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Authors: Cassandra Chan
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and proud, too. But he never spoke of expecting to see her here and as far as I know, he didn’t.”
“Did you have the impression they were close?”
“How could they be? She lived in Europe and he spent most of the last twenty years in Africa and the Far East.”
“Yes, I expect you’re right there. Well, we will just have to wait until the lady arrives.”
“But I rather thought,” began Leandra, “that is, we got the impression from the chief inspector that he thought Charlie’s death was probably an accident.”
Bethancourt could hardly tell her he was hoping it was murder in order to cheer his friend Gibbons up.
“Very likely it was,” said Bethancourt, smiling at her. “You must allow for an enthusiast’s point of view. Amateur sleuthing is my hobby, so naturally I prefer there be something to investigate.”
The Deer and Hounds was crowded with even more than the usual Wednesday night throng. Chipping Chedding had rarely had so newsy a day: the murder of Charlie Bingham, the arrival of Scotland Yard, the revelation that Bingham was rich, and, to top it all off, a famous fashion model in their midst. Everyone was very eager to discover if she was as beautiful in real life as she appeared in magazines. As usual on such occasions, opinion on this topic was widely divided, but Marla was nevertheless soon surrounded by a crowd of admirers.
It was not long before Bethancourt was separated from both his girlfriend and his host; Astley-Cooper was glued to Marla’s side, clearly enjoying his role of host to the elite. Bethancourt, looking around, thought with amusement that tomorrow no one would even remember he had been present.
He found himself in a corner with Mrs. Potts, who was introducing him to her employers, James and Julie Benson. These, he remembered, were the children of the actress, Joan Bonnar. Like most children of famous people who are not famous in their own right, they were polite and somewhat reserved. Neither bore any particular resemblance to their mother beyond a fairness of complexion; certainly there was nothing about them that reflected Joan Bonnar’s charisma and beauty. In their midtwenties, both were a little overweight, pleasant-faced without being particularly attractive, a perfectly ordinary example of English siblings. Julie’s thick brown-blond hair was her chief beauty, and she had made all she could of it by growing it long; the single braid fell to her waist. Bethancourt privately thought that a shorter cut would have flattered her face better.
They greeted Mrs. Potts like a favorite aunt rather than a housekeeper, and she, having finished the introductions, waved Julie over and joined her on the bench with a sigh.
“That’s better,” she said. “Do sit down, Mr. Bethancourt. That chair will disappear if you don’t take it.”
Bethancourt did as he was bidden, setting his drink on the table, leaning back comfortably, and lighting a cigarette. Julie and Mrs. Potts already had their heads together, so he turned his attention to James.
“The choir is remarkably fine,” he said. “I just caught the end of rehearsal. I take it you don’t sing yourself ?”
James gave a small smile. “No voice,” he answered. “And not much ear, either, for all I’ve had Marty there singing ’round the house since I was small. But Julie and I do enjoy it on Sundays.” He sipped at his pint. “Are you enjoying your visit to Chipping Chedding?” he asked politely. “It must be rather quiet after London.”
“Pleasantly so,” Bethancourt assured him. “It’s a very pretty spot. Have you lived here long?”
“Almost all our lives,” replied James. “Certainly long before it was ‘discovered.’ We’ve travelled a bit, and been to different schools, but this has always been home. It’s really our mother’s house, but she seldom comes here except to visit, and we think of it as our own.”
“There you are.” Leandra Tothill appeared out of the crowd,
“Did you have the impression they were close?”
“How could they be? She lived in Europe and he spent most of the last twenty years in Africa and the Far East.”
“Yes, I expect you’re right there. Well, we will just have to wait until the lady arrives.”
“But I rather thought,” began Leandra, “that is, we got the impression from the chief inspector that he thought Charlie’s death was probably an accident.”
Bethancourt could hardly tell her he was hoping it was murder in order to cheer his friend Gibbons up.
“Very likely it was,” said Bethancourt, smiling at her. “You must allow for an enthusiast’s point of view. Amateur sleuthing is my hobby, so naturally I prefer there be something to investigate.”
The Deer and Hounds was crowded with even more than the usual Wednesday night throng. Chipping Chedding had rarely had so newsy a day: the murder of Charlie Bingham, the arrival of Scotland Yard, the revelation that Bingham was rich, and, to top it all off, a famous fashion model in their midst. Everyone was very eager to discover if she was as beautiful in real life as she appeared in magazines. As usual on such occasions, opinion on this topic was widely divided, but Marla was nevertheless soon surrounded by a crowd of admirers.
It was not long before Bethancourt was separated from both his girlfriend and his host; Astley-Cooper was glued to Marla’s side, clearly enjoying his role of host to the elite. Bethancourt, looking around, thought with amusement that tomorrow no one would even remember he had been present.
He found himself in a corner with Mrs. Potts, who was introducing him to her employers, James and Julie Benson. These, he remembered, were the children of the actress, Joan Bonnar. Like most children of famous people who are not famous in their own right, they were polite and somewhat reserved. Neither bore any particular resemblance to their mother beyond a fairness of complexion; certainly there was nothing about them that reflected Joan Bonnar’s charisma and beauty. In their midtwenties, both were a little overweight, pleasant-faced without being particularly attractive, a perfectly ordinary example of English siblings. Julie’s thick brown-blond hair was her chief beauty, and she had made all she could of it by growing it long; the single braid fell to her waist. Bethancourt privately thought that a shorter cut would have flattered her face better.
They greeted Mrs. Potts like a favorite aunt rather than a housekeeper, and she, having finished the introductions, waved Julie over and joined her on the bench with a sigh.
“That’s better,” she said. “Do sit down, Mr. Bethancourt. That chair will disappear if you don’t take it.”
Bethancourt did as he was bidden, setting his drink on the table, leaning back comfortably, and lighting a cigarette. Julie and Mrs. Potts already had their heads together, so he turned his attention to James.
“The choir is remarkably fine,” he said. “I just caught the end of rehearsal. I take it you don’t sing yourself ?”
James gave a small smile. “No voice,” he answered. “And not much ear, either, for all I’ve had Marty there singing ’round the house since I was small. But Julie and I do enjoy it on Sundays.” He sipped at his pint. “Are you enjoying your visit to Chipping Chedding?” he asked politely. “It must be rather quiet after London.”
“Pleasantly so,” Bethancourt assured him. “It’s a very pretty spot. Have you lived here long?”
“Almost all our lives,” replied James. “Certainly long before it was ‘discovered.’ We’ve travelled a bit, and been to different schools, but this has always been home. It’s really our mother’s house, but she seldom comes here except to visit, and we think of it as our own.”
“There you are.” Leandra Tothill appeared out of the crowd,
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