Cynthia Manson (ed) (38 page)

“Not an easy time?” asked
Bethancourt cautiously, hoping this was not a reference to childbirth. “But I
understood she was in easy circumstances, and her family seems to be very close.”

“They are now,” said Mrs. Tyzack
with emphasis. “But it was a long time coming, I can tell you. It was her
husband, you see. Very strict he was, with a nasty temper,
and
an awful snob. I’m afraid they didn’t get on very well, though she never
complained except to say once she’d been married too young. I know you won’t
believe this, but when the third child died—just a baby, it was, and born
before its time, too—and Mrs. Connelly said to him how sorry she was, he said
it didn’t matter much, it had only been another girl, anyhow.”

“That,” said Bethancourt with
distaste, “is unpardonable.”

“Just so,” said Mrs. Tyzack,
nodding. “Although he changed his mind in the end, when he found out what a
bother boys can be. Louisa had two boys in a row after that, but it was the
last child, Cathy, who was always his favorite. Not that he didn’t end by
alienating her, just as he had all the rest.”

“He didn’t get on with his children,
then?”

“Far from it,” said Mrs. Tyzack. “Everything
was more or less fine when they were little, but when they began to grow up!
Well, there were fireworks. He positively tormented the oldest boy, David.
Nothing the child did was good enough. He’s been a sore trial to his mother
over the years, and it’s my belief that it was all his father’s doing. He
wouldn’t let the boy marry the girl he wanted to—threatened to cut him off
without a penny if he went ahead with the wedding. Didn’t think she was good
enough for his son, although she was a decent, well-brought-up girl even if she
wasn’t no more than the baker’s daughter. He forced David to join the navy,
though he didn’t want to and didn’t stick it for very long. He tried to make
his second son, Michael, join too, but Michael always had more spirit than
David and he flat refused. Ran off to America, he did. But poor David was so
muddled, he didn’t know what to do. He was very devoted to little Cathy, too,
and it’s my belief he stuck it out so’s not to be separated from her.”

“He must have been sad when she
married and moved to Australia,” said Bethancourt, pouring more tea for them
both.

“Why, thank you, dear, that’s kind
of you. David wasn’t just sad when she went, he nearly went out of his mind. He
accused his father of driving her away, which was true enough. I’m not saying
she doesn’t have a happy marriage, because to the best of my knowledge she
does, but she told her mother at the time that she was going to get away from
her father. And then she slipped off one night, without him knowing. And they
weren’t married until they got to Melbourne. Mr. Bainbridge had old fashioned
ideas about that sort of thing, and he refused ever to speak to her or have her
in his house again. He said he would disinherit David for accusing him of
driving her away, but he never did. I expect it was because David was the only
one left, really. The two older girls were married and didn’t come home much,
and if they wrote, it was to their mother. Michael was off in America, and
Cathy in Australia. Anyway, they had a lot of trouble with David from then on.
He started drinking too much and lost a couple of jobs because of it. Was taken
up for being drunk and disorderly, and for fighting once, too. It went on for
years. Then all at once he ran off—no news of him at all for more than a
year—and when he turned up again, he was sober, hardly drinking at all, and had
married a French girl. Mr. Bainbridge didn’t take to that much, but there wasn’t
a thing he could do. David’s wife was already pregnant, and once the baby was
born, David never looked back. He dotes on that child to this day, and so did
his father.”

“That’s a very interesting history,”
said Bethancourt. “When did Mr. Bainbridge die?”

“Oh, about ten years back. And
things have been fine ever since. All the children come to visit their mother
now, and she is so pleased to see them. They’ll be here for Christmas—all
except for Michael and Cathy—and all the grandchildren, too. That’s why it’s
such a pity their nice time has to be ruined by this dreadful body.”

“It is indeed,” agreed Bethancourt. “Do
your children come to you, too?”

“No, no. I go up to Ken’s home in
Bristol, ever since they had the baby.”

Mrs. Tyzack chatted on about her
grandchild for a few minutes, and then Bethancourt excused himself, saying he
had better get back to the police.

Bethancourt found Scotland Yard back
at the pub, having a well-deserved pint before proceeding to Mrs. Bainbridge’s.

“I want to get that in before supper,”
said Carmichael, “because most of the old lady’s family hasn’t been here since
August and if we can get their movements over that weekend clear, we may be
able to eliminate the whole lot.”

But the interview with Mrs.
Bainbridge and her daughter, Clarissa North, was uncomfortable and
unprofitable. Both women were alarmed, despite Carmichael’s reassurances, at
having their family’s movements investigated, nor could they remember very
accurately what had occurred. Gibbons took notes furiously, occasionally
getting muddled among the different names and relationships. It seemed, once
they had at last finished, that it would have been virtually impossible for
anyone to sneak a body up to the attic at any time except at night when
everyone was asleep. At night, it was perfectly possible since everyone had
slept on the second floor, with the exception of the French boy, who had slept
in a little room off the kitchen. Unfortunately, both Mrs. Bainbridge and her
daughter were early risers and could shed no light on how late the others might
have stayed up on any given night. They suggested that Maureen Bainbridge or
her cousin Daniel North might know better.

“And night is about the only time
any of them could have committed the murder,” said Gibbons afterward in the
pub, with his notes strewn about him. “None of them seems to have been alone
for any appreciable time over the entire weekend. Although,” he added
apologetically, “it was awfully hard to keep track.”

“I can see that it was,” said
Carmichael. “I’ve a large family myself, but at least they don’t all mill about
together over weekends, killing people. Well, never mind. We’ll just have to
interview the family members to see if their accounts tally with what we’ve got
here.”

“It
would
be useful to
know at what time people were getting to bed,” said Bethancourt. “If Mrs.
Bainbridge and Mrs. North were rising between seven and eight every morning,
and the younger members of the family were going to bed at four in the morning,
well, it doesn’t leave much time.”

“On the other hand,” put in Gibbons,
“if they were going to bed virtuously before midnight, eight hours is plenty of
time for any killer.”

“It’ll have to be checked into,” sighed
Carmichael. “And may have no bearing on the case at all, once we find out who
the dead man was. Well, I’m for bed and start again tomorrow.”

“Wake up, Phillip.”

Bethancourt opened a bleary eye and
reached for his glasses. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past eight,” replied
Gibbons.

Bethancourt groaned and sat up
slowly. “Why don’t you start without me?”

“I couldn’t possibly. You’re driving
me to Brighton. Here.” Gibbons picked up the dressing gown from the foot of the
bed and threw it at his friend. “Mrs. Tyzack is bringing up early tea—you’d
better put something on.” He grinned. “I gathered you’d told her to give
breakfast a miss.”

“Yes, I did,” said Bethancourt, flinging
on his robe. “I loathe food first thing in the morning. Good morning, Cerberus.”

Cerberus thumped his tail on the
carpet, and Gibbons knelt to rub his chest.

“I am going to brush my teeth,” announced
Bethancourt. “When I return, I hope you will have devised a suitable
explanation for your ill-considered phrase, ‘driving to Brighton.’ “

Bethancourt took some time in the
bathroom, and the tea had arrived by the time he emerged. He took the cup
Gibbons poured for him and sipped cautiously at it. “Now then, Jack,” he said.

“We are going to Brighton because we’ve
had word that David Bainbridge has returned from France and I’ve been told to
see him.”

“When you put it like that,” said
Bethancourt, “it seems more reasonable. I don’t suppose it’s more than a couple
of hours anyway.”

“That’s right,” said Gibbons. “I
will even volunteer to drive there, if you will drive back. Now, do put on your
clothes, there’s a good chap.”

They arrived at the offices of David
Bainbridge’s import-export business shortly before lunchtime and were shown
into his office by a youthful, if severe, secretary. Bainbridge himself was a
sober-faced man with dark circles beneath his eyes, dressed conservatively in a
blue suit and unobtrusive tie. He greeted them quietly and offered them seats
and coffee.

“My wife told me the news last night,”
he said. “It’s an appalling thing for my mother.”

“It is indeed,” agreed Gibbons, “but
she seems to be bearing up well. Your sister, Mrs. North, is with her.”

“That’s good,” he said. “One can
always count on Clarissa. Well, how may I help you gentlemen?”

“First of all, Mr. Bainbridge, we’d
like to know of any visit you’ve made to your mother’s house since August.”

Bainbridge grimaced. “Only one,” he
answered. “I usually go up more frequently, but various business emergencies
have prevented me this fall. In fact, I planned to be there a week ago, to help
with Christmas things, but just when I was ready to go, I got another call from
France.” He sighed. “Well, let me see. I was there for the Bank Holiday in
August, and then again about a month later.”

“Were your family with you in
September?”

“No. No, I was alone that weekend.”

“Did you go up to the third floor or
attic on either of those occasions?”

“Oh, I see,” said Bainbridge. “No, I’m
afraid I didn’t. I can’t remember the last time I was up there, in fact.”

“That’s all right, sir, no one else
can either. Now, if you’d be so good as to go over with us how you spent the
holiday weekend.”

Bainbridge looked startled. “The
holiday weekend?” he repeated. “Was that when—”

“We’re not certain, sir,” replied
Gibbons implacably, “but it is a possibility at this time.”

Bainbridge’s account of the weekend
did not measurably differ from his mother’s.

“One last thing,” said Gibbons when
he had done, “we’d appreciate it if you could give us Renaud Fibrier’s address.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,
sergeant. I don’t know it.”

“Well then, the name and address of
your partner.”

“That I can give you, but I’m afraid
he’ll be no help. You see, Renaud and his family are estranged.”

Gibbons was surprised. “And yet you
took him to your family reunion?” he said.

“Oh, yes. I can explain that. You
see, Renaud is his father’s eldest son, but I’m afraid they’ve never got on
very well together. I’ve always found the boy most charming myself. Very polite
and so on. Anyway, about a year or more ago, Renaud got himself into some
scrape or another, and his father absolutely refused to help him again. Renaud
ran off and ceased to communicate with his family at all. His father was very
upset. Then last August I was in London and happened to run into him. It wasn’t
the most congenial meeting—he wasn’t disposed to trust me at first, even though
I had some sympathy for him.” Bainbridge smiled. “I had some differences with
my own father in my youth, so I wasn’t prepared to lay quite
all
the blame at Renaud’s door. At any rate, I managed to make sure he was all
right for money and to get his phone number, although he wouldn’t tell me where
he was staying. I called his father, and it was he who suggested I invite
Renaud to our family gathering. He hoped, I suppose, that seeing how happily my
own situation had turned out would influence Renaud. But I’m afraid it didn’t.”

“It was not a success?”

Bainbridge sighed and rubbed his
chin. “No.” he answered. “Family life bored Renaud. He was very pleasant, but
he insisted on taking the first train on Monday morning, even though I had
understood that he would stay until Tuesday. I had to get up to drive him, at
some inconvenience to myself—no one else was even up yet. Still, I thought it
better that he leave if he wished to. You can’t force family feeling on people.”

“That’s true, sir.” Gibbons nodded
and slowly closed his notebook. “Well, thank you very much, sir. That’s quite
clear. We may call on you again once we discover who this unfortunate man was.”

“Certainly, sergeant. I hope you
clear it up quickly.”

They took their leave and made their
way back to the car where Cerberus waited for them with a doleful look on his
face.

“It’s all right, boy,” murmured
Bethancourt a little absently.

“Well,” said Gibbons, settling
himself into his seat while Bethancourt maneuvered out of the parking space, “that
was a fat lot of help. I wish to God they’d hurry up and identify the body. At
this rate, I’m going to miss my Christmas Holidays altogether.”