Village Affairs Page 3

  He had neatly diverted Marla, who was still in blissful ignorance of the fact that there had been a suspicious death in the neighborhood, by explaining that Cerberus, the Borzoi, seemed to be off his food. With that as an excuse, he had bundled the dog into the Jaguar and ostensibly set off for the veterinary surgery in the village. Instead, he had driven to the vet’s home, which happened to be the cottage next to Bingham’s, and where the vet’s wife and baby son were in residence.

  It was a pretty place, a mile or so along the Chedworth road out of the village. The two cottages, standing side by side, were small, built of the golden Cotswold limestone, and late Georgian in appearance. The road swept around them, curving away to the left, and they were separated from it by a low hedge, neatly trimmed along the front of the cottages and growing to massive proportions as it disappeared around the bend.

  Before the first cottage was parked an ancient Morris, which was mud-splattered and exhibited several dents. The second cottage had no car and it was here that Bethancourt eased his grey Jaguar to a halt, sniffing appreciatively at the brisk autumn air as he ushered his dog out of the backseat. He was thoroughly enjoying this visit to the country after a long summer in London, and a spot of detective work seemed just the thing to top it off.

  Mrs. Eberhart answered the door with her baby on her hip, a plump young woman with dark brown hair scraped back into a wispy ponytail. A pack of dogs ranged around her legs, barking excitedly. Bethancourt ignored them and stooped to beam into the baby’s face.

  “What a charming little fellow,” he said. “What’s his name?”

  “Er, Daniel,” said the mother.

  “Hullooo, Daniel,” cooed Bethancourt, rescuing his glasses from a diminutive fist, but keeping his smile intact. Daniel grinned back at him and gurgled.

  Mrs. Eberhart shushed the dogs and shifted her baby so that she could disengage his fingers from her visitor’s hair.

  “Can I help you, Mr.—?”

  “Bethancourt,” supplied Bethancourt, straightening and transferring his smile from the baby to his mother. “And this,” he added, motioning toward the Borzoi at his side, “is Cerberus.”

  Mrs. Eberhart, not having been blessed with a classical education, passed over the odd name and reached out to fondle the dog’s ears. Cerberus, who was intent on the Eberhart dogs, ignored this.

  “He’s a beautiful animal, Mr. Bethancourt,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Bethancourt patted his dog’s flank. “I’m very fond of him, of course, and I daresay it’s nothing.”

  Mrs. Eberhart did not look enlightened.

  “But Clarence said better safe than sorry and told me to come here.”

  Mrs. Eberhart seized on the one intelligible piece of information in this declaration.

  “Would that be Clarence Astley-Cooper?” she asked, and then looked doubtfully at Bethancourt. “Are you a model, then?”

  “Heavens, no,” answered Bethancourt. “You must not read many fashion magazines. Oh, dear, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You look quite lovely, I’m sure.”

  This elicited a smile.

  “I don’t read fashion magazines,” said Mrs. Eberhart with a laugh. “Or much of anything else, lately,” she added, jiggling her son.

  “I can understand that,” said Bethancourt. “How old is the little chap?”

  “Almost six months—he’s sleeping through the night now.” She smiled. “Mostly.”

  “He looks a remarkably happy baby to me,” said Bethancourt.

  “Oh, he is,” she said, shifting his weight to her other hip. “I’m sorry—did you say Mr. Astley-Cooper had sent you ’round?”

  “That’s right. My girlfriend and I are staying at the manor for a few days.”

  “Well, do come in,” said Mrs. Eberhart. There was a doubtful tone in her voice which indicated she was not entirely sure why this man had shown up on her doorstep, but she was obviously tired of standing there. “Come through to the kitchen, if you don’t mind. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Thanks very much,” said Bethancourt promptly. “That would be just the thing.”

  He ushered Cerberus into the hallway and followed Mrs. Eberhart to the back of the house and the kitchen. A meal was in midpreparation there, and a pot of coffee was already made. Mrs. Eberhart took a moment to settle her son in his cot and then poured two cups, joining her guest at the table by the window.

  “So what can I do for you, Mr. Bethancourt?” she asked.

  “I expect it’s your husband I want to see,” said Bethancourt, feeling safe in this pronouncement now that he was comfortably ensconced with a cup of coffee. “As I say, it’s probably nothing, but Cerberus has gone off his food. Not a usual thing for him at all.”

  Mrs. Eberhart laughed merrily, enlightened at last. “But this isn’t the surgery,” she said.

  “It isn’t?” said Bethancourt blankly. He glanced out the window at the second cottage. “Oh, dear, is that it over there? I did look, but it seemed quite deserted.”

  “No, no.” Mrs. Eberhart was still amused. “The surgery’s up the road, in one of the old barns. That’s Charlie Bingham’s cottage.” Her face fell. “Or it was.”

  “Bingham?” asked Bethancourt. “Isn’t that the fellow who was murdered? Astley-Cooper was telling me about it last night at dinner. Such a sad affair.”

  “It is,” agreed Mrs. Eberhart with a sigh. “Although I don’t know why they think it’s murder. Charlie was a sweet man, even if he was as full of mischief as a monkey, but he was stubborn and it’s a fact that he drank and smoked too much. The doctor recommended he give up both altogether, as he’d already survived one heart attack, but Charlie wouldn’t hear of it. And the vicar says as how there was a glass of whisky at his elbow when he found him.”

  “You liked him, though?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Eberhart chuckled. “He was awfully funny, made me laugh something terrible, he did. And he was a good neighbor. He was very sweet while I was pregnant, always coming ’round to see how I was, and helping me to keep the garden in order. And, of course, giving me advice. Said I should never send the child away to school—he’d done that and now he hardly knew his own daughter. Not that I ever thought of such a thing—the school here is very good.”

  Bethancourt, who had himself been sent to public school at the age of eight, made no comment. Instead he said, “Astley-Cooper was wondering why it was classed as murder as well. Amateur sleuthing is a hobby of mine, but all I could tell him is that something must have come up at the postmortem. Did you see Mr. Bingham that Sunday?”

  “Yes, I was in the garden in the afternoon when he came out, all dressed up and said he was off. I said, ‘Where to this time?’ and he said, ‘Oh, just a little business trip to London,’ and winked at me. I took that to mean he was going to see his lady friend.”

  Bethancourt looked up from his coffee with interest. Astley-Cooper had known nothing about a girlfriend.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Heavens,” she replied, “I don’t know. He was very secretive about it, but I’m sure there was one. When he first moved in, he was always around, and then about six months ago he started taking these little trips. Every week or so, he’d be gone overnight, or sometimes two nights in a row. She’s never been here, that I know. The cottages are close together and you can’t miss that kind of thing.”

  “No,” agreed Bethancourt, glancing out.

  “But I expect I was mistaken about where he went,” said Mrs. Eberhart, sighing a little. “You see, he came back that night, so he couldn’t have been to see her, not unless they had a row or something.”

  “That’s always possible,” said Bethancourt feelingly. Marla was known for her mercurial temper. “Did you see him come back?”

  Mrs. Eberhart shook her head. “No,” she answered. “My husband was called out at half nine to a bad calving and I went out to see him off. Charlie’s car was still gone and there wasn’t
a light in the place. I waited up ’til after eleven, but when Steve hadn’t come back by then, I went to bed. It was when I was turning off the lamp that I noticed a light in Charlie’s cottage, and when I looked out I could just see his car in the lane. I was surprised because, as I said, I thought he’d gone for the night, but I didn’t think any more about it.”

  “Astley-Cooper says Scotland Yard has been called in,” said Bethancourt. “I know a few of those chaps, so perhaps I’ll be able to find out why they think it’s murder.”

  “Well, you’ll let me know, won’t you?” asked Mrs. Eberhart. “I don’t mind saying we’re all very curious.”

  “By all means,” promised Bethancourt. He swallowed the last of his coffee. “Well, I expect I should be getting along to the surgery. Thank you so much for being so hospitable—and I’m sorry for the mistake. I could have sworn Clarence said the vet was here.”

  “That’s all right,” said Mrs. Eberhart. “We’ve had a nice chat, and you’ve broken up the morning for me.” She rose and then paused. “Now I wonder who that is?” she said.

  Bethancourt joined her in craning out the window to view the lane. Two men were coming up toward Bingham’s cottage. The younger man was a little stocky with reddish hair and led the way, while an older man with white eyebrows followed behind.

  “Ah,” said Bethancourt. “I think, Mrs. Eberhart, that Scotland Yard has arrived. I’ll just run out and pass the time of day before I go to the surgery.”

  Neither Carmichael nor Gibbons was surprised to be greeted at the scene of the crime by an elegant Borzoi. Gibbons patted the dog affectionately and waited for Bethancourt, who emerged in company with a young woman.

  “Hullo,” he said cheerfully. “Mrs. Eberhart, may I introduce Detective Chief Inspector Carmichael and his able assistant, Detective Sergeant Gibbons. I’m awfully glad it was you they sent,” he added to the two detectives.

  “We rather thought we’d find you Johnny-on-the-spot,” replied Carmichael. “Mrs. Eberhart, we’ll want to speak to you shortly, but first we’d like to look over Mr. Bingham’s cottage. Will you be at home?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I’ll be in the house, so just ring when you want me. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

  They took their leave of her and turned toward the other house, virtually a twin of the Eberharts’. Gibbons produced a key and let them in the front door, which led them into a hallway running the length of the house. They turned to the right and the sitting room, which was neat and tidy but very sparsely furnished. A large, overstuffed armchair stood by the fireplace with a battered side table containing a lamp, a large glass ashtray, and a book. In front of the hearth was spread a small Oriental rug, and above the mantel was hung a very fine Chinese watercolor. On either side of the fireplace were ceiling-to-floor bookshelves, and these had been filled with a great variety of books and curios. Against the farther wall stood an oak desk, badly in need of refinishing, and another chair. Other than that, the room was empty of furniture. However, at the end of the room opposite the fireplace were stacked several packing crates, most of them opened, and a large, handsome teakwood chest.

  “Well,” said Carmichael, “it’s not much, is it?”

  “No,” agreed Gibbons. “Not at all what I expected. Looks as if he never got ’round to unpacking.”

  “Not really surprising in an older bachelor,” said Bethancourt. “Presumably he’d been roughing it in the Far East and had got used to a minimal existence.”

  Gibbons eyed him. “How do you know he wasn’t living in the lap of luxury in the Far East?” he asked.

  “That at least was not the impression my host, Astley-Cooper, had,” replied Bethancourt. “He seems to have the idea that Bingham lived a more or less hand-to-mouth existence—a little smuggling here, an archeological expedition there, even a stint at farming, so I hear.”

  “He sounds rather eccentric,” mused Carmichael.

  “That seems certain,” agreed Gibbons. “To live like this when he had millions.”

  “What?” asked Bethancourt sharply, abandoning his perusal of the bookshelves.

  “He was a very wealthy man,” said Gibbons. “Didn’t you gather that in all your chatting?”

  “No,” replied Bethancourt. “If he was rich, it was not a well-known fact here. Astley-Cooper would surely have mentioned it and so would Mrs. Eberhart.”

  “That,” said Carmichael, “is rather interesting. I wonder if it was deliberate on his part. Well, investigate first and then draw conclusions. Let’s have a look at the rest of the house and then we can start going through things.”

  As in the Eberharts’ house, the hallway led them to the kitchen. Here again there was nothing to mark it as a wealthy man’s, with only the minimum of furniture and appliances. There was a red-painted table and four upright chairs set in front of the fireplace on the bare floorboards. Tabletop and counters were wiped clean and everything was neatly put away. An old-fashioned toaster sat on the counter and a single glass was upturned by the sink. Upon examination, the cupboards yielded a frugal collection of pots, pans, and china, but the refrigerator and pantry were well-stocked. There were dying roses arranged in a jar on the table.

  From the kitchen, they trooped upstairs. There were two bedrooms and a bath, but one of the bedrooms was not in use. It contained only a few more packing crates, this time unopened. The other bedroom looked homey by comparison to the rest of the house. The bed frame was a modest affair of pine, but was well-polished and across it was spread a quilted, silken counterpane. The floor was nearly covered by a large Oriental carpet of exquisite design which Bethancourt, after several minutes’ study, pronounced to be silk. In one corner was the twin of the teakwood chest downstairs and next to it stood an old-fashioned wardrobe. There was an African carving on one wall and, over the bed, a Chinese pen-and-ink.

  “Not much here,” said Gibbons, flipping open the wardrobe. “He hadn’t many clothes, it seems. Half a mo—what’s this?”

  He pulled out what was clearly a woman’s silk shirt and a pair of woolen trousers.

  “That’s very odd,” said Bethancourt, hurrying over. “Yes, and here’s a woman’s jacket. But Mrs. Eberhart was certain that Bingham’s girlfriend was never here.”

  “What girlfriend?” asked Carmichael quickly.

  Bethancourt repeated what he had learned from Mrs. Eberhart. “Obviously she was mistaken,” he ended. “But the woman couldn’t have been here often.”

  “No,” said Carmichael, “but, whoever she was, she clearly meant to come back. And it’s all beginning to come together. If they took so much care to keep it secret that Mrs. Eberhart believed the woman was never here, there must have been a reason. Possibly the lady is married. In any case, if he died at her house, it might have been very inconvenient for him to be found there. Inconvenient enough for her to move him.”

  Bethancourt looked up from the clothes, an inquiring look on his face. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I almost forgot. Exactly why has this been classed as a suspicious death?”

  “Because,” explained Gibbons, getting a nod from Carmichael, “he died at seven P.M. and according to your Mrs. Eberhart, his car didn’t arrive back here until after half nine. Also, the heart attack was induced by a combination of alcohol and a strong sedative. He could have taken that himself, of course, but he could hardly have driven himself home afterward.”

  Bethancourt frowned. “But why on earth should he be taking sedatives if he was about to spend the night with his girlfriend? I should think just the opposite effect would be desired.”

  Carmichael shrugged. “Possibly he mistook them for aspirin. Or he might have had a distressing experience—a car accident, for example—and taken something to calm himself.” He paused and his eyebrows bristled. “Or, of course, he was given the drug deliberately. But at the moment, we just don’t know.”

  Bethancourt nodded, and turned back to the jacket he still held. “I wonder,” he said, “whether Bingham b
ought these for her. If not, it’ll make the search easier.”

  “How so?” asked Gibbons.

  “If she bought them herself, we’re looking for a wealthy woman. These are casual clothes, and they’re very expensive ones. An uppermiddle-class woman may save enough to buy an expensive dress, but only wealthy people spend a lot on casual clothes. These are all designer things from fashionable boutiques.”

  “That’s very helpful, Bethancourt,” said Carmichael. “I wouldn’t have noticed, myself.”

  Bethancourt grinned. “One of the benefits of dating a fashion model.”

  “She’s pretty tall,” added Gibbons, who was holding the trousers up to his own waist. “Only about two or three inches shorter than I am. Say five foot eight.”

  “And relatively slender,” said Carmichael, eyeing the trousers against Gibbons’s bulk.

  “They’re a size ten,” put in Bethancourt helpfully.

  “Well, put them aside, Gibbons, and we’ll have the lab go over them and see if there’s anything else to be learned. We’d best have a look at the bathroom and then start on the desk downstairs.”

  There was nothing of interest in the bathroom. Forensics had already removed all the pills for testing, including three unidentified ones that had been lying loose in one corner of the cabinet.

  The desk in the living room yielded little beyond the usual bills and statements. There were a few letters, one from the dead man’s daughter, two from archaeologists, and two more written in Chinese. None of them had any bearing on the present circumstances; there was the prospect of a new dig, the events of an ongoing one, and it was very pleasant in the Mediterranean that summer. The Chinese correspondence Carmichael took away to have translated.

  “Well, that’s that then,” said Carmichael, grunting as he rose from the desk. “No note of any kind, nor any help on this mysterious woman. Well, I can’t say I expected more. Let’s have a look at the outside.”