Authors: Cassandra Chan

The Young Widow (13 page)

BOOK: The Young Widow

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“Have you ever had a dog?” asked Bethancourt, who could not help but be concerned over the welfare of an animal purchased solely for its annoyance value.

“Not since I came here to live,” answered Miss Wellman. “Geoffrey was allergic, you see. When Gwenda married him, she had a nice little beagle, but she soon had to turn him over to me. There's no reason not to get one now, however. I'd rather like to have a dog again.”

“There's certainly plenty of room on the estate for a big dog to run,” said Bethancourt.

“You'd better be sure he doesn't get into the garden,” warned Kitty. “McAllister would have your head.”

“That's true,” agreed Miss Wellman. “I'd have to watch him.”

“Once he was trained,” said Bethancourt, “it would probably be easy enough to keep him out.”

The conversation turned to the merits of various methods of dog training. They were just discussing the books of Barbara Woodhouse
and the indignity of screeching “walkies!” in a high-pitched voice, when Gibbons and Annette made their appearance.

They came in dripping and grinning rather foolishly like people who know they are a mess, but have given up trying to do anything about it.

“I'm very sorry, Kitty,” began Annette in placating tones, “but weâoh!” This last was in the nature of a shriek and was directed at Cerberus, who had roused himself from leaning against Miss Wellman's side and turned round to view the newcomers.

“It's all right, Annette,” said Miss Wellman sharply. “It's only a dog.”

“Yes, of course,” said Annette weakly.

“He's very gentle,” said Gibbons.

“He won't bother you,” said Bethancourt quickly. “Cerberus, come. Down, lad.”

“Anyway,” said Annette, eyeing the dog, but addressing herself to Kitty, “we stopped to wait out the worst of the storm and I'm afraid it's made us rather late. I am sorry, Kitty.”

“That's all right,” said Kitty. “I'll do the omelets while you change.”

Gibbons, having shed his dripping coat, had sat down in a chair and was stripping off his shoes and socks.

“I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Gibbons,” said Annette. “I'm afraid I don't have anything you could change into.”

“He could have one of Geoffrey's dressing gowns,” said Miss Wellman. There was a hint of malice in her tone and Bethancourt glanced at her sharply.

“Yes, of course,” said Annette, with only the faintest hesitation. “I should have thought of that. Do come up with me, Mr. Gibbons, and I'll show you.”

“Well, perhaps I'd better,” said Gibbons cheerfully. “I'm afraid my trousers are soaked through.”

They started out, but Annette hesitated, and then turned back.
“Kitty,” she said firmly, “Mr. Gibbons will eat with me in the dining room.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Berowne,” answered Kitty, but her eyebrows had risen.

Miss Wellman snorted.

Annette ignored this and turned and led Gibbons out.

Miss Wellman rose. “I'd better be getting back upstairs,” she said. “Good-bye, Mr. Bethancourt.”

Bethancourt nodded and murmured good-bye, but she paused at the door. “Good-bye to you, too, Cerberus,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Yes, I think an Irish wolfhound will be just the thing.”

“Well,” said Bethancourt after she had gone, “I suppose I should go and collect Denis.” He glancing out the window and sighed. “His feet will get soaked and Margaret will kill me.”

“You can drive over, you know,” said Kitty from the stove. “You just take the road to the garage and go round from there.”

Bethancourt brightened. “I hadn't realized that,” he said. “Very well, I'm off to face the elements. Thank you again for the lovely lunch, Kitty.”

“You're welcome.”

“Oh, and I forgot to ask youâwhich pub is it that Paul Berowne's so fond of?”

She smiled at him. “Thinking of getting a drink?” she asked.

“Well, perhaps,” he replied, smiling back. “Not today, because I have to get Denis back, but I was thinking of coming round tomorrow or the day after.”

“Make it the day after,” she said, “and I'll take you. I have Sunday evenings off.”

Bethancourt was a little surprised, but not displeased. “Sunday, then,” he said. He hesitated. “Perhaps I could take you to dinner? I don't know if there's any place here you'd like to go?”

“There's the Brittany,” she said. “I think you'd enjoy that.”

“I'm sure I shall,” answered Bethancourt. “Sunday at eight? I'll see you then. Come, Cerberus.”

Bethancourt was worried. When
he had wondered about Annette Berowne's designs the night before, it had never occurred to him to wonder whether or not Gibbons was succumbing to them. He wondered now. The expression on his friend's face when he had come in from the rain, and the length of time he had spent over lunch spoke of far more than the liking Gibbons had confessed to. The temptation to eavesdrop on the conversation in the dining room had been severe, and Bethancourt privately admitted that only the presence of Kitty had prevented him from giving in.

He lit a cigarette as he guided the Jaguar down the drive, and cast a sidelong glance at Gibbons, who was frowning down at his still-wet shoes.

“I think they're done for,” observed Bethancourt heartlessly.

“Yes,” said Gibbons sadly, struggling to kick the shoes off, “I expect they are.”

“Annette seemed very pleased to see you this morning,” said Bethancourt conversationally.

“Did she? Well, she was eager to time that walk.”

“She kept you a long time over lunch, too,” said Bethancourt. “Did you learn anything interesting?”

“Not really.” Gibbons sighed. “It was just ordinary chitchat. She spoke a bit about Geoffrey, but nothing that helped the case any.”

“I think she likes you.”

Gibbons looked a little startled, as if this was not something he had considered before. “Do you?” he said slowly. “Well, I guess I like her, too.” He reddened as he remembered the moment in the rain when he had wanted to kiss her. Would have, too, had she been anyone but who she was. He cursed his luck again.

Bethancourt had seen the flush, and it worried him more than ever. To his eye, Gibbons appeared to be developing an infatuation for his prime suspect. That he did not seem to realize it only made things worse.

They were silent for a moment. Bethancourt turned out of the gates onto the narrow road, and then suggested diffidently, “You don't suppose she's deliberately trying to make you like her, do you? If she's guilty, I mean.”

Gibbons was surprised. “Good God, no,” he replied sharply. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, I really don't think so. She hasn't been at all forward or anything like that. We just happen to get on together.”

It might, thought Bethancourt, be perfectly true. But he was still uneasy. Gibbons had given the idea less than a minute's thought.

“Wellâ” Bethancourt broke off and stamped on the brake as a rabbit sprang into their path. The short stop threw the back seat into chaos as Cerberus half-slid onto the floor, Denis fell on top of him, and toy soldiers and rubber stamps spread themselves liberally over the carpet. The toy lorry sped under the passenger seat and shot out between Gibbons's feet.

“Everyone all right?” asked Bethancourt.

“Yes, Uncle Phillip,” said Denis, pushing himself off the dog and back onto the seat.

“Here,” said Gibbons, handing him the lorry. “Oh, dearâI'll help you pick them up, Denis.”

“I'd better stop,” said Bethancourt, pulling over.

“No, it's all right,” said Gibbons, who had assumed a sort of contortionist's position and was now wedged firmly between the two front seats. “You can't help anyway unless you want to crouch out in the rain. Here, Denis, I'll hand you the stamps and you put them back in their case. That's right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gibbons.”

“If you're sure, Jack,” said Bethancourt, letting the car idle and
trying to glance into the back, his view of which was effectively blocked by Gibbons's shoulders.

“Oh, yes,” said Gibbons in a muffled voice. “We're managing splendidly.”

Bethancourt acquiesced and eased the car forward gently. He took the next curve slowly, careful not to upset Gibbons's precarious balance, and continued on toward the A-road back to Town. The rain fell steadily, drumming against the car's top, running in tiny rivers where the wipers pushed it to the edges of the windscreen. For once Bethancourt's driving was stable as he mulled over what had been said. The sound of Gibbons and Denis counting toy soldiers came from the back seat.

“There,” said Gibbons at last. “You'd better close the bag now, Denis. Umph.” He grunted as he wriggled his shoulders out from between the seats and twisted around back to a sitting position.

“Travelling with children is exhausting,” he murmured. “I'd better rethink the three kids I was going to have.”

“At least you found out while there was still time,” responded Bethancourt automatically.

Gibbons was silent for a moment. Then he asked in a different tone, “Have you ever thought about having children, Phillip?”

Bethancourt glanced at his friend, jerked out of his own thoughts by the seriousness of the question. “I always thought,” he said dryly, “that I would get married first.”

“Well, yes,” said Gibbons impatiently. “But have you ever thought about whether or not you'd like a family someday?”

Bethancourt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Not really,” he said. “I suppose I assumed I'd have a family at some pointâI mean, nearly everyone does.”

Gibbons sighed. “I haven't really given it much thought myself,” he said. “But â¦ I think I
would
like a family. I mean, I think I'm the sort of person that would be happiest with a family.”

Since Gibbons had previously always viewed himself as the sort
of person who would be happiest if he made chief inspector before thirty-five, Bethancourt was understandably startled.

“What's brought this on?” he asked.

“Oh, I don't know,” said Gibbons vaguely.

Bethancourt thought he knew, but he firmly repressed the urge to say anything. He had already tried to put Gibbons on his guard and failed. Instead, he announced, “I've got a date on Sunday. Kitty's going to take me to the pub where Paul Berowne regularly drowns his sorrows.”

“I knew you fancied her,” replied Gibbons genially.

“Not at all,” said Bethancourt. “This is strictly detective work. Have you got a date?”

“A date?” Gibbons looked confused.

“To try your walk again,” explained Bethancourt.

“Oh! I said I'd ring and perhaps we could try tomorrow, weather permitting. I've got to check with Carmichael first, anyway, and see how he wants to schedule it in. What sorrows in particular does Paul Berowne want to drown?”

“He has an unhappy marriage,” said Bethancourt. “Kitty's going to find out all about it from her aunt.”

“I don't see how that gives him a motive for murdering his father,” said Gibbons.

“Well, noâ”

“Uncle Phillip,” Denis interrupted from the back, “Edwin and I made a tape of our playing. Can we listen to it, please?”

“Er,” said Bethancourt, momentarily caught off guard. “Of course, Denis,” he added, recovering. “Mr. Gibbons and I would love it. Plug it in, Jack.”

Gibbons raised his eyebrows, but obliged and in a moment the tinny sound of two little boys thumping away at a piano emerged. What, exactly, they were playing could not be determined.

“Splendid, Denis,” said Bethancourt heartily.

“Turn it up, Uncle Phillipâthe good part's coming.”

Bethancourt shot an apologetic look at Gibbons and twisted the volume control resignedly.

“I meant to mention the tape recorder in the schoolroom,” he shouted to his friend.

“What you should have done,” muttered Gibbons, “was confiscate all the cassettes.”

“Sports clothes,” snarled
Marla.
“Ralph Lauren.
Polo
, for God's sake.”

Bethancourt smiled at the telephone. “When's the shoot?” he asked.

BOOK: The Young Widow

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