the front door."

  "What about MacGruder?"

  Gibbons shook his head regretfully. "He would be a beautiful suspect, but his alibi had been confirmed. He left the house at nine and caught the nine eighteen from Victoria. We know this because the solicitor met him at the station. They proceeded directly to the golf course, where they met a third man and went out to the links. They finished about half twelve and went to the clubhouse to meet their wives for lunch. Instead they met a policeman who informed them of Mrs. MacGruder's death."

  "Well, he's out then."

  "Yes, and it's a pity because he's the only one so far with a motive. In fact, it's classic. Mrs. MacGruder's first husband was a wealthy man with a thriving business. He died eight years ago in a car accident, leaving everything to his wife. Mrs. MacGruder, who already had money of her own, met and married David MacGruder almost six years ago. Prior to that he had been a businessman earning a good salary, but by no means a spectacular one. He retired after his marriage. And he's eight years younger than his wife was."

  "But he couldn't have done it."

  "No. No one could except the maid. Who else could walk in on her whilst she was dressing and not be immediately challenged?"

  Bethancourt leaned back. "A lover," he suggested. "Or her sons. Or another woman."

  "Well, we haven't finished checking the sons' movements yet. And I suppose they might have had keys to the townhouse. Another woman would have had trouble getting in."

  Bethancourt lit his cigarette and sipped his whisky. "Not if she had a key," he said. "And it's really amazing how many people do have keys to other people's flats. A neighbor, for instance, who was asked to look in occasionally when last the MacGruders were travelling. But by far the easiest solution is the maid."

  "No," said Gibbons, frowning. "It doesn't feel right to me. Where would she get cyanide to begin with? And if she did get it, why wouldn't she put a nice, big dose into the coffee? Mrs. MacGruder had taken a very small dose—that's all it takes, of course, but most people don't know that. In nine out of ten poison cases, you get an overdose. Moreover, why would she do it at all?"

  Bethancourt waved a hand. "A million reasons. A deep-seated hatred of her employer. Maybe Mrs. MacGruder left her a fortune in her will. But," he added, "I'll grant you it's not likely. Unfortunately, if you do away with the maid, you also do away with the idea that the poison was in the coffee. And that leaves us with another problem."

  "Which is?"

  "That someone popped in on her while she was in the middle of dressing and making up, just after breakfast and not anywhere near lunch or even elevenses, and got her to eat something. I mean, what does one say?"

  "One says, 'Hullo, I can see I'm interrupting, but I just wanted you to taste these marvelous chocolates.'"

  "Possibly," admitted Bethancourt grudgingly. "But I've just thought of something else. Say Mrs. MacGruder puts down her hand mirror and makeup and eats a chocolate or whatever. It kills her and in falling, she knocks the hand mirror and the makeup she was just using off the table, but nothing else."

  "Perhaps she had put them down on a different part of the table."

  "Why should she? She put everything else as she finished with it right above the drawer. Habit is very strong, Jack. I invariably put the shaving cream down on the top of the sink, to the right of the tap. It's routine—I always do it. When interrupted in the act of using it, habit takes over and I still put it in the same place. But it has to be something really important to interrupt me at all. Haven't you ever noticed how women hate to be interrupted in the middle of putting on makeup? They look silly half made-up and then know it. What would you do if someone popped in on you while you were shaving?"

  "I'd say, 'Excuse me—you don't mind if I just finish up here?'"

  "Exactly."

  "That's all very well, Phillip, but it must have happened that way. Maybe Mrs. MacGruder had an overpowering passion for chocolates."

  "No," said Bethancourt. "It just means that there's something about it we haven't figured out yet."

  "Not to mention who it was that fed it to her."

  "There is that. Anyone else on your list of suspects?"

  "The family seems like the best bet. After all, she did have money to leave, and ten to one she left it to her husband and sons. But we don't know about that yet. Otherwise, we haven't uncovered anyone else with motive so far."

  "What about the girl in the photograph?"

  Gibbons grinned. "I asked about that. Mr. MacGruder claims she's an old friend of the family's. I said that in that case, there was no reason we shouldn't have her address and he more or less had to give it to me. Her name's Sarah Duncan and she says Mr. MacGruder is just a friend with whom she dines occasionally."

  Bet
hancourt fetched the bottle and topped up both glasses while he thought about this. "Does she have an alibi?" he asked.

  "Not exactly. She's an actress. She was at an audition that morning, but it was a cattle call and she didn't get onstage until one. She was definitely seen there, but times are hazy. She could have slipped out and come back. But if she was MacGruder's mistress, she obviously wouldn't have known his wife. If she had suddenly appeared in the dressing room, Mrs. MacGruder would hardly have been likely to stop to eat anything Sarah gave her. Besides, it would all be a bit awkward, don't you think?"

  "Just a bit," agreed Bethancourt with a grin. "Still, Miss Duncan might be worth looking into. I'll do that if you like. As soon as I manage to make up with Marla."

  "What do you mean?"

  "What budding actress wouldn't jump at the chance to become friends with Marla Tate? Marla runs in the right and very elite circles."

  "That's true. All right then. And meanwhile, I'll find out about the sons. After all, it's only been twenty-four hours. Tomorrow may turn up a lot."

  "Tomorrow may turn up a lot for you," said Bethancourt. "I've got to spend the day making up to Marla. And if there's any time left after that, I'm supposed to be writing an article."

  Gibbons grinned. A generation ago, a young man possessed of as much family money as Bethancourt would have been expected to do very little beyond upholding the title of "gentleman." Now, however, society dictated that one should not be idle, and various projects had been suggested to Phillip by his parents upon completion of his education. None of these had had any great success, Bethancourt being disinclined toward organization and regular schedules. No compromise was reached until he wrote an article for a criminology magazine and was pleasantly surprised to find it accepted for publication. He immediately sent copies to all his relatives, wrote a second piece which was also published, and thereupon called himself a writer. He turned out an article on an average of every six to twelve months, just often enough to appease his parents. Gibbons, who had to work for a living, was not in the least sympathetic towards the problems of this so-called career.

  "You'll get it out all right," he said now, draining his glass. "And if you don't, it won't matter much." Bethancourt glared at him, and he laughed.

  "I think," said Bethancourt, with a great deal of wounded dignity, "that it's time I got the lasagna out of the oven."

  He retreated to the kitchen while Gibbons chuckled.

  ***

  Phillip Bethancourt lay propped up in bed two mornings later, a cup of coffee balanced on his stomach. Marla had been appeased for his neglect and now he was leisurely watching her put on makeup. He had never really followed the whole process before. In a moment or two, Marla noticed his watchful gaze and looked up from her mirror.

  "Is there something wrong?" she asked.

  "No, no," he assured her.

  He had an idea. Setting aside the coffee, he rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen. In a moment he returned, munching on a piece of cheese.

  "Mmm," he said, as casually as he could. "Really delicious, this."

  Marla threw him a startled glance. "Is that cheese?" she said. "First thing in the morning?"

  "This is something special," he assured her. "Have a taste?"

  "In a minute, darling." She drew a pencil line along her lid, and smudged it expertly with a finger.

  Bethancourt wandered back to the bed, absently laying the cheese on the nightstand. Of course, Marla rarely ate anything in the morning. Still, she liked cheese. And Delia MacGruder had just finished breakfast. Even if one really liked something, would one be quite so eager for it directly after a meal? Still, people were odd about food. Mrs. MacGruder had been slender; perhaps she was on a perennial diet…

  Marla set aside her mirror and rose. "Aren't you ever going to get up?" she asked as she moved toward the bathroom.

  Bethancourt shrugged for answer. Then there was the matter of the keys. He no longer had keys to own parents' house; was that unusual?

  "Marla," he called, "do you have keys to your parents' house?"

  She emerged, drying her hands, and gazed curiously at him. "They live in Kent," she said. "Why on earth should I have keys to a house in Kent?"

  "Just wondering."

  She shook her head and left the room.

  His downstairs neighbours had keys to his flat, and so, of course, did the charwoman. It might not be too difficult to abscond with a set of keys long enough to have copies made. No, keys were not the problem.

  "Phillip," said Marla from the doorway, an exasperated look on her face, "what on earth is wrong with you this morning? That cheese in the kitchen is the same stuff we were eating two nights ago when you said you knew a place we could get better."

  ***

  The phone rang that evening as Bethancourt, true to form, was emerging from the bath some ten minutes after he had been appointed to leave the flat.

  "I've been to Cirencester," said Gibbons cheerfully. "The sons are shaping up nicely. As you so cleverly deduced, one of them is married—the younger one, although they're much of an age: twenty-five and twenty-six. The younger one is William and is married to Annie. Tom, the elder, lives alone and I think he's gay."

  "That," said Bethancourt drily, "does not mean he's a murderer."

  "True," said Gibbons, still cheerful, "but listen to this: he's got his own small antique shop, which he runs with the help of an assistant. He was not there on Sunday morning."

  "Why on earth should he be?" asked Bethancourt. "Does he break the Sabbath by having his shop open on Sundays?"

  "No, but evidently he usually spends Sunday mornings there going over inventory, leaving around eleven to have brunch with his brother and his wife. Last Sunday, however, he drove to Windsor to have a look at some antiques a gentleman there was selling."

  "And did he indeed arrive in Windsor?"

  "Oh, yes, dead on time for his appointment at one-thirty. He had plenty of time, especially since a neighbour says she saw his car leaving about eight."

  "Eight?" mused Bethancourt. "That's pretty early to be starting for an appointment at half one. It's about an hour and a half from Cirencester to Windsor. You might spend two hours at it if you dawdled or ran into an accident."

  "He says he stopped by the shop, just to look in and make sure everything was all right. No one saw him, however. He also claims to have stopped at a pub for an early lunch before keeping his appointment, but no one at the pub remembers him either. We're in the midst of looking into his finances to see if he was in need of money. Antiques is not a cheap business, you know."

  "So I do. What about the other brother?"

  "Bill was at home with his wife. They had brunch alone, since Tom wasn't coming, and were having a perfectly normal, uneventful Sunday until they heard the news from MacGruder. Bill works with an investment firm in Bristol. Oh, and his wife is pregnant."

  "Life and death," commented Bethancourt. "How poignant."

  "Well," said Gibbons, ignoring this, "I think that's the crop. Except that neither brother thought much of their stepfather. They'd heard rumors that he cheated on their mother."

  "Virtuous man that I am," said Bethancourt, "I am just about to venture out and either prove or disprove that rumor. Sara Duncan is performing in a disreputable little showcase, to which Marla has ungraciously agreed to go."

  "In return, no doubt, for some favour on your part. Really, Phillip, sometimes I wonder why you put up with her."

  "Take a good look at her the next time you're round," retorted Bethancourt. "The answer should be fairly obvious. I'll report tomorrow."

  ***

  "That," said Marla, as they emerged from the theatre, "was dreadful. And that woman was particularly dreadful. I really don't see why I should make up to her."

  "You should make up to her," answered Bethancourt, "because I, the beloved object in your life, have asked you to. Besides, I've promised you that necklace you've taken a fancy to if you do. Come along, t
he pub should be just around here."

  "Don't be silly," said Marla. "We can't go to the pub yet—they'll all still be at the theatre, changing. If we're to do this properly, we have to make an entrance."

  "Oh. Quite right, my love." Bethancourt looked about. The weather was still remarkably mild, but a fine rain was falling. "There," he said, pointing. "That restaurant looks fairly expensive—too expensive for anyone in that play to be in. We'll go there and have a drink while we're waiting."

  Accordingly, they made their way across the street, re-emerging some forty-five minutes later to proceed to the pub frequented by the cast and crew of Doing the Bunk.

  Marla's presence in the audience had been duly noted by both these parties, who were avidly discussing it when she swept in, shaking the rain from her famous coppery hair. She regarded the assembled group with something of the attitude of a queen surveying a not very promising group of peasants until Bethancourt poked her in the ribs. Suddenly she smiled.

  "Ah!" she exclaimed. "Look, Phillip, we've stumbled on the cast of that delightful little play."

  Then she waded into them, effusively commenting on the play and their performances in it.

  This, naturally, was well-received. Bethancourt steered her steadily toward Sarah Duncan, who had changed her rather skimpy excuse for a costume (in Bethancourt's opinion the sole highlight of the play) for a black jumper and skirt. Marla did her part magnificently, complimenting the girl and initiating a conversation about acting and the difficulties of getting started. It was all going quite well until Bethancourt noticed the danger signs: Marla was getting bored and there were three young men bearing down on her other side, vying for her attention. In no time at all she had abandoned her escort and Sarah Duncan and was happily exchanging quips with her circle of admirers.

  "She's marvelous," said Sarah with a sigh. "Even more beautiful than her photographs." She looked at Bethancourt. "Do you think she'd mind if I asked her how she got started? I've tried to do some modeling, but you need really good pictures before they'll even look at you."

  "Marla always had the best pictures she could get," lied Bethancourt. "But, you see, she also had me."

  Sarah looked at him questioningly.