Authors: Cassandra Chan
The Young Widow (11 page)
“Then I will try to get the car out of the hedge.”
This he proceeded to do with some dexterity, and the rest of the trip was relatively quiet, marred only by a threat of car sickness just as they were arriving at their destination.
Kitty Whitcomb was considerably surprised, upon responding to a knock on the kitchen door, to find the step filled with a man she barely knew, an exceptionally large dog, and a small boy.
“Hello,” said Bethancourt brightly. “Remember me?”
“Phillip Bethancourt,” she answered readily. She let her eye rove over the rest of the assemblage. “I know you said there might be more questions, but I must say this is the most bizarre interview technique I've ever heard of.”
“This is my nephew, Denis Sinclair-Firthing,” said Bethancourt. “Denis, Miss Whitcomb.”
“How do you do?” responded Denis politely.
“Very well, thank you,” said Kitty solemnly, shaking hands.
“And this is Cerberus.”
Kitty stretched out a hand, which must have smelled interesting, because Cerberus promptly licked it. Kitty smiled.
“Well,” she said, “come on in then.”
“Denis,” said Bethancourt, leading the way. “I think it might be permissible for you to play with your lorry on the table here.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow at Kitty.
“Certainly,” she said. “Are Chief Inspector Carmichael and Sergeant Gibbons with you?” she asked while he settled the boy at the table.
“Sergeant Gibbons is with Mrs. Berowne,” he replied.
She nodded. “We're having lunch at one-fifteen today,” she said pointedly.
“Splendid,” said Bethancourt, beaming at her. “I haven't forgotten how wonderful your cooking is.”
She smiled back. “I've just made some coffee,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Bethancourt, who felt that he needed something after the events of the morning.
“And how about you, Denis?” she asked. “Do you like hot chocolate?”
Denis's eyes got very round. “Oh, yes, please,” he said.
“All right, then.”
She poured Bethancourt's coffee, which he sipped gratefully while he watched her prepare the hot chocolate. She had abandoned the yellow unitard today for a pair of black leggings and an oversized shirt with the sleeves rolled above the elbows; it was curiously alluring.
“So what's the big question today?” she asked, turning and leaning back against the counter while she waited for the milk to heat.
“I don't have one,” said Bethancourt rather regretfully. “Just a lot of little ones. The Paul Berownes, for instance. It struck me as odd that he didn't tell his wife he was still here that morning.”
Kitty's eyes drifted to Denis, who was happily pushing his lorry across the vast expanse of the table. “I see,” she said.
“Not at all,” replied Bethancourt. “It's just a coincidence, possibly a fortunate one, but a coincidence nonetheless.”
Kitty merely raised her eyebrows; she did not believe him. “I don't think their marriage is a very happy one,” she answered. “They almost got divorced a while back, before I came here, or so my aunt told me. I don't know why they didn't.”
“Your aunt worked here before you, didn't she?”
“That's right. She recommended me for the job when she retired and I was glad to take it. I love cooking, but restaurant work was wearing me out.”
Bethancourt sipped his coffee contemplatively. “I'd like to meet your aunt sometime,” he said.
“That's easy enough. She lives in the village here.” Kitty turned back to the milk, pouring it into a mug and mixing it up with the chocolate and sugar.
“To return to the Paul Berownes,” said Bethancourt. “How do they get through the evenings if they're so unhappy? Does he stay late at the office, or lock himself in his study? Or come over here? Denis, say thank you.”
“Thank you, Miss Whitcomb,” said Denis, clutching the mug eagerly. “Thanks awfully.”
“You're welcome,” she said, smiling at him. “I put in extra sugar.”
“It's awfully good,” he said. “Much better than Mrs. Clancy's.”
“I'm very flattered.” She sank into the chair beside Bethancourt, drawing her legs up onto the seat. “Mr. Paul does all those things,” she said. “Plus he spends a good deal of time at the pub.”
“Is he over here very often?”
“Not on his own,” she replied. “Only once every week or two, he comes and spends the evening with Miss Wellman. Sunday, of course, was family dinner day, and they all came over then.”
“I see,” said Bethancourt. “He only came to visit his aunt. That doesn't sound like he was particularly close to his father.”
“No,” said Kitty slowly, “he wasn't. I believe they were closer before Mr. Berowne's marriage, though.”
“You didn't see much of Paul yourself, then?”
“No.” She caught his meaning and grinned impudently at him. “No,” she repeated. “I wasn't having an affair with him. Not my type.”
Bethancourt grinned back. “Would you tell me if you were?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Probably. I wouldn't shield a murderer, no matter who it was.”
“I believe you,” said Bethancourt. “You don't know if he was having an affair with anyone else?”
“Not that I've heard. And I truly don't think he isâunless it's someone down at the pub and that's not likely. He spends too much time here in Peaslake to be seeing anyone in London.”
“I see. So if Mr. Paul drowns his marital woes at the pub, what does his wife do?”
Kitty shrugged. “She takes care of Edwin, mostly.”
“And in the evenings, when Edwin's in bed?”
“Well, she can't leave the child alone,” said Kitty practically. “I don't really know how she spends her timeâit's not like I'm in the house with her.”
“I'm going to play with my stamps now,” announced Denis.
“Stamps?” said Bethancourt curiously.
Denis nodded. He dove into his canvas bag and produced a pad of cheap writing paper, an ink pad, and a plastic case containing two dozen small, square rubber stamps. These he dumped unceremoniously onto the table, stirring them around a bit until he found the one he wanted. He dabbed it on the ink pad and then pressed it carefully on the paper while Bethancourt watched, fascinated.
“It's a fish,” he said.
“I'm going to make a row of them,” announced Denis, and proceeded to do so.
“I never had anything like that when I was a kid,” said Bethancourt.
Kitty laughed at him. “Haven't you ever seen them before?” she asked.
Bethancourt shook his head. He was picking up the stamps one
by one and examining the pictures carved on them. “These are great,” he said.
by one and examining the pictures carved on them. “These are great,” he said.
“For all ages, apparently,” said Kitty dryly.
“I'm sorry,” said Bethancourt, abandoning the stamps. “Where were we?”
“The Paul Berownes,” she answered.
“Oh. Well, I can't think of any more questions about them,” said Bethancourt. “Let's go on to someone else. How about Maddie? We all know how little she likes Annette. So what does she do with her time?”
Kitty smiled. “Oh, Maddie keeps herself busy. There's the Women's Institute and the church, and she has quite a coterie of friends. At least once a week, she's out to dinner or lunch. And she likes the telly. If she hasn't any plans, she's usually in her sitting room after dinner watching a program.”
“She sounds awfully active for a woman with crippling arthritis,” said Bethancourt.
“It's not
crippling,
” corrected Kitty. “It just makes her move slowly. And I guess it can be pretty painful sometimes. She has good days and bad daysâshe always came down to meals when Mr. Berowne was alive, but if her arthritis was acting up, she'd spend the rest of the day in her room, reading or watching the telly.”
crippling,
” corrected Kitty. “It just makes her move slowly. And I guess it can be pretty painful sometimes. She has good days and bad daysâshe always came down to meals when Mr. Berowne was alive, but if her arthritis was acting up, she'd spend the rest of the day in her room, reading or watching the telly.”
Bethancourt's answer was interrupted by a sharp buzz from the intercom on the wall.
“Speak of the devilâthat must be Maddie now,” Kitty said, rising to answer it. “Hello? Maddie?”
“Could you come and get Edwin, dear?” The voice from the box was tinny, but Bethancourt thought he detected a note of exhaustion in it. “I'm afraid I'm done in.”
“Of course,” answered Kitty. “I'll be right up.” She turned to Bethancourt. “I'll be back. Maddie's baby-sitting, but her arthritis is bad today and I told her I'd take over if it got to be too much. Help yourself to more coffee if you like.”
She trotted out and as soon as the sound of her steps had faded, Bethancourt rose and went to the door of her sitting room. It was quite large and once, in the grand old days, would have been the servants' hall. Now it was sparsely but comfortably furnished with a couple of armchairs, a large bookcase filled mostly with cookbooks, and a desk with a large diary lying open beside a laptop computer. At the farther end was a stationary bicycle and an assortment of weights, as well as a television set up so that it could be watched from the bicycle. There was another door in the right-hand wall, probably once the housekeeper's office, but now, Bethancourt was willing to bet, fitted out as Kitty's bedroom.
“Uncle Phillip?”
Bethancourt swung round, startled in spite of himself. “Yes, Denis?”
“What are you doing?”
Bethancourt reflected on the merits of explaining how an invasion of privacy was sometimes justified, and decided against it. “Just looking around,” he answered. “It's a funny old house, isn't it? Let's go back and look at those stamps of yours. How are the fish coming?”
“I've finished with them,” said Denis. “I'm doing clowns now.”
Kitty, returning with Edwin Berowne in tow, found uncle and nephew quietly creating modern art at the table.
“Edwin,” she said, “this is Denis Sinclair-Firthing.”
The two boys assessed each other silently.
“Say how do you do, Denis,” prompted Bethancourt. “Edwin here is your host.”
“Hello,” said Denis. “Do you want to see my stamps?”
“All right,” said Edwin politely.
The stamps, however, were soon eclipsed by the toy lorry. From the capacious canvas bag, a small race car was produced and there was soon some kind of race going on beneath the table. Cerberus, much-tried, moved with dignity to a spot by the door.
“Well, where were we?” asked Kitty, sitting down.
“Maddie,” answered Bethancourt. “How was her arthritis the day of the murder?”
Kitty frowned, thinking back. “I don't know,” she said. “She didn't complain about it, so I expect it wasn't one of her bad days.”
“Had she any plans to go out that day, do you know?”
“It was Wednesday, so she'd have the Women's Institute that night. I don't know of anything else, but she wouldn't necessarily have told me unless she was going to miss a meal. She wasn't dressed for anything when I went up to tell her about Mr. Berowne.”
“Kitty,” interrupted Edwin from the floor, where the race seemed to have come to its conclusion. “Can I show Denis the piano? He says he can play, too.”
“All right,” agreed Kitty. “But don't make a mess in there. And, Denis, put those cars and the stamps away before you go.”
Denis complied with this command with some help from his uncle, and then trailed out after his new friend with the canvas bag over his shoulder.
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.”
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