The Young Widow Read online

  “But did the marriage seem to you to be a happy one?”

  She paused, thinking this over. “I suppose it did,” she said. “Certainly Geoffrey seemed happy with her.”

  “And she with him?”

  “Well, I never thought, really. Now I can see that obviously she wasn’t, but at the time … Yes, I guess she seemed happy enough.”

  “Were you surprised to hear Mrs. Berowne had decided to walk to the village that morning?” asked Carmichael.

  Marion gave a short laugh. “Stunned is more like it. Annette never did anything that energetic. We stopped having picnics down by the lake because she never wanted to walk so far. But of course she could never have accounted for her time that morning if she’d driven.”

  “I see,” said Carmichael. “Thank you for being so frank, Mrs. Berowne. There are just a few other questions. Had you been in Mr. Berowne’s study in, say, the week before his death?”

  “I’m not sure,” She frowned thoughtfully. “I might have been—it was an easy place to catch him if you wanted to see him without Annette. I think I took Edwin over to tea with Aunt Maddie the day before, but Geoffrey wouldn’t have been in his study then.” She paused and then shook her head. “I seem to think I did pop in on Geoffrey one morning, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Can you remember if there were flowers on the mantelpiece when you were there?”

  “Flowers?” She looked startled. “I suppose there might have been. If I noticed at the time, I don’t remember now.”

  “You never brought any flowers in yourself?”

  “Well, I may have done at some time, but not recently. May I ask why?”

  Carmichael smiled. “Just a loose end,” he said. “I think that’s all for now. We appreciate your help very much.”

  “Certainly, Chief Inspector. I—oh, dear, I think that’s Edwin waking up. Can you let yourselves out? Thank you so much.”

  The church was an uninspired example of late Perpendicular with a modern and rather garish stained-glass window. Reverend Oakley waved a hand at it with pride.

  “That was Geoffrey’s Berowne’s doing,” he said. “The original went in the war, and we just had plain glass until Geoffrey offered to donate the money for a new window.” He gazed at it happily. “It came out rather well, don’t you think?”

  “Splendid,” said Carmichael heartily, and even Gibbons, who knew him well, could not detect whether or not he was dissembling. “As you may know, Reverend, any murder investigation starts with the victim. We’ve come to you hoping you could give us some insight.”

  Reverend Oakley nodded thoughtfully and motioned them to sit in the pews. He was a short, stout man with what little hair he had left clipped short and rather shrewd eyes.

  “He was a good man,” he said. “A little old-fashioned in these times, but who of his age isn’t? He wasn’t sensitive, but he was generous and tried to be kind. I’m not sure what else to say. He’ll be sorely missed.”

  “We’ve been told that he was deeply religious,” said Carmichael.

  “Oh, yes.” Oakley nodded agreement. “Faith had taken a strong hold of him in his youth—he apparently considered becoming a minister, or so he once told me, but of course his father expected him to take over the family business.”

  “Would he have made a good minister in your opinion?”

  Oakley hesitated, his eyes narrowed in thought. “No,” he answered at last. “As I said, he was not a sensitive man and I believe a certain amount of sensitivity is necessary in my job. He had very strong views on right and wrong and was not apt to be very sympathetic to transgressors. He could be rather intolerant. But I feel I am giving you a wrong impression of him. He was, I think, a happy man for the most part, and he was certainly successful. People in his position don’t often become introspective and there’s no reason why they should.”

  “We’ve also been told he had a temper,” prompted Carmichael.

  “A temper?” Oakley smiled. “More a bit of bluster when anything upset him, I should say. He always calmed down quickly, though he wasn’t good at admitting he was in the wrong even when that was true. But then, I don’t know many people who are.”

  “No,” agreed Carmichael. “Chagrin and atonement don’t usually go hand in hand. Had he been worried lately, do you know?”

  “Nothing that he mentioned to me,” answered Oakley. He paused and then added, “He did say sometime back that he was concerned over Paul’s handling of the company, but that was several months ago. He was planning a lengthy vacation with Mrs. Berowne at the time, and was worried how Paul would do without him.”

  “But he took the vacation anyway?”

  “Yes. I certainly recommended that he do so, and I believe Mrs. Berowne was quite eager for the trip. He liked to please her.”

  “You seem a shrewd judge of character, Reverend,” said Carmichael. “What do you think of Mrs. Berowne?”

  Oakley smiled. “I’ve heard the rumours, of course,” he replied. “My own wife thinks Annette killed Geoffrey. But I can’t say I agree. I thought Annette was very fond of her husband and she certainly seemed grief-stricken after his death. Annette has always struck me as being just a little unsure of herself and I think being Geoffrey’s wife compensated for that.”

  “Unsure?” Carmichael raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think I would have described her that way, Reverend.”

  “Oh, not outwardly,” replied Oakley. “All I’m saying is that I think her outward self-confidence stemmed from being Mrs. Geoffrey Berowne.”

  “But she’s still Mrs. Geoffrey Berowne,” said Carmichael.

  “Well, yes. But it’s not the same.”

  “No,” agreed Carmichael. “Not the same at all.”

  Fatima Sathay had gotten a job as a receptionist in a local hair salon. She was a doe-eyed Indian girl with a shy smile, very earnest, but nonetheless rather enjoying her role as chief witness. Carmichael was relieved to be interviewing her at work and not in the presence of her parents, whom Commander Andrews had described as “guardian dragons.”

  “I got to the house at nine that morning,” she said, “and went up and made the beds just like always. Then I helped Kitty clear away the breakfast things since Mrs. Simmons was over at Little House. She’d asked me to do the silver, so I brought it all down to the kitchen and got started, thinking I’d do the dusting later.”

  “And you were still there when Miss Whitcomb took up the coffee tray?” asked Carmichael.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you see her make it up?”

  Fatima shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I was mostly looking at the silver. I saw her out of the corner of my eye so to speak, but I couldn’t swear that she didn’t put anything in it.”

  “No, naturally not,” said Carmichael, although he knew that in fact no poison had been found in the pot, only in the cup. Since they now knew the poison had come from the vase in the study, that went far in ruling Kitty Whitcomb out. She could only have poisoned Berowne if she had reentered the study after seeing Annette leave the house.

  “What I’m interested in,” continued Carmichael, “is how long Miss Whitcomb was gone. You told Commander Andrews it was less than five minutes.”

  “That’s right,” said Fatima, nodding seriously. “I didn’t actually notice the time when she went up, but it must have been eleven because that’s when Mr. Berowne always had his coffee. And when she came back, Kitty said we deserved some elevenses, too, and we both sat down with a cuppa. I looked at the clock then, so I’d know how long a break I took, and it was just five minutes past.”

  “And Miss Whitcomb never left the kitchen again, until she went up to fetch the tray?”

  “She didn’t, sir. She’d have had to walk right past me, and I couldn’t have helped but notice.”

  “That’s very good, Miss Sathay,” said Carmichael, smiling. “Now I’d just like to have your impressions of the household. Did everyone seem to get on together?”

 
“Well, I suppose so,” she answered. “I didn’t really see very much of them, except for Mrs. Simmons and Kitty. Sometimes I’d overhear people talking while I was cleaning, but I never heard any fights. Miss Wellman was a bit sharp with everyone and I don’t think she liked Mrs. Berowne much, but I never heard them arguing.”

  “How about Mr. and Mrs. Berowne?”

  “They seemed very fond of each other, sir, for all he’s so much older than her. But she didn’t seem to mind that. I heard them once,” she added, lowering her voice, “when I was in the hall outside their bedroom. It was right in the middle of the afternoon!”

  “Is that so?” Carmichael hid a smile at her indignation. Clearly in her seventeen-year-old mind older married people should reserve sex for the nighttime hours. He thanked her and took his leave.

  “That pretty well knocks Kitty Whitcomb out of it, don’t you think?” asked Gibbons outside.

  “Almost certainly,” Carmichael agreed. “It’s still barely possible that she went back into the study and contrived to pour Berowne a cup of coffee, but I can’t see how she would have managed it in the time. She couldn’t just march in, pour the coffee, and leave; she’d have to at least speak to him briefly.” He sighed. “But of course, Surrey CID never really suspected any of the servants. Andrews and Gorringe are convinced it’s one of the family.”

  Gibbons loosened his tie and took a long, grateful draught of single malt scotch, savouring the smoky aroma the Isle of Isla is so deservedly famous for. He relaxed with a sigh into an overstuffed armchair, propping his feet on one of the five coffee tables in Bethancourt’s drawing room. Bethancourt was a wealthy young man, but with eccentric tastes. He was very fond of coffee tables.

  The room itself was spacious, with the graceful proportions of a bygone era. The wide windows with their elegant moldings were hung with heavy gold drapes, only a shade different from the gold Aubusson carpet. Both these items had been chosen by Bethancourt’s mother, a woman with excellent taste. Bethancourt himself had supplied the rest of the furnishings, which were also excellent individually, but which hardly created a cohesive whole. The five coffee tables were all of differing styles, while the Chesterfield sofa and the four luxurious armchairs were each upholstered in a different pattern. Still, it was a very comfortable room and its owner was very fond of it.

  Bethancourt, who had showered and changed, now lounged on the sofa, looking clean and refreshed and sipping his own drink. Cerberus was stretched out underneath his legs, and man and dog looked as if they thought all was right in the world. Gibbons shifted slightly in his chair and set his glass down on a coffee table.

  “We made a good start today,” said Gibbons, trying to sound optimistic and partly succeeding.

  Bethancourt nodded. “We’re beginning to get a picture of life at Hurtwood Hall,” he agreed.

  “A rather contradictory one,” said Gibbons. “Everyone loathes Mrs. Berowne and resented Geoffrey for marrying her, and yet the Reverend Oakley claimed Berowne was a happy man.”

  “He probably was.” Bethancourt swirled the dark amber liquid in his glass. “It’s like a simmering kettle from which the lid has been removed. Geoffrey Berowne was the lid on his family. He wasn’t a sensitive man and probably didn’t realize what was boiling away underneath.”

  “I don’t see how you make that out,” said Gibbons, reaching for his glass.

  “Don’t you? Berowne married Annette four years ago and I’ve no doubt that there was quite a ruckus about it at the time. I also don’t doubt that Berowne put his foot down pretty sharply and thereafter everyone walked softly around him and did their best not to give Annette any ammunition to carry to him. Even Maddie Wellman with her sharp tongue would have sense enough to see that if she continued to protest too much it would be she and not Annette that Berowne would see as the cause of the strife, and she’d be out on her ear. Berowne probably believed everything had settled down beautifully.”

  “Carmichael thinks Maddie was lying about there not being any differences other than business ones between Geoffrey and Paul,” said Gibbons.

  “That’s interesting,” said Bethancourt. “Paul’s behavior is highly suspicious, after all. His car dies on him and instead of hopping into one of the four other working vehicles on the estate, he decides to forget about work and spend the morning wandering about the grounds communing with nature.”

  “We’re going to see him tomorrow at his offices here,” said Gibbons. “And after that I’ve got an appointment to go down and speak with Dr. Bryan Warren in Kent tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Who is Dr. Warren?”

  “It’s that rumor about Mrs. Berowne having killed her previous husband,” explained Gibbons. “Dr. Warren was William Burton’s personal physician and signed the death certificate. Carmichael talked to the Kent CID when we got back and there was never any kind of investigation into the death of William Burton. He was seventy-two, had been ill for several years, and died of a heart attack.”

  Bethancourt nodded and reached for his cigarette case. “I’d be more interested to know,” he said, “where the rumor started in the first place.” He flicked his lighter open, inclining his head to light the cigarette, and then leaned back again, settling his shoulders comfortably against the sofa back. “I mean,” he continued, “we have garnered ample evidence today that Annette Berowne possesses the knack of rubbing other women up the wrong way in abundance. Was this just a case of all the old gossips in the village spontaneously saying, ‘Mr. Burton’s dead. That horrid wife of his must have killed him. She only married him for his money, you know.’ Or did someone actually tell someone else something?”

  “I see your point,” said Gibbons. “But those things are the very devil to winkle out.”

  “Well, I can’t see what you think you’re going winkle out of the doctor,” retorted Bethancourt. “He’s going to tell you that there’s not the slightest possible doubt Burton died of natural causes. If there had been, he’d at least have done a postmortem. Even if he’s wrong and she pumped Burton full of lilies of the valley day in and day out, he’s not going to admit it now.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Gibbons. “But he might, for instance, tell me that the widow was devastated by the idea of an autopsy”

  “I suppose so,” said Bethancourt unwillingly. His principle interest in Gibbons’s cases was the characters of the people involved; things like medical evidence were always by-the-way for him.

  There was silence for a moment while Bethancourt smoked thoughtfully and Gibbons drank off half his whisky. “That leaves our prime suspect,” he said, frowning at his glass thoughtfully. “What did you think of her, Phillip?”

  “Annette Berowne?” Bethancourt wore a contemplative air. “Do you know, I find it very difficult to draw any definite conclusions about her. She’s a very suspicious person.”

  “Good Lord, Phillip, we all know she’s a suspect,” said Gibbons, exasperated.

  “Oh, I don’t mean in that sense,” replied his friend. “Look at her as if she weren’t a suspect. I often do that with people, and while it doesn’t tell me whether they’re murderers or not, I usually do get an idea of what they’re about, so to speak. But where does it lead us in the case of the enigmatic Mrs. Berowne? Either she married Berowne for his money and got her kicks from sowing dissent among the familial ranks, or else she married him for love, or at least for emotional security, and is simply frightfully clumsy at handling people.”

  “But somehow neither description seems to me to fit her,” said Gibbons with a sigh. “I went down there with, I thought, a pretty open mind, but she wasn’t any of the things I thought she might be.”

  Bethancourt cocked his head to one side. “And now?” he asked.

  Gibbons spread his hands. “She seems a very unlikely murderer on the face of it.” He did not confess the wholly inappropriate desire to protect her that had come over him; he was rather embarrassed about it.

  “You were attracted to her.” Bethan
court grinned.

  Gibbons smiled back at him. “I suppose I was. Certainly she’s very attractive, but she’s hardly the first good-looking woman I’ve had to deal with in a case.”

  “No,” said Bethancourt slowly. He drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “But Annette Berowne is different. Half her charm comes from the fact that she seems unaware of it. And what makes it all so dangerous is that, unlike other women, her manner suggests she’s as attracted to you as you are to her.”

  “You can’t think she was flirting with me,” said Gibbons, appalled.

  “Not at all. I meant ‘you’ in the general sense, not the particular. Look at the effect she had on poor old Carmichael.”

  “Carmichael?” asked Gibbons, surprised. “He’s not usually very susceptible.”

  “He was this time. You should have seen him while you were off getting the evidence bags.”

  Gibbons was smiling. “I never would have guessed,” he said. He finished off his drink. “Well, attractive or not, there’s got to be some way to prove Annette Berowne innocent or guilty. Why do you think she goes in for older men?”

  Bethancourt shrugged. “Any number of reasons,” he replied. “Left fatherless as a child, or perhaps abused. The Reverend Oakley said she was insecure, and older men are usually better established than ones her own age.”

  “True,” agreed Gibbons. “And it’s not just older men, it’s rich older men.”

  “Just so. Of course, if she really is the human equivalent of a black widow spider, the reason for the wealthy part is obvious.”

  The chime of the doorbell and Cerberus’s sharp bark in response interrupted their conversation.