Village Affairs

263 Pages·2007·1.1 MB·English

by  Chan Cassandra

Table of Contents
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
EPILOGUE
ALSO BY CASSANDRA CHAN
Copyright Page
In memoriam
Edward E. Chan,
my father, who first introduced me to the delights of mystery
novels. It has been one of the greatest gifts ever given to me
and is just one of the many reasons I love him so much.
Here’s hoping he would have liked this one.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Firstly to Kelley Ragland, who had to work extra-hard on this one, even while
training a new assistant and then not having one at all (he probably quit because
I was late, again). And also to Jennifer, without whom I would be utterly lost,
and to my mother, whose store of encouragement is endless.
Thanks to Dr. Lawrence Watkins for suggesting Seconal, and to Steve Krull
for explaining about it. And a huge debt of gratitude goes to Linda Pankhurst,
Brit extraordinaire, who undertook the monumental task of replacing all the
unintentional Americanisms with proper Britishisms. And a special thank you to
Beth Knoche for volunteering to proof the manuscript and for calling to say she
loved it.
I’m also very grateful for all the support the crew at the bookstore has shown
me, both in doing their utmost to sell the first book, and in putting up with me
while I wrote the second one.
Lastly, I’d like to extend my deep appreciation to Jack and Mary Dodge for
author photos, drinks, and friendship.
CHAPTER 1
It was Marla’s idea. Phillip Bethancourt himself was not entirely convinced that
the best cure for a broken heart was to surround the afflicted with attractive
members of the opposite sex. But Marla Tate, one of England’s most in-demand
fashion models, was not a woman known for her generous impulses and she was
likely to turn sulky if this one was rebuffed. Or so Bethancourt judged.
“Just the thing,” he said, putting as much enthusiasm into the words as he
could. He succeeded so well that the large Borzoi hound at his feet pricked his
ears and lifted his noble head. Bethancourt bent to stroke his pet. “It ought to
cheer Jack right up,” he continued. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it
myself.”
Marla tossed her head, shaking a loose lock of copper hair off her forehead. “I
don’t know why you didn’t, either,” she agreed. “You’ve certainly been thinking
of little else lately.”
This was true. It was now more than a month since Bethancourt had returned
home from a polo match to find his friend Jack Gibbons sitting on the front steps
of his Chelsea flat, bearing the news that Annette Berowne had left him. It
helped not at all that Bethancourt had seen it coming; he had been suspicious of
Annette’s feelings from the beginning and had at first tried to put Gibbons on his
guard. But since Gibbons had spent the summer plotting the most romantic way
to propose, his friend had stifled the alarm bells that rang in his mind and hoped
that his own bleak outlook of the suit owed more to his distaste of Annette than
to the true state of affairs. He was very sorry to have been proved right in the
end.
Bethancourt had done all he could to see his friend through those first
miserable days, but what now concerned him was the fact that Gibbons did not
seem to have improved much. It would have been inaccurate to say he was
developing a drinking problem since he was usually sober; still, the pint after
work was now usually two or three, and on the occasions when he visited
Bethancourt, the level in the malt whisky bottle seemed to drop more rapidly
than it once had.
“So are you going to ring him up?” asked Marla impatiently.
“Yes, of course,” answered Bethancourt.
But he paused in reaching for the phone, having caught a gleam in Marla’s
jade-green eyes. It occurred to him that there was more to this than a simple
desire to dispel Gibbons’s gloom. Marla had never liked Gibbons, mostly due to
the fact that it was he who enabled Bethancourt to indulge in his hobby of
amateur sleuthing, an activity that Marla abhorred. And it was undeniably true
that during the summer of Gibbons’s affair, Bethancourt had seen much less of
him. He wondered who among Marla’s friends she had earmarked for Gibbons.
“Right then,” he said, capturing the phone. “Let’s ring Scotland Yard.”
Detective Sergeant Jack Gibbons sat at his desk, buried in paperwork. He did not
much like the clerical side of his job, but one had to take the bad with the good
in any job, and if he could just keep his mind on it all, he thought he could clear
his desk by six, providing he was not sidetracked by chatting about other
people’s cases. That was far more distracting than paperwork, and he badly
needed distraction. There had been no truly interesting cases since the summer,
and these days, when time hung heavy on his hands, he found himself
continually contemplating the wreck of his hopes.
He brightened when the telephone rang, but the gloom returned when he heard
the light, clipped tones of his friend Bethancourt, and not the deep, raspy ones of
the chief inspector summoning him to a case.
“I’m ringing to see if you fancied a day or two in the country,” said
Bethancourt. “Marla’s got a fashion shoot in the Cotswolds and it turns out that
the house they’re using belongs to an old friend of my family. Quite a showplace
it’s supposed to be. So I’m going along and I thought you could come and keep
me company while Marla’s working.”
Gibbons tried to rouse himself. “It sounds very nice,” he said. “When is it to
be?”
“Tuesday,” answered Bethancourt.
“Tuesday?” repeated Gibbons incredulously. This, he thought to himself, was
what came of having independently wealthy friends. “I work on Tuesdays,” he
said with exaggerated patience. “It’s considered part of the working week,
Tuesday is. Along with Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. I think
you’ll find that the vast majority of people with jobs work on weekdays.”
“I know that,” said Bethancourt, unperturbed. “I thought perhaps you could
get it off, if you weren’t on a case. God knows you end up working enough
weekends—they must give you some time off.”
“I expect they must,” said Gibbons. “But I’m due in court on Tuesday
afternoon, so I am not destined to revel in the autumn countryside.”
“What a pity,” said Bethancourt, who was secretly rather relieved. “Well, I’ll
be back at the end of the week—Marla and I are staying on for a day or two after
the shoot. I’ll ring you then and we’ll see a matinee of something or go to
dinner.”
“That will be lovely,” said Gibbons. “I’ve got to get back to work now,
Phillip. I’ll talk to you over the weekend.”
He rang off and returned to the contemplation of his paperwork. He was, as it
turned out, destined to see the autumn countryside, if not to revel in it. It was
rather a pity that all the models were gone by the time he got there.
“And now,” said Clarence Astley-Cooper, “I’ve got all these fashion people
coming in.”
It was Wednesday night and the Deer and Hounds was crowded after choir
practice, the usual regulars relegated to a cramped space at one end of the bar
while choristers and their companions congregated in groups across the old
flagstone floor.
Astley-Cooper, having had quite enough of standing during practice, had
ensconced himself at the largest table and stretched out his gammy knee. He had
passed his fiftieth birthday over the summer and felt his advancing years were
due some consideration.
The vicar and his wife had joined him there, also glad to sit down after their
labors. Reverend Tothill was new to the parish by village standards and was
largely responsible for this weekly crush at the pub, having set the example. It
had been the cause of no few lifted brows, but after five years even the most
entrenched of the villagers were beginning to accustom themselves to him and
his odd ideas, one of which was that he counted everyone, not just the regular
churchgoers, as part of his parish.
He was surveying his parishioners now, one hand around a pint of bitter and
the other entwined with his wife’s fingers, but turned at Astley-Cooper’s
pronouncement.
“Fashion people?” he inquired. He still wore his cassock, but had slipped a
worn tweed jacket over it, and the two garments contrasted oddly together.
“Fashion people,” said Astley-Cooper firmly. “From Vogue or some such.”
“Vogue?” asked the vicar’s wife, who was the possessor of a remarkably fine
soprano voice. She was not dressed in a manner that indicated any familiarity
with the magazine, but her blue eyes were interested. “Why are they coming to
Stutely Manor? Surely you’re not opening the place to the public?”
“No, no.” Astley-Cooper looked affronted. “Certainly not. They’re coming to
shoot pictures in the house and grounds. Probably evening dress in the gallery—
it’s a very fine example of its period.” The fineness of the gallery appeared to
depress him, for he relapsed into silence and took a long draught from his pint.
“I see,” said the vicar encouragingly. “And sports clothes in the garden
perhaps?”
“Very likely,” admitted Astley-Cooper. “Of course, it’s rather a pity that the
sheep got in there. Mr. Crocks was very upset. Still, they left the late roses. Too
many thorns.”
The vicar pressed his lips together as if to hide a smile.
“They can’t have done much damage,” said Charles Bingham consolingly. He
was not a member of the choir—as his raspy voice attested—but he was a
sociable man and had early on discovered the pleasures of a late Wednesday
visit to the Deer and Hounds. “Surely your dog chased them out again like one
o’clock.”
“Whiff might have done,” agreed Astley-Cooper, “if he hadn’t been shut up in
the house at the time.”
“Oh, dear,” said the vicar.
“Yes, it was rather awful.”
“But why,” persisted the vicar’s wife, not to be deterred from the original
subject, “are you letting the Vogue people in?”
Astley-Cooper looked surprised. “They paid me,” he answered.
The others all laughed, although Astley-Cooper had not meant to be funny. He
did not seem disturbed by their reaction, however, taking it in his stride as if
used to being the cause of unexpected humor.
“Well,” said Bingham, recovering, “then I expect you must put up with them.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” replied Astley-Cooper with dignity. “I just said it’s a
frightful bother.”
“Are they staying at Stutely?”
“No, thank heavens. At least most of them aren’t. It happens that I know the
boyfriend of one of the models. Or, rather, his people know my people, and I’ve
met him. I think I have, anyway. So I had to ask them to stay.”
“Ah, yes,” said the vicar, thoroughly confused.
“That’s the beauty,” said Bingham, “of not having any family. You never
need put up with anyone you only think you’ve met.”
“You have family,” said the vicar’s wife tartly, though her eyes were full of
laughter. “You just want to be thought of as eccentric.”
“I’m older than Clarence here,” said Bingham complacently. “Once you’ve
reached a certain age, you can take refuge in eccentricity. I find it saves me ever
so much bother.”
They were interrupted by a tall, middle-aged woman with a large nose and
iron-gray hair. She had a kind smile, which she bestowed on the company as she
approached.
“Hello, Mrs. Potts,” said the vicar.
“Where are the twins tonight?” asked Bingham, nodding his welcome.
Mrs. Potts glanced vaguely about the crowded pub.
“They’re here somewhere,” she answered, setting her glass down on the table
and idly twisting at the man’s signet ring on her finger.
“Do sit down,” urged the vicar’s wife.
But Mrs. Potts shook her head. “I’m afraid,” she said, as if confessing a great
sin, “I wasn’t at my best tonight.”
“No,” said the vicar’s wife sympathetically, “your voice cracked a bit, I’m
afraid. Something got caught in your throat?”
“That’s just it,” said Mrs. Potts tragically. “I seem to be catching a bit of a
cold. It’s nothing much,” she went on hastily, in response to sympathetic
murmurs, “but it seems to have got into my throat. I’m afraid I won’t be able to
sing on Sunday, not if it goes on as it’s starting.”
Everyone expressed regret at this news, while the vicar’s wife recommended
hot tea and lemon. Bingham objected to this, advising hot toddies. This began a
heated debate, during which Bingham decided to eliminate the hot water
altogether and just add the lemon to the whiskey, straight. The discussion was
ended by Mrs. Potts inadvertently dropping her signet ring into her port glass
and the publican calling time.
The crowd spilled out into the High Street of the village, all shuttered and
silent at this time of night, the golden Cotswold limestone turned gray by the
dark. Chipping Chedding was an old village, and although there were several
modern buildings on its fringes, here at its heart the architecture was a pleasant
mix of Jacobean and Georgian, evoking an earlier era.
People sorted themselves out and bade each other good night while the vicar
and his wife looked on, paying particular attention to those who might have had
a drop too much and be inclined toward belligerence.
“Where’s Derek?” asked Bingham, appearing out of the throng. “We were
walking back together and he’s got the torch.”
“He was talking to Julie Benson last I saw,” said the vicar’s wife, craning
around to look. “She had him cornered over by the bar earlier.”
“Dear God,” said the vicar, “Julie’s not the latest to fall victim to Derek’s
charms, is she? She’s old enough to know better.”
“Shh,” said his wife, “don’t let her hear that.”