Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 6, June 1992

The Charnwood Forest Murder C. M. Chan

Phillip Bethancourt was lounging in his London flat, reading last week’s TLS. His girlfriend Marla Tate had that morning left town for a week and a half, and Bethancourt was looking forward to time spent in solitary pursuits such as reading, maybe even watching television. Marla was one of England’s top fashion models so she was frequently called away for location shoots, but circumstances over the past few months had combined to keep her in London, and Bethancourt was feeling rather exhausted in consequence. Marla enjoyed dancing, parties, dining out, the theater — in short, she was not the sort of woman who was very easily persuaded to spend an evening curled up on a couch reading a book. In her absence, Bethancourt planned to do just that.

He stretched out his legs, settled his glasses more comfortably on his nose, and, his eyes still fastened on the paper, reached out to light a cigarette. At this slight movement, the Borzoi hound at his feet raised its head hopefully. It had not been taken out since the morning, and was quite sure it must be time for the daily park run. In fact, there was no doubt in its mind that the park run was long overdue, but being a dog of great dignity, it was not about to sit up and beg for its treat like a lowly terrier. The dog subsided with a sigh.

Bethancourt had just decided to purchase three books instead of two when the telephone rang. He answered it with a preoccupied air.

“Is Phillip Bethancourt there?” asked an unknown female voice.

“Yes,” said Bethancourt, who was still scanning the last paragraph of a review. “I mean, speaking.”

“My name is Natalie Pad-more. We don’t know each other, but a friend of mine is acquainted with your sister.”

“Charming,” responded Bethancourt promptly, although inwardly he groaned. Anyone recommended by his sister was unlikely to find favor in his eyes.

“I took the liberty of ringing you up,” continued Mrs. Padmore, “because my friend seemed to think you had some connections with Scotland Yard.”

“I have some friends there,” admitted Bethancourt, daring to hope that this was not after all a call to take some unknown woman to dinner and converse politely about his sister and her friends. “Can I be of service in any way?”

“I know I’m imposing,” went on Mrs. Padmore, “but, you see, a rather curious thing has happened up here. I should explain, I live in Leicestershire, near the Charnwood Forest.”

“Quite,” said Bethancourt. “Lovely country there.”

“Yes, it is pretty. In any case, the old headmistress of my school also lived in the village — she came here when she retired. She passed away last week, under what I must call very suspicious circumstances.”

“I see,” said Bethancourt, whose spirits were rising with every word Mrs. Padmore spoke. He was an avid amateur detective who persistently dogged the steps of his Scotland Yard friends on their more interesting cases. “Have you spoken to the local police?”

“Yes, of course. They’ve been very nice, but they won’t believe it’s not an accident. They held the inquest the day before yesterday and came up with a verdict of death by misadventure. It’s been very frustrating.”

“I’m sure it has.” Bethancourt had sunk into a chair and was lighting a cigarette with an air of definite pleasure. “Perhaps if you could tell me what happened?”

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very coherent. Miss Pottlesdon died last Thursday, apparently from eating a poisonous mushroom. She had been out picking mushrooms that day, but Mr. Bethancourt, she was an expert. She and her friend, Miss Carberry, had been picking mushrooms for years with never a mishap. It is inconceivable that Miss Pottlesdon should have selected the wrong kind in the first place, but then to say that she took it home, washed it carefully, and cut it up — well, it’s just beyond belief.”

“I see what you mean,” said Bethancourt thoughtfully. To him, it was perfectly believable.

“I know it’s asking a great deal of a perfect stranger,” continued Mrs. Padmore, “but when Debra mentioned you, I thought there might be one last hope. I was very fond of Miss Pottlesdon, and so was my husband. We’d very much appreciate it if you could do anything towards getting the matter cleared up.”

“Well,” said Bethancourt, still thoughtful. The thing did not sound as promising as he had first hoped; still, it might be worth a look. You could never tell about these things. “I could try to come up this weekend and poke around a bit,” he said cautiously. “I would have to check with my friend at Scotland Yard, of course, to see if he’s free. Beyond that, I’m afraid, there’s nothing else to be done, unless we can turn up fresh evidence working on our own, so to speak. Even Scotland Yard can’t barge in where it’s not wanted.”

“If you could spare the time, that would be more than I’d hoped for,” said Mrs. Padmore. “It’s awfully good of you.”

“Not at all,” said Bethancourt, laying down his cigarette and picking up paper and pencil. “If you could give me your telephone number and address?”

Equipped with this information, he rang off, with promises to let her know about his plans.

“It’s not much of a case, Cerberus,” he said, addressing the dog. “But it’s the first one that’s mine instead of Scotland Yard’s. We’ll go up and ease the lady’s mind this weekend. It’s only polite.”

“What do you mean, do I want to go to the East Midlands for the weekend?” asked Detective Sergeant Jack Gibbons suspiciously. “I thought you were spending the next ten days holed up in your flat with a book.”

“Something better has turned up,” replied Bethancourt. “It’s my first case, Jack. You’ve got to come and help me with it.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said his friend. An alarming thought occurred to him. “Oh, Lord, you haven’t gone and applied for a private detective’s license, have you?”

“Of course not,” said Bethancourt. “Although,” he added, “that’s not a bad idea. It would keep my family off my back about not having a job.”

“But then you would actually have to work,” pointed out Gibbons. “Not to mention the fact that you haven’t the least idea how to set about an investigation—”

“I’m sure I could figure it out,” retorted Bethancourt. “Jack, you’re deliberately sidetracking me. Don’t you want to hear about my case?”

“I expect you’ll tell me whether I do or not.”

Bethancourt blithely ignored this reply. “It’s a friend of my sister’s. Her old headmistress ate some poisonous mushrooms and died, and she wants me to prove it wasn’t an accident.”

“But Phillip,” protested Gibbons, “it probably was an accident.”

“I know that,” said Bethancourt, his enthusiasm undiminished. “But I can’t turn down my first case, Jack. We’ll go up, have a look around, tell her that we’re terribly sorry but we must agree with the police, and be back by Monday morning. Come on, Jack. It’s off in Charnwood Forest — a perfect country retreat. Some fresh air would do you good.”

Gibbons sighed. “Where are you staying?” he asked. “With this woman?”

“No,” answered Bethancourt. “She offered, but I graciously refused. After all, she is a friend of my sister’s, even if she did sound nice over the phone. One can’t go about recklessly promising to stay with people who know my sister — God only knows what that might lead to.”

“So that means an hotel. Phillip, I can’t afford an hotel. Unlike you, I have to work for my money, and detective sergeants are not that well paid.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Bethancourt, hurt. “It’s my case — I’ll pay for the lodgings. It’s not an hotel anyway. There isn’t one in the village, and I thought we’d better stay there so as to pick up all the local color. It’s a B and B.”

Gibbons sighed again. He did not want to spend his weekend on a busman’s holiday detecting in the East Midlands. On the other hand, Bethancourt was his closest friend, and there was no denying that he had been helpful in the past with some of the official cases Gibbons had worked on. “Very well,” he said.

“Splendid! I’ll pick you up after work tomorrow and we’ll go from there. See you then.”

Gibbons woke early on Saturday to a grey morning holding the promise of rain. From the open window above his head came the exhilarating scent of fresh air. Exhilarating, at any rate, to a man who had spent the winter in London. Gibbons felt relaxed and content, largely owing to the fact that he had ruthlessly abandoned both map and driving to Bethancourt the evening before and had himself a good kip. He was even in a mood to admit that a weekend in the country might be just the thing.

He glanced at the other bed. Bethancourt was still soundly asleep, face pressed into the pillow, fair hair in disarray, one arm flung over the side of the bed. Gibbons decided to let him sleep, knowing he had sat up late the night before reading a book on mushrooms. He himself, however, rose and, throwing on a robe, went in search of the bathroom.

Bethancourt was still asleep when Gibbons returned from his morning ablutions, but Cerberus had arisen and looked appealingly at the detective as he dressed and prepared to make his way downstairs. Gibbons took pity on him.

“Come then,” he said softly. “I’ll take you out, boy.”

The feathered tail waved gratefully.

They slipped out without encountering anyone and emerged into a quiet side street that led away to the left to the village proper. As Gibbons recollected from the night before, this consisted of a group of houses, a pub, and a small church. The bed and breakfast house stood alone, opposite a wide, fenced-in meadow. Beyond were the eaves of Charnwood Forest, a vague grey bulk on the horizon in the morning mist.

Gibbons breathed in the damp air deeply, while Cerberus cocked a leg against a large bush. Man and dog paused a moment, taking stock of their surroundings, and then Cerberus bounded away, clearing the fence in one graceful leap, and running off across the meadow. With growing horror, Gibbons realized that the dog was making for the single animate object in the field, namely, a large animal of the bovine persuasion. Gibbons was utterly incapable of telling bull from cow, especially at this distance, but it definitely had horns. He advanced to the fence and called loudly, “Cerberus! Come!”

He had heard Bethancourt use these selfsame words many times before, and they had seldom failed to produce the desired effect, but Cerberus showed no sign of obeying them now. He continued to run fleetly toward the bull (or cow, as the case might be), while Gibbons ineffectually repeated his call. He had awful visions of the bull (if it was one) charging and skewering his friend’s beloved pet, but this was not at all what happened. Instead, the bull paused and turned slowly, sniffing the air and regarding the giant animal racing towards him. He appeared to consider his situation for a moment, and then took to his heels. Gibbons breathed a sigh of relief, for now that he had a rear view, the absence of an udder proclaimed the sex of the animal. Cursing, Gibbons began climbing over the fence, although he had no idea how he proposed to catch the dog. Cerberus was enjoying himself thoroughly, having nearly caught up with the bull. Gibbons ran after him, shouting loudly and sternly. Cerberus nipped at the bull’s tail and then paused. Gibbons redoubled his calls. Cerberus turned, looked questioningly at him for a moment, and then, to Gibbons’ everlasting relief, trotted toward him, tongue lolling happily. Gibbons led him firmly from the meadow, whereupon the hound promptly deposited a large pile of excrement in the middle of the lane. Gibbons, who had not thought to prepare for this eventuality and who did not wish to soil his handkerchief, left the mess steaming in the air and took the dog inside.

Upstairs, he found Bethancourt pulling a heather-colored jumper over his head.

“You’re up,” he said.

“I could hardly stay asleep with you screaming underneath the window,” replied Bethancourt. “What on earth happened?”

“Cerberus got into the meadow and was chasing a bull.”

“Really?” Bethancourt put on his glasses and peered out the window. “That’s not a bull,” he announced.

“Not a bull?” Gibbons joined him at the window. The cow had wandered back toward the fence and was quietly cropping grass. “It hasn’t got an udder,” he pointed out.

“Neither,” replied Bethancourt, “has it got any testicles. A cow doesn’t have an udder if she hasn’t carried a calf, but a bull has testicles no matter what.”

“Oh. Well, in any case, Cerberus was chasing it.”

“Not very good behavior, but it doesn’t seem to have done her any harm. Shall we go down and get some tea? And then we can go call on the doctor. He doesn’t have surgery hours today, but he invited us to come round to his house.”

Gibbons, suddenly reminded of the purpose for this trip, acquiesced quietly.

After breakfast, the two young men, accompanied by the dog, walked up the lane toward the center of the village. This consisted of a cluster of houses grouped about a small green with a very picturesque and clearly nonfunctioning well at one corner. Most of the yards were shaded by large trees, and the forest loomed over all, pressed back just far enough to allow for a little yard space and the odd garden at the rear of the houses. All the buildings appeared residential except for one, slightly larger than the others, outside of which hung a wooden sign proclaiming it to be the village pub, The Hare.

“It’s very peaceful here,” said Gibbons, looking up at the trees, which were just beginning to show signs of green along their branches.

“Eh?” replied Bethancourt, who was consulting a scrap of paper. “Oh, yes. It’s very out of the way — I believe even the post office is in the market town on the A road. I think the doctor’s house must be up this way.”

“Oh, right,” said Gibbons vaguely. “I hope we get a sunny day tomorrow. This place is really very pretty.”

Bethancourt was peering at one of the houses and frowning. “Perhaps the other side of the street,” he said.

“What? Oh, right, the doctor’s place.” Gibbons redirected his attention to the houses, only to be distracted almost immediately by an immense and very ancient tree standing in one of the yards. “Oh, look,” he said. “Is that an oak?”

Bethancourt shot him a withering glance. “Beech,” he said briefly. “Come along, Jack, and do help me look. We’re a bit late already.”

“Right-oh,” said Gibbons, still staring up into the branches of the beech tree.

Bethancourt sighed and looked ahead toward a house two or three farther on, where a rather stout man with a thatch of unruly grey hair and an exceeding well-trimmed beard was waving at them.

“There,” he said with relief. “That must be Dr. Preston. Don’t dawdle, Jack.”

“This must be I them. I wonder which is Mr. Bethancourt and which the Scotland Yard man. They both look very young.”

Dr. Preston had, in fact, forgotten his genial invitation. This did not matter greatly, as Natalie Padmore had arrived at breakfast time to remind him of it. He joined her at the window now and agreed that both men, who were proceeding slowly up the street inspecting the names of the houses, were rather young. One was tall and slim, with fair, shaggy hair and horn-rimmed glasses, while the other was shorter, with fierce blue eyes and reddish-brown hair cropped short. They were accompanied by a large Russian wolfhound of far greater dignity than either of the humans.

“The tall one’s Bethancourt,” he opined. “His hair’s too long for the police. Ruth!” he called to his wife. “Our guests are coming.”

Dr. Preston advanced to the door, swinging it wide and waving to attract the young men’s attention. They mended their pace, coming swiftly up to meet him. “I’m Phillip Bethancourt,” said the fair man, justifying the doctor’s guess. “This is my friend, Detective Sergeant Jack Gibbons.”

They shook hands and were ushered inside and introduced to the two women. If Natalie Padmore had been surprised at Bethancourt’s youth, he was equally surprised at hers. He had somehow imagined a plump matron of a certain complacency, but what he found was a slender, attractive woman of about his own age, dressed in a flowered print that much became her. Mrs. Preston, however, was everything that Mrs. Padmore was not. She was a little stout, with a warm smile and apple cheeks and softly curling grey hair. Both she and her husband wore identical steel-rimmed spectacles.

Coffee was served while Bethancourt and Gibbons made appropriate remarks about the picturesqueness of the village. As soon as they were settled with their coffee mugs and Bethancourt had asked for and received permission to smoke, Natalie Padmore said, “It was very kind of you to come down. We really do appreciate it.”

“All unofficial, of course,” put in Gibbons cautiously.

“Yes,” she said. “We understand that. The doctor here can give you further details—”

“Indeed,” said Preston. “At least, I can tell you what happened. It was a clear case of mushroom poisoning — no doubt about it.” He sipped at his coffee. “It was the Tuesday before last, at the end of the day. My nurse took a call from Miss Pottlesdon and told me she sounded very bad — could hardly speak. I rushed round straightaway, of course. I was rather expecting a heart attack or a stroke. She was over seventy, after all, and not in the best of health. Smoked too much.” He eyed the cigarette in Bethancourt’s hand, but the young man did not appear to notice. “But when I arrived, it was clearly something different. She had violent cramps, vomiting, diarrhea — every thing pointed to some kind of poison. She couldn’t walk, could barely speak. Of course, she was stubborn. She’d started feeling ill in the night, but had waited over twelve hours before she gave in and called me.”

“Might you have been able to save her if she had called straightaway?” asked Gibbons.

The doctor shook his head. “Actually, no,” he replied. “With this kind of poisoning, there’s a large gap between the time the poison is ingested and the time symptoms appear. By then, the poison is already firmly established in the bloodstream. It attacks the liver and kidneys, making it impossible for the victim to remove the toxins. There’s very little that can be done. In any case,” he continued, “I didn’t realize at the time what it was, I just knew she had been poisoned. I rushed her straight off to hospital, of course, where we could at least alleviate the symptoms. It was at that point that I recollected her penchant for gathering mushrooms. I asked her, and she admitted to having eaten some mushrooms at dinner the night before. She insisted she had looked them over carefully, but it was nonetheless obvious that that’s what it was. She rallied slightly that evening, but by the next morning, she was in a coma. She died the day after.” He shrugged helplessly and sipped his coffee.

“Your diagnosis was confirmed at the postmortem?” asked Bethancourt.

The doctor nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said. “No doubt of it — Miss Pottlesdon died from eating a poisonous mushroom.”

“But that’s just what’s so perplexing,” put in Mrs. Padmore. “She and her friend Miss Car-berry had been gathering mushrooms for years. They were always very careful — so many times Miss Pottlesdon told me that it was all a matter of never relaxing your vigilance. She used to say, ‘You must examine every individual specimen and identify it absolutely. If your attention begins to wander, you must stop at once. And then, once you’ve got them home and are washing them off, you have to examine each one over again.’ ” She spread her hands in a little gesture of bewilderment.

“All that’s true, Natalie,” said Mrs. Preston, “but you must remember, she was very elderly. Sometimes people of that age do get muddled.”

“Not Miss Pottlesdon,” said Mrs. Padmore firmly. “She was clear as a bell, you know that.”

“That’s true,” agreed Dr. Preston. “I admit I was considerably surprised that she should be so careless, but the fact remains that she did eat a bad one. And if she didn’t make a mistake, then what you’re saying is that someone deliberately gave her one. That’s murder, Natalie, and although a great many people disliked her, I hardly think they would go so far as that.”

“I know, I know,” said Mrs. Padmore, shaking her head. “But there’s something wrong about it, all the same.”

“What do you think?” asked Bethancourt after they had taken their leave of the doctor and his wife and dissuaded Mrs. Padmore from accompanying them further.

“It seems pretty straightforward,” answered Gibbons. “But as you say, it’s a good excuse to get away for the weekend.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” said Bethancourt, answering the first part of Gibbons’ statement. He led the way down the street thoughtfully, pausing to say sharply, “Cerberus! Out of that garden. Heel.”

Gibbons, recalling his earlier adventure, watched indignantly as the great dog immediately came to heel.

“You could tell,” said Bethancourt, absently patting his pet’s head, “that the doctor didn’t think there was anything in Mrs. Padmore’s protests.”

“Quite,” said Gibbons, nodding automatically. His attention had been caught by a brightly colored bird perched on a limb of the beech tree.

“But even he,” continued Bethancourt, “spoke of being surprised that Miss Pottlesdon had made an error. That makes me wonder if there isn’t something odd about this business after all.”

Gibbons opened his mouth to protest and then remembered that Bethancourt was feeling rather proud of being called into a case personally and no doubt wanted to do his best to investigate it, even if it was a mare’s nest. So he said mildly, “Perhaps. We’ll have to see if anyone else feels the same. What kind of bird — oh, it’s gone.”

They were alone as they walked down the street, heading for the outskirts of the village and Constable Strikes’s house. They passed one elderly gentleman who was hard at work in his front garden, but beyond that all was still. As they came abreast of the little church, however, they were assaulted from behind by a shrill barking. Cerberus, who was still walking sedately at his master’s left side, turned round abruptly but did not return the greeting being so enthusiastically offered by an overweight, elderly Lhasa apso.

“Hello there,” said Bethancourt, bending down and extending a hand. The Lhasa merely retreated a step and continued to bark.

There was a lane running past the church, downhill towards the forest, and upon this there hove into view a short, dumpy woman of about seventy. She seemed rather out of breath and began calling out in a high-pitched voice, “Marzipan! Marzipan, stop that and come here at once. Marzipan, that dog could gobble you up and still want breakfast. Marzipan!”

The Lhasa ignored this. Cerberus, with great disdain, had sat down and was looking over the smaller dog’s head at the churchyard.

“Hello,” called Bethancourt. “My dog’s quite friendly — he won’t hurt yours.”

The woman was scurrying up the path, still ineffectually calling her dog. Arrived at the scene, she promptly scooped him up in her arms and shook him, saying automatically, “Bad dog. Bad dog, Marzipan.” She squinted at the two young men. “I’m terribly sorry,” she went on. “He never has learned to mind very well. I should really keep him on the lead.”

“Not at all,” said Bethancourt genially. “No harm done.”

“Cerberus wouldn’t hurt a fly,” added Gibbons, but she did not appear, now that she was standing next to him, to really entertain any great fears of the Borzoi.

“You must be Natalie Padmore’s detectives,” she said. “How exciting. I’m Dottie Carberry.”

“We were very sorry to hear about your friend, Miss Car-berry,” said Gibbons.

Miss Carberry’s eyes grew distant. “Yes,” she said, “it was too bad. Poor Nan. We’d been so close, you see, for so long. Even now, I haven’t really taken it in that she’s gone. Not that it matters much,” she added, more cheerfully. “I’ll be gone soon myself. That’s nice, somehow, to know I shan’t have to wait long to see her again. Of course,” she added hastily, “I’m Christian, so that’s what I believe. If you’re not, I do apologize.”

Neither Gibbons nor Bethancourt was quite sure what to say in reply to this speech, so Bethancourt merely said, “We were coming to see you later. I hope you won’t mind?”

“Oh, no,” she assured them, looking nevertheless rather uncomfortable. “I live just down the lane there. As soon as I’ve finished the church flowers, I shall be back at my cottage. I could give you some tea. Or coffee. Or,” she added doubtfully, “there might be some sherry. Young men nowadays always seem to want spirits. Perhaps I could go to the pub and get some whisky. Only I never know what to serve with it. Cakes and biscuits don’t seem to go very well. Nuts, I suppose, would be best.”

Both Bethancourt and Gibbons assured her that they did not really want spirits and that she was not to go to any trouble on their account.

“I’ll ask my niece,” she decided, ignoring them. “She’s come down to stay the weekend with me. She’s young and will know what to do. Yes, that will definitely be best.” She beamed at them.

“Really, Miss Carberry,” said Bethancourt, “I’m quite fond of tea, and so is Jack here. We drink it all the time, don’t we, Jack?”

“Constantly,” affirmed Gibbons. “Nothing like a nice cuppa, that’s what I always say.”

But the subject of refreshments had apparently flown from Miss Carberry’s mind. “So you haven’t found out anything yet?” she asked.

“No,” answered Bethancourt. “We’ve only just started, you see. We’re just on our way to see Constable Strikes.”

“Such a nice young man,” said Miss Carberry. “Always so helpful and polite. Not at all like that inspector fellow. He was in a dreadful hurry all the time. Well, I’ll be seeing you later. It will be so nice for Pam to have some young men around.”

She turned to go, setting Marzipan on the ground. The little dog immediately returned to his previous stance and began barking again.

“Marzipan, stop that. Marzipan, come!”

“Goodbye,” said Bethancourt. “We’ll take Cerberus away, and no doubt that will quiet him. Come along, Cerberus.”

He and Gibbons turned again along the road, followed by the dog. In a few moments, the barking behind them ceased and Miss Carberry’s voice came faintly back to them, saying, “Bad dog. Bad dog, Marzipan.”

P. C. Strikes was vastly uneasy. He had known, of course, for some days that a friend of Mrs. Padmore’s was coming to ask questions about Miss Pottlesdon’s death. This had not disturbed him unduly; after all, amateurs were only amateurs, and Detective Inspector Daniels had come down personally to look into it and had done everything that could be done. Inspector Daniels had been very efficient and had impressed Constable Strikes very much, almost banishing from the young man’s mind the certainty of his knowledge that Miss Pottlesdon did not make mistakes at all, much less fatal ones.

Strikes’s uneasiness had come upon him last night in the pub, where he had discovered that one of Mrs. Padmore’s friends was a Scotland Yard man. This gave the matter an entirely new aspect. Amateur detectives were one thing: Scotland Yard was quite another. He had rung the station and left a message for Inspector Daniels, but that gentleman had not yet replied. Bereft of guidance, Strikes was not at all sure what to do. Should he clam up and take an official stance, or look to the Scotland Yard man as a superior, which he certainly was? His wife had been no help. She had pointed out that Scotland Yard had no business sticking their noses in when they hadn’t been called and that, on the other hand, if Strikes wanted to get anywhere in his career, it was not good policy to start out by aggravating Scotland Yard detectives. She had then hopped in the car and gone off to market, leaving him to manage alone.

He had been surprised to see two men not very much older than himself, accompanied by a large and very beautiful dog. Constable Strikes liked dogs, especially big ones, and this had served to break the ice, but now he could feel the awkward moment coming on, when he should have to make up his mind one way or another. He was quite sure that, whatever he did, it would turn out to be the exact opposite of what Inspector Daniels would wish.

“Living right in the village,” Bethancourt was saying, “you must know everyone well. Miss Carberry, for instance. She and Miss Pottlesdon were close?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Strikes, relieved at this line of questioning. “They were best friends, like. Miss Carberry, she grew up hereabouts, and when it came time for them to retire from their school — Miss Pottlesdon was headmistress, and Miss Carberry the English mistress — Miss Carberry found both their cottages for them. They always did things together — had supper together most nights. And as to the mushroom picking, sir, why, they did that every year. Miss Carberry’s mother had taught her about it when she was a child, and she taught Miss Pottlesdon. They liked things of that sort. Both of them have fine kitchen gardens, and they was always swapping vegetables. Miss Carberry even keeps a few hens for eggs and shared them with Miss Pottlesdon. She tried to expand for poultry a few years back but said it wasn’t worth the trouble and went back to her couple of hens.”

“You’ve got a nice garden yourself, constable,” said Gibbons, who was peering out the back window. “Keep it yourself?”

“That’s my wife, sir. She likes the flowers, and to grow her own lettuces and beans and such. Says it cuts down the housekeeping expenses.”

“I daresay it does,” said Bethancourt, a little impatiently. He could not help but feel that his friend’s mind was not entirely on their investigation. In fact, in his opinion, Gibbons had become completely besotted with country life in a very short time.

“Tell me,” he continued, “what was your opinion of Miss Pottlesdon?”

“Oh, she was quite a character, sir,” said Strikes. “Very particular, always knew just what she wanted and how she wanted it.”

“Was she popular hereabouts?”

Strikes grinned. “Far from it, sir,” he said. “She was too particular by half, like I said. And then, she had a nasty habit of sticking her nose into other people’s business. She always knew what was going on and always spoke up if she didn’t approve. She used to help run the church fete until the last couple of years, and you’ve never seen such a fuss. Vicar couldn’t manage to keep her out of it, though.”

Sounds just like a headmistress, thought Bethancourt, and said aloud, “Were you surprised that she would make a mistake about the mushrooms?”

Strikes frowned. “Oh, yes, sir, very. Everyone was. Miss Carberry may have taught her about it in the beginning, but she studied up on it good. Got a lot of books. She was really more knowledgeable than Miss Carberry in the end.”

“But,” said Bethancourt, “she was getting on. Older people sometimes get muddled.”

Strikes hastened to put this idea right. “No, sir,” he said firmly. “Her health wasn’t the best, that’s why she stopped doing the church fetes, but her mind was sharp as ever. I still can’t quite see how she would have made such a mistake, but I thought perhaps she found a new mushroom she hadn’t seen before and that’s how she got mixed up.”

This struck Bethancourt as highly unlikely. He was about to ask about the inquiry itself when the telephone rang. Strikes excused himself and went to answer it. When he returned, he looked both pleased and relieved.

“That was the inspector,” he informed them. “I thought as how you’d like to know about the investigation, so I asked him to come down. He’s the one to talk to, as he was head of it. He said he’d be right along — won’t take him more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Dear Lord,” said Gibbons and glared at Bethancourt.

Detective Inspector Daniels was in a temper. He had not been pleased to have been sent to investigate the Pottlesdon death in the first place. He had swiftly satisfied himself that it was indeed an accident, the inquest verdict had confirmed it, and he had thought the matter was finished. To have Scotland Yard horning in uninvited at this late date was infuriating. He would have a thing or two to say to this Scotland Yard man, whoever he was. The Yard had no business here, and moreover, he hated to have his weekends interrupted.

He pulled up in front of P. C. Strikes’s cottage and slammed the car door firmly behind him. He strode up the path and stabbed his finger sharply on the bell. In a moment the door was opened by Strikes, who was clearly relieved to see him.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Morning, Strikes. What’s this all about?”

“They’re in the living room, sir,” replied Strikes, leading the way. “I’ve told them a bit about Miss Pottlesdon, but nothing about the investigation. I waited for you for that, sir.”

“Quite right, constable. Thank you.”

Daniels strode into the living room and drew up short.

“Jack!” he exclaimed.

“Tom!” said Gibbons, his misgivings melting away at the sight of his old friend’s face. “I didn’t know this was your bailiwick.”

“Well, it is,” replied Daniels. “What on earth are you doing up here? Are you this Scotland Yard man that’s got my constable all upset? You should know better than to go around frightening constables, Jack.”

Gibbons chuckled. “All completely unofficial,” he said. “Let me introduce my friend Phillip Bethancourt. Phillip, this is Tom Daniels, who was a friend of mine when I was in police training.”

The two men shook hands.

“I’m afraid this is all my fault,” said Bethancourt deprecatingly. “You see, I’ve got this gorgon of a sister...”

“Eh?” said Daniels, confused.

“His sister knows Natalie Padmore,” explained Gibbons, “and was indiscreet enough to tell Natalie that Phillip here knows me.”

“So the next thing I know,” continued Bethancourt, “is that I’m getting phone calls imploring me to bring my Scotland Yard connections to bear on Miss Pottlesdon’s mysterious death. I had to do it, inspector. My sister would have made my life unbearable if I hadn’t.”

“I see,” said Daniels, grinning. “And you, Jack, as a good friend, had to help out.”

Gibbons shrugged. “As I said, it’s completely unofficial. Just a family matter, really. But Tom, it’s good to see you. And you’ve made inspector already. That’s fast moving.”

Daniels shrugged and sank into a chair. “Luck, really. We’re a small force up here, and the man above me had an unexpected heart attack just as I had happened to do rather a good bit of work. But how are you doing, Jack? Is working at the Yard all you expected?”

The two detectives were off and away. In another moment, they were asking each other about old friends whom they had lost track of since school.

Constable Strikes was much relieved. He had been rather afraid that the clash of the Titans was going to occur in his living room, and he was more thankful than he could say that disaster had been averted. The only thing that was wanting was a nice glass of beer. He felt he deserved it after all he had been through. Tentatively, he suggested this to Bethancourt.

“Splendid idea,” said that young man. “Here, I’ll come help you bring it in while those two reminisce.”

“We met Miss Carberry on our way over here,” said Bethancourt conversationally as he followed Strikes into the pantry. “I take it from what you’ve told me that Miss Pottlesdon was the leader of the pair?”

“Mostly,” said Strikes, handing out bottles of beer. “Miss Carberry sure is a funny one, and she’s got odder as she’s got older. Yes, I guess you could say Miss Pottlesdon was the leader. She certainly lorded it over her enough — most of the village figured that’s why they were such good friends, because Miss Pottlesdon needed a follower.”

“And Miss Carberry needed a leader?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I think she genuinely admired Miss Pottlesdon. For all her faults, Miss Pottlesdon had done well for herself, and she was certainly very organized. Miss Carberry, she seems as if her mind’s always somewhere else, but she’s sharper than you’d think. She can prattle on forever about nothing in particular and then, all of a sudden, she’ll come straight to the point, cut right to the heart of the matter. And she can be stubborn. It’s my opinion it wasn’t as one-sided a friendship as you might have thought.”

“Does everyone like Miss Carberry?”

“Oh, yes. She’s a pleasant sort, is Miss Carberry,” replied Strikes, getting out a tray and four glasses. “You can put those here, sir. I’ll carry out if you’ll just get the door.”

Gibbons and Daniels were pleasantly surprised at the appearance of the beer. They all toasted each other and, after a few reminiscences about beer-drinking parties during police training, Gibbons, reminded by a look from Bethancourt, broached the subject of the investigation.

“Straightforward as they come,” said Daniels immediately. “Wasn’t it, Strikes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A couple of the villagers — your Mrs. Padmore included — kicked up such a fuss we’d thought there’d better be an inquiry, but we turned up nothing. Miss Pottlesdon’s life was an open book. She was orphaned at seven and brought up by a maiden aunt. Did well in school and went into teaching. No men in her life that we could discover. She was a good teacher, but eventually shifted into administration, where she excelled. She was made headmistress at Cottelsby at the age of thirty-eight. She went from there to Derrington, and then to Brandeston when she was, oh, say forty-seven or so. It was there that she met our Miss Carberry, and she stayed there until retirement. We talked to all three schools: they all gave her excellent references and said there had never been a breath of anything even vaguely improper, nor any major problems during her tenure. We spoke to several ex-students who universally loathed her, but none of them could remember anything occurring during their years under her that could conceivably lead to murder in her old age. Of course, the village itself is simply crammed with people who might have wanted her out of the way. She was a first-class nuisance.”

“But you don’t go to the trouble of murdering a nuisance,” said Gibbons.

“Exactly. Strikes, what were some of those things you dug up?”

“There was Mrs. Banner, sir. She’s never forgiven Miss Pottlesdon for criticizing her table at the fete a few years back. There was a big row and Mrs. Banner just up and quit and nothing the vicar could say would bring her back. The vicar was that mad, because it made them one short for the tea tent, and Miss Pottlesdon wouldn’t do it herself — said her forte was administration, not servants’ work. Then there was Mr. Hankin last year at the county fair. He insists to this day that Miss Pottlesdon switched his tomatoes for hers and walked away with the prize.

“To be fair,” added Strikes, “I doubt she did any such thing. She wanted to run the village the way she’d run her school, but she was honest.”

“That hardly matters,” put in Daniels, “so long as Mr. Hankin truly believed she’d done it. And there was a general consensus here that something odd had happened.”

“Yes, sir. There were Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher. That was just a couple of months ago. Mr. Fletcher had been having it off with a girl in Thornegarth. Miss Pottlesdon found out about it, and told Mrs. Fletcher. She thought it only right she should know.”

Bethancourt whistled softly. “Very indiscreet,” he said. “How are the Fletchers nowadays?”

“Well, there was talk of divorce, sir, but they seem to have patched it up now. Anyway, he moved back in about three weeks ago.”

Bethancourt nodded. “Anybody else?”

“Only Jeff Mudlake. He’s the publican. Miss Pottlesdon turned him in for serving people after hours, and he got a warning and a whopping great fine. All his regulars chipped in to help him pay it.”

“Don’t forget that boorish young man. What was his name, Strikes?”

“Wes Barton, sir.”

“And who was he?” asked Gibbons.

“Young man who apparently got one of Miss Pottlesdon’s girls pregnant in her third to last year at Brandeston. The girl and her family were Catholic, so there was no question of abortion. Miss Pottlesdon brought pressure to bear, and the young man was forced into marrying the girl.” Daniels shook his head. “It was a terrible mismatch. The girl’s family was poor but educated, and this Barton was just a village lad with a way with engines. Worked in the garage in the town. He hadn’t the least interest in the girl beyond bedding her, and she was only scared to death and desperate to get married before she gave birth. Well, he turned up here about a week before the accident — his sister lives in the area — and one drunken night in the pub was railing against Miss Pottlesdon for having ruined his life. His wife evidently didn’t believe in birth control either and produced another child. When she became pregnant the third time, he insisted she get an abortion. They had a big row, and he left. To tell the truth, the young man’s had a hard time trying to make ends meet with a wife and two children.”

“But he couldn’t have done it?” asked Bethancourt.

“No,” said Daniels. “Not exactly. He was still at his sister’s when it happened. Actually, none of the people we’ve mentioned have an alibi, but neither could we get any proof against them, and none of them apparently knows much about mushrooms. And none of them were likely to be invited to dinner at Miss Pottlesdon’s.”

“That’s not altogether true, sir,” said Strikes. “Remember, you said any one of them might have been if they’d called up and said they wanted to bury the hatchet. Miss Pottlesdon wasn’t vindictive — just particular.”

“True,” sighed Daniels.

“Did any of them know she had been mushroom-gathering that day?” asked Gibbons.

Strikes grinned. “The whole village knew that, sir. Both she and Miss Carberry had talked of nothing else all week.”

“We thought,” said Daniels, “that Wes Barton was probably our best bet, only, well, as I said, the lad’s not very bright. He can fix a car quick enough, but he’s useless for anything else. He couldn’t tell a good mushroom from a poisonous one on the best day he ever had. Nor is he clever enough to come up with such an idea — if he’d wanted to kill her, he’d have bashed her over the head with something heavy or else run her over with a car. And even if he, or anyone else, for that matter, had found a poisonous mushroom and chucked it in her basket, she would still have had to miss it while she was washing them up. She always checked them over a second time then. Everyone in the village testified to that.”

“Could anyone have added to what was in her basket?” asked Gibbons.

“Oh, yes,” replied Daniels. “It was sitting on her back porch all afternoon. I’ll run it through for you, if you like. You correct me if I go wrong, Strikes. Let’s see. She and Miss Carberry went out after mushrooms at about eleven o’clock that morning. At about one, Miss Carberry was feeling ill and went back alone. Miss Pottlesdon was seen by her neighbor coming back from the forest at about two fifteen. She left the basket of mushrooms and her gloves on the back porch and went inside. Miss Carberry says she probably had a bath and made herself some tea — that was the usual thing, I gather. Anyway, her neighbor went out about six to call her daughter in and saw Miss Pottlesdon on her porch taking the mushrooms in. Usually, I gather, Miss Carberry would come over for supper, but she was still feeling unwell, and they decided to put it off. She said Miss Pottlesdon told her that she would just put a few mushrooms in the salad and save the rest for their dinner together.” Daniels took a swig of his beer and leaned forward. “Now, here’s the only thing that made me spend as much time on the case as I did. When we went over Miss Pottlesdon’s house, everything from the dinner had been cleared up, but in the dish drainer by the sink, there were two sets of dishes.”

“Just as if she’d had someone in to dinner after all?”

“Exactly. Of course, it proves nothing. The other dishes might have been left from her breakfast. Or she might have taken them out before Miss Carberry called, decided they were dusty or something, and washed them up with the rest.”

“Yes,” sighed Gibbons, who had gotten interested for a moment. “It’s suggestive, but nothing more.”

“What about money?” asked Bethancourt. “You never mentioned that as a motive.”

Both Daniels and Strikes laughed. “That’s because there wasn’t any,” answered Daniels. “She had her Social Security and her retirement pay, none of which would continue after her death. The only other money she had was a few investments she inherited from her aunt, but they only brought in about a hundred quid a month. Hardly enough to do murder for.”

“No,” agreed Bethancourt regretfully.

“There was Miss Carberry’s niece, sir,” suggested Strikes tentatively.

“Oh, yes,” said Daniels. “I’d forgotten her. She was seen in Thornegarth that day, although she wasn’t supposed to be here and Miss Carberry says she wasn’t. Rumor has it that she recently has been having an affair with a Donald Cranston, who has rather a reputation for, well, let’s call it a certain perverseness in his tastes. That may be why her aunt didn’t know of her visit. On the other hand, she may have gone to dinner at Miss Pottlesdon’s in Miss Carberry’s place and been given the job of washing up the mushrooms — she knew something about it from her aunt. Miss Carberry could be protecting her. However, if she failed to spot the bad one, it’s hardly a crime, and the poor girl’s had a rough life — I myself would hardly like to have her mistake brought home to her, if indeed it was hers.” He stretched his arms above his head, cracking his knuckles as he did so. “So, you see, Jack, it had to be misadventure one way or the other. I don’t deny that the mistake might have been the niece’s rather than Miss Pottlesdon’s, but I think you’ll agree that there’s hardly any point in torturing her by public exposure. If it was Pam Sullivan, she probably feels bad enough as it is.”

“That’s so,” agreed Gibbons.

Daniels glanced at his watch. “How about some lunch at the pub?” he asked. “I told my wife I’d be back by teatime, but—”

“Wife?” said Gibbons. “I didn’t know you’d gotten married.”

“Two years ago,” replied Daniels with satisfaction. “We’re expecting our first in the fall.”

“Congratulations! Yes, let’s go for lunch — you can fill me in on family life.”

Constable Strikes declined to accompany them, pleading his wife’s imminent return as an excuse, so they thanked him for his information and his beer and took their leave. Outside, a fine drizzle had begun. Daniels drove them the short distance to the village center, warning them along the way that the pub was far from being a gastronome’s delight but that the sausages weren’t too bad, all things considered.

“I hope you weren’t too bored, Phillip,” said Gibbons as they stood outside the pub after lunch, watching Daniels’ car drive away.

“No, no,” replied Bethancourt, “not at all. I was picking up the local gossip.”

“Hear anything interesting?”

“Just that Wes Barton is a no-gooder and has apparently seduced an eighteen-year-old shop girl named Sally who lives in the village and whose parents are, as yet, unsuspecting. He is still married to his wife, which makes it worse. Also that everyone here has absolute faith in the infallibility of Misses Pottlesdon and Car-berry, at least when it comes to mushrooms, and there are now rumors circulating to the effect that Wes Barton tried to poison both of them. I would have more faith in that rumor,” he added, “if it hadn’t arisen directly on the heels of the news about young Sally.”

“Well, yes,” said Gibbons, “but Phillip, if Miss Pottlesdon had found out about this Sally and was threatening to make Barton provide for the girl or to tell her parents, it gives him an excellent motive for putting her out of the way.”

Bethancourt shrugged. “You heard Daniels. The lad’s not bright and besides, it still leaves how Miss Pottlesdon missed that mushroom when she was washing them up.”

“Not really,” said Gibbons.

“Not really? What do you mean, ‘Not really’?”

“Well, I didn’t like to say anything in front of old Daniels, but that’s all bosh. If Miss Carberry’s right, and Miss Pottlesdon used the mushrooms in the salad, then anyone who was dining with her could have brought the bad one in with them and tossed it into the salad. Of course, they would then have to avoid eating it themselves, but I imagine that could be managed without too much trouble.”

Bethancourt was staring at his friend. “Jack, old man,” he said, “you’re brilliant. I never once thought of that.”

“Of course,” added Gibbons hastily, feeling that he might have been unduly encouraging, “there’s still your first point: that Barton wouldn’t know a poisonous mushroom if he tripped over it. Altogether, I’m afraid it still looks like an accident.”

“Yes,” mused his friend. “Yes, it does, rather. But,” he added, cheering, “at least there are one or two things to be followed up. We’d best get on to Miss Carberry’s.”

“It might be better,” pointed out Gibbons, “to visit Wes Barton’s sister, or look in on the Fletchers. Those are the best motives.”

“But we told Miss Carberry we’d be there,” said Bethancourt. “We can’t possibly disappoint her. Supposing she sent out for spirits?”

Gibbons grinned. “That’s true,” he said. “Very well, the others can wait.”

“Besides,” added Bethancourt, leading the way, “she can take us over Miss Pottlesdon’s cottage. She has the key.”

“I’d forgotten that,” replied Gibbons. “Look, Phillip, is that an oak?”

Bethancourt raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Birch,” he said shortly.

Miss Carberry welcomed them in a flustered manner. She was the sort of spinster who seemed half afraid of men, and having them in her cottage was clearly unusual for her. Bethancourt and Gibbons felt like bulls in a china shop. Bethancourt, in particular, was almost a foot taller than Miss Carberry, his head only missing the ceiling beams by inches, and she gazed up at him as though he were somebody else’s large and aggressive Alsatian.

Marzipan, on the other hand, was completely unintimidated. He barked strenuously at Cerberus, who ignored him, until Miss Carberry scooped him up and pushed him into another room, firmly closing the door on him. The barking, however, did not cease and Bethancourt, over Miss Carberry’s protestations, ordered Cerberus to wait outside on the porch. Marzipan, released from confinement, quieted down and went running about in search of his foe, who seemed to him to have disappeared in the most unaccountable way.

The cottage was quite small and very homey. They were ushered into the little living room and introduced to Miss Carberry’s niece. The reason for Daniels’ comment concerning her probable lover’s perverseness, which had seemed uncalled for at the time, now immediately became obvious. Her right leg had been amputated below the knee, and a crutch leaned against her chair. For the rest, she was a plain, thin woman with a tired, careworn face. She looked older than she was, and Bethancourt remembered that Daniels had said her life had been a hard one.

She greeted them quietly while Miss Carberry shooed them into seats and then scurried out to fetch the tea tray.

“Pam told me,” she said, pausing anxiously on the threshold, “that you would like tea. A proper tea, I mean, even though it’s early.”

“We love tea,” Bethancourt assured her.

“We hardly drink anything else,” added Gibbons.

Miss Carberry, reassured, departed.

Pam Sullivan looked after her. “Poor dear,” she said. “It’s been awfully difficult for her. She and Nan were together so much of the time that now she hardly knows what to do with herself. And Nan was really the planner — Aunt Dottie’s not used to planning for herself.”

“We’re sorry to come dredging it all up again,” said Gibbons.

She smiled at him. “Oh, no,” she said. “That won’t bother her. Now that Nan’s gone, she loves to talk about her. Only,” her face fell, “I’m afraid she isn’t going to last very long. The only way she cheers herself up is by reminding herself that she’ll soon die, too.”

“She looks fairly robust to me,” said Bethancourt.

Pam glanced at him, surprised. “But she hasn’t got long to live,” she said. “Didn’t you know? She’s got a brain tumor — it was diagnosed a few months ago. She’s fine now, but the doctors say it will be a year at most before she’ll have to be hospitalized, and the end will come soon after that. It’s inoperable, you see.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Bethancourt. “We didn’t know.”

She shrugged. “It’s common knowledge in the village,” she said, and then ceased talking as Miss Carberry returned bearing a large tray. There were scones, and cucumber sandwiches, and a variety of homemade biscuits. Gibbons eyed it all (lunch at the pub had not been very satisfying) and tried to forget what the scales had told him the last time he weighed himself.

Miss Carberry poured out, watching them anxiously, and pressing the food on them. Then, all at once, she sat back with her own cup and said, “So I expect you want to hear about Nan. Or did you just want to go over to her cottage? I have the keys, you know, although I haven’t got very far with clearing it out. It doesn’t seem to matter somehow.” She sighed. “It’s all so different from the way we thought it would be.”

“You’re Miss Pottlesdon’s heir, I take it?” asked Bethancourt.

“Oh, yes. And she was mine until I found Pam here. I changed my will then, with Nan’s knowledge, of course. Not that either of us had much to leave, beyond our furniture and things. We always thought,” she added sadly, “that she’d go first. She was older than me, you see, and not in as good health.”

“But Aunt,” said Pam gently, “she did go first.”

Miss Carberry looked a little startled. “Oh, yes, so she did. I almost forget sometimes — I was so worried, you see, when I found out about my tumor, that she’d have no one to care for her after I was gone.”

“I would have done my best,” said Pam reproachfully. “You know that, Aunt. You made me promise.”

“Well, of course, dear, but you have to work, don’t you? And you don’t live here. It wouldn’t have been the same thing at all.”

“We understand that the two of you usually went to gather mushrooms together,” said Bethancourt.

“Oh, yes,” answered Miss Carberry. “My mother always had wild mushrooms when I was a child, and when I retired here, I took it up again. Yes, Nan and I made quite a little ceremony out of it every spring. We’d go out and take our lunch with us and spend the day in the woods. Then we’d come back and have supper with champagne, using the mushrooms. We’d do the same in the fall, when we went for the last pickings of the year. It was very pleasant.”

“This was your first trip this spring then?”

“Yes.” She nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, the first really nice spring day it was. We always waited for a nice, sunny day. We got a good batch. But then my head started aching, and I couldn’t keep up. Nan almost came back with me, but then she thought she’d just go a little farther. It was early yet, you see.” Miss Carberry looked woeful. “She must have gotten tired after I left and was careless with the last group. It must have been the last group. It’s then, you see, when you’re thinking of going home, that you might not pay such good attention. She must have thought that she’d check them over better when she was cleaning them.”

“But then why didn’t she do that?” asked Gibbons.

“I can’t imagine,” said Miss Carberry. “Really, it was extraordinarily careless of her, and Nan was not a careless person as a rule. Her eyes had been giving her a bit of trouble lately, especially when she was tired. Perhaps that was it.”

“Tell me,” said Bethancourt, “if she had looked the mushrooms over very carefully while picking them, might she have not bothered to check them very well later? I mean, since she was rushed?”

“She might,” admitted Miss Carberry. “But she couldn’t have checked very carefully in the first place, could she? If she had, there wouldn’t have been a bad one in the basket, would there? Oh, I see. You think someone chucked a bad one in while the basket was on the porch. But really, that’s too silly. I know Nan wasn’t as well-liked here as she deserved, but no one would have killed her. After all, she always acted from the best of intentions, and everyone knew that, even if they didn’t like the consequences.”

“What about you, Miss Carberry? Did you approve of her actions?”

“Nan was terribly organized,” said Miss Carberry. “I always admired her for that because of course, I’m not organized myself at all. She liked to have things tidied up, details seen to, and so on. At heart she was still a headmistress. She felt responsible. Are you quite certain, Mr. Bethancourt, that your dog is all right out there?”

“He’s just fine, Miss Carberry. Having a nap, I expect.”

“Dogs are terribly hardy, aren’t they?” she said. “I know Mr. Bates’s farm dog sleeps outside in all kinds of weather and never seems any the worse for it. I don’t think, though, that Marzipan would ever really take to it.”

“No,” said Bethancourt, “I shouldn’t recommend it for the smaller breeds.”

“Well,” she said, setting her teacup aside, “I expect you’d like to see Nan’s place now. That is, if you’ve quite finished your tea? Certain you won’t take anything more? Then I’ll just get my coat. Pam, you keep Marzipan in here — and don’t bother to clear away. I’ll do that when I get back.”

“Yes, Aunt,” said Pam with a smile that indicated she had no intention of following this advice.

“I worry about that girl,” said Miss Carberry once they were safely outside, having eluded the vigilant Marzipan. “She always will do too much, even when she’s here and supposed to be resting. Nan’s cottage is down this way, just round the bend.”

“You mentioned ‘finding’ your niece, Miss Carberry?” asked Bethancourt, motioning to Cerberus to follow them.

“My, isn’t he well-behaved. Not at all like Marzipan. Nan always said I spoiled him too much. She said people like me shouldn’t be allowed to keep animals.”

“You didn’t mind that?”

Miss Carberry seemed surprised. “Why should I?” she asked. “She was entitled to her opinion. In any case, she was right in a way. Marzipan has never behaved. Actually, she found me.”

“She?” asked Bethancourt, confused. “I thought Marzipan was a male dog.”

“Not Marzipan. My niece. She wrote me a very nice letter when she got out of hospital. After the operation, you know, on her leg. I didn’t even know I had a niece.”

“You weren’t close with your family, then?”

“It’s a very sad story,” said Miss Carberry. “And a rather long one. Do you really want to hear about it or are you just being polite? It has nothing to do with Nan, you know.”

“I’d be very interested,” replied Bethancourt. Gibbons said nothing. He had fallen a little behind them, watching a chipmunk, and wasn’t listening.

“I’ll make it brief, then,” said Miss Carberry. “I had very strict parents, and I’m afraid I was never spirited enough to gainsay them. My sister was the spirited one — she was always in trouble, but I just couldn’t stand all the fuss. Anyway, when I was about eighteen, I met a young man and fell madly in love with him. He wasn’t a very nice young man, as it turned out, but I wasn’t to know that then. He wanted to marry me, but my parents absolutely forbade it. I was foolish enough to bow to their wishes and break my engagement. Well, can you guess what happened next?” She stopped and looked at Bethancourt with a bright eye.

Bethancourt had just lit a cigarette; he had felt smoking somehow inappropriate in Miss Carberry’s home. He tucked the lighter back into his jacket pocket and said, “My guess would be that your sister ran off with him instead.”

Miss Carberry laughed. “You’re a very good guesser,” she said. “That’s exactly right. My parents disowned her and forbade me to ever communicate with her again. I might have gone behind their backs that time, but I was very hurt by what she had done. She knew, you see, how much I had loved him myself.”

“So you never saw her again?”

“No. Evidently he took her abroad and, about four years later, abandoned her for another woman. Pam was three then. My sister continued to live abroad and went into service, not being qualified for anything else. Only I’m afraid she wasn’t very good at that, either. At any rate, Pam speaks of several moves in her early years. Then, when she was about eight, my sister died. No one knew the child had relatives in England, so she was put into an orphanage in France. I gather it wasn’t a very pleasant place.”

Bethancourt exhaled and watched the wind take the smoke away. “How did she end up back here then?”

“She married an Englishman,” replied Miss Carberry. “They moved back to England and had a son, and it was then that Pam began trying to track down her family here. It wasn’t easy, but she had finally found out where I was when the car accident happened. Both her son and her husband were killed, and her right leg was crushed. She’d been working as a cleaning woman, but that was out of the question with only one leg. So she found a job in a factory where she can sit down to her work, although I gather it’s not a very nice job. Repetitive, she says, and very long hours. And I’m afraid my pension won’t stretch to two.”

Bethancourt was reflective. “You’re right,” he said in a moment. “That’s a very sad story.”

They had rounded the bend in the lane. The land sloped downward here, and at the bottom of the hill stood two houses, separated from each other by a high hedge. The houses looked out across a meadow, and thence to the forest, which loomed up all about them here.

“That’s Nan’s place,” said Miss Carberry, indicating the nearer house. “I found it for her when I went to rent my own cottage. This one was more expensive, but then Nan’s pension was larger than mine. It was nice for us, being so close.” Bethancourt was peering at the meadow. “Is that — oh, I see. It’s a little girl.”

“Susan Thelgarth,” supplied Miss Carberry. “She’s always playing out there, or in the forest itself. Her mother really doesn’t keep enough watch on her; Nan spoke to her about it several times, and warned her that the forest could be dangerous. We took her out last year and showed her the mushrooms so she shouldn’t eat a bad one by mistake. Where’s your Mr. Gibbons got to?”

Bethancourt looked around. “He’s probably trying to find an oak,” he muttered. “Jack! Jack, hurry up!”

In a moment, Gibbons came round the bend, holding a wild-flower in his hand. He waved, and trotted to join them on the porch.

“Here I am,” he said. “Just stopped to pick a flower. Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Bethancourt curtly. “This was Miss Pottlesdon’s house. Is this the back porch where the mushrooms were, Miss Carberry? It seems like the front to me.”

“No, no,” said Miss Carberry, producing a key and inserting it in the lock. “This is the back. It opens on the kitchen, you see. Here we are.”

This cottage was considerably larger than Miss Car-berry’s. They entered a spacious kitchen in which everything was neat as a pin.

“She used to sit here,” said Miss Carberry, indicating a small table set before the window, “for her morning coffee and breakfast. The dining room is through here.” She led the way through a door in the farther wall that opened directly on a small dining room filled by a polished dinner table centered beneath the overhead lamp and a matching sideboard against one wall. Again, nothing was out of place. The candies on the table were new ones, each glass and plate in the sideboard’s glass-fronted cabinet was precisely placed, and the six matching chairs were centered, their seats pushed neatly under the table.

A second doorway at the end of the room led into a small foyer and, beyond, to the living room. A chintz-covered sofa and two easy chairs were grouped about the fireplace, and the walls were lined with books. Here there was some disorder. A large cardboard box stood open on the floor, and there was a wide gap in the bookshelves.

“It’s all I’ve managed to do so far,” said Miss Carberry apologetically. “The books seemed easiest to start with, but I haven’t done very much all the same.”

She looked mournfully at the long rows.

They returned to the foyer and followed Miss Carberry up the stairs. At the head of the stairs was the bathroom, and to either side was a bedroom. The one on the left was the larger and had been Miss Pottlesdon’s. A small leather jewel case and a box of tissues sat on the bureau, which was covered by an old fashioned cloth. There was a lamp on the bedside table as well as a bottle of aspirin and a copy of Silas Marner. Otherwise, the bedroom was as bare of character as the rest of the house.

The second bedroom was clearly kept as a guest room, which Miss Carberry confirmed. It was even less informative, if that was possible, than the other rooms.

“Miss Carberry,” said Bethancourt, “have you tidied up much since Miss Pottlesdon was hospitalized?”

“No,” she answered. “I emptied out the refrigerator, of course, and put away the dishes in the drainer, but other than that, I haven’t touched a thing. Except for the books downstairs. And I took her bath salts, as I was running out. Oh, and the toothpaste. It was a new tube and I thought it might as well be put to use. I mean, it’s all mine now, to do with as I wish. Only,” she added with a certainly melancholy, “I don’t seem to want to do much of anything with it. It all just seems so — so worthless, now she’s gone.”

“I do understand how you must feel,” said Bethancourt sympathetically.

“Still,” she sighed, “it’s all got to be cleared out. The owners will want to let the house again, and I can hardly leave it all for Pam to do when I’m gone. You two look around. As long as I’m here, I might as well put some more of those blighted books into boxes.”

She moved off toward the stairs, leaving the two young men alone in the bedroom.

“Not much here, is there?” said Gibbons, opening the closet and finding an orderly array of clothes neatly hung and four pairs of shoes all in a row along the floor.

“I’ve never seen anyone this maniacally neat before,” agreed Bethancourt, pulling out the bedside table’s drawers one after another. “If I see one more thing correctly in its place, I shall scream.”

“It’s hardly a home at all,” said Gibbons, abandoning the closet and gazing out of the window. “Usually you get a feeling for a person from their things, but this place could be a showroom. There’s really nothing personal at all here.”

“Probably comes of having lived in institutions her whole life,” said Bethancourt.

“Not necessarily. Miss Car-berry’s home was pleasant enough. Not exactly my taste, but very comfortable and homey.”

“True, but Miss Pottlesdon seems to have been quite a different sort from her friend. She was a born headmistress, if you ask me.”

Gibbons turned from the window and grinned. “You sound quite venomous, Phillip. Did you have some problems with a headmistress in your schooldays?”

Bethancourt shrugged. “A few,” he answered. “Here, let’s go downstairs and look at the books. There’s nothing here.”

In the living room, Miss Carberry was taking the books from the shelves without so much as glancing at their titles and placing them carefully in the cardboard box. She moved slowly, and there was a curious kind of hopelessness about her movements, as though she were digging a hole that she expected to be filling back in shortly.

Bethancourt politely offered his assistance, but she declined, pausing in her work to rest against one of the armchairs.

“I’m sure you have better things to do,” she said. “Detecting, and all that. After all, it’s why you came, isn’t it? And besides, this is my little job. It’s the least I can do for Nan. In the normal way of things, she’d have been doing it for me, only, of course, she would have had it done by now.” Miss Carberry sighed. “She was so decisive. I’ve never been very decisive myself.”

“Uh, Miss Carberry,” interrupted Gibbons, “we did just want to ask you: what became of the rest of the mushrooms?”

“The rest of the mushrooms?” repeated Miss Carberry, vaguely. “What mushrooms?”

“The mushrooms you and Miss Pottlesdon had gathered that day,” said Bethancourt patiently.

“Oh, I found them in the refrigerator when I came by next day. You know, after she’d been taken to hospital. I came round to make sure there was nothing spoiling and to change the bed linens for when she came home. I thought at the time that she would be — oh, never mind that,” she added, impatient with herself.

“So you threw them out?” asked Gibbons.

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “They’d only been picked the day before and were still quite fresh. I took them home.”

“And ate them?” asked Bethancourt, scandalized.

Miss Carberry shot him a shrewd look. “Well, I checked them over first, of course,” she said. “I’m not yet senile. But they were all quite all right. Nan must have gotten the only bad one.”

“Yes,” said Bethancourt, who was glancing over the books on the shelves. “I suppose it would be extraordinary if she made more than one mistake.”

“It certainly would.” Miss Carberry nodded energetically.

The books were all alphabetized by author, the fiction separated from the nonfiction, and the nonfiction broken up by subject.

“There are quite a few on mushrooms here. Mushrooms and gardening,” said Bethancourt.

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Carberry. “Nan was quite an expert. I taught her at first, you know, the way my mother had taught me. But once she became truly interested, she had to research it all, and learn all sorts of extra things. She was like that, if she was interested in a subject. In the end, she knew a great deal more than I did about mushrooms.”

“Perhaps,” said Bethancourt, “your own knowledge, learned in childhood and therefore more instinctive, is also more reliable.”

“It seems,” said Miss Carberry sadly, “as if that were so.”

The fine rain had stopped, and away to the east there was a patch of blue sky. Gibbons looked at it appreciatively.

“It looks as though it’s going to be a fine night,” he observed.

“Yes,” agreed Bethancourt meditatively. “I think perhaps the best thing to do now is check in with Natalie Padmore. We can gather gossip about the Fletchers and Wes Barton from her, and wangle an introduction.”

“Yes,” said Gibbons reluctantly. “Or we could visit the scene of the crime.”

Bethancourt stared at him. “I was under the impression,” he said, “that we had just done that.”

“I put it badly,” said Gibbons hastily. “I meant, have a look at the woods and mushrooms themselves. Woods,” he added, “always seem to smell particularly good after a rain.”

“Jack,” said Bethancourt severely, “you have been cooped up in London entirely too long.”

“It’s only teatime,” said Gibbons persuasively.

Bethancourt sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I can see you won’t be able to concentrate until you’ve breathed deeply in a damp forest. We can cut across the meadow. Cerberus, come.”

They started off, making their way through the thick grass, their trouser legs getting thoroughly soaked in the process. Cerberus bounded ahead, running back occasionally to check on them, and then racing forward again. Suddenly, as he reached the eaves of the forest, he drew up abruptly and stood, wagging his tail gently.

“I wonder what he’s found?” asked Gibbons, vaguely curious.

“I don’t — oh, Lord,” replied Bethancourt. “It must be that little girl.”

He sprinted ahead, expecting to find a child cowering against a tree trunk. Cerberus, being considerable larger than most children, often provoked this response despite the best of intentions, and Bethancourt was only thankful that this particular child did not appear to be a screamer.

Neither was she afraid of the dog. She was indeed standing before a tree trunk, but both hands were buried in the Borzoi’s fur behind his ears, and she was cooing softly to him. She looked up as Bethancourt approached, and said, a little guardedly, “Hello.”

“Hello,” responded a much-relieved Bethancourt, coming to a halt.

There was an awkward pause. “I was afraid,” said Bethancourt, “that he might have frightened you.”

She gave him a scornful look. “He’s beautiful,” she said firmly. “What’s his name?”

“Cerberus.”

“Cerberus,” she repeated carefully, and the dog’s tail waved at the sound of his name. “That’s a funny name.”

Bethancourt squatted down beside her. “It’s from Greek mythology,” he said. “Cerberus was the name of the three-headed dog who guarded the gates of Hades. That was their name for hell.”

This information did not appear to raise her opinion of Bethancourt. She petted the dog more firmly, as if to make up for the neglect he must certainly endure by being owned by a madman, and said, “What on earth did you want to name him that for?”

Bethancourt smiled. “Odd sense of humor, I suppose. Your name is Susan, isn’t it? Miss Carberry pointed you out to us as we came down.”

She nodded. “And you’re Mrs. Padmore’s detectives. Jason told me all about you. You’re from Scotland Yard.”

“No,” replied Bethancourt. “Only my friend works there. I just help him out occasionally. I’m Phillip Bethancourt.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she replied automatically, her attention on the dog.

“Perhaps you could help us with our detecting,” said Bethancourt ingratiatingly. “You play around here quite often, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She did not appear to be very interested in this proposition. “I live here,” she added.

“Of course,” said Bethancourt. “Tell me, do you remember the day Miss Pottlesdon and Miss Carberry went out for mushrooms?”

“Yes.” She shifted her attention to Cerberus’ chest, and the great dog sat down, panting happily at her.

“Did you see them?”

“I saw them start off. I didn’t see them in the forest later.”

“Did you see anyone else around here that day?”

“Of course.” She spared him a glance. “It was a nice, sunny day. Lots of people come out then. I like it better when I’m alone.”

“Naturally so,” agreed Bethancourt. “Will you tell me who you saw?”

This, her look seemed to say, was just like a grownup. They came along and interrupted you and asked you a lot of pointless questions.

“It would really be a big help,” said Bethancourt persuasively.

“Nobody in the morning. In the afternoon there were lots of people. Jason came by after lunch. I found Mr. Banks in the forest. Quite far in. He was looking for birds’ nests, but I wouldn’t show him any.”

“Quite right,” said Bethancourt stoutly.

“Hello,” said Gibbons, coming up.

“You’re the Scotland Yard man,” said Susan, showing more interest in him than she had in his friend.

“Yes,” admitted Gibbons, not in the least taken aback by this abrupt form of address. “My name’s Gibbons.”

“I’m Susan,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Susan was just telling me who else was wandering in this part of the forest the day Miss Pottlesdon was taken ill,” Bethancourt told his friend. “Do please go on, Susan.”

“There was Sally Barnes and that new young man of hers.”

Bethancourt and Gibbons exchanged glances.

“Do you mean Wes Barton?” asked Bethancourt. “The man who came to visit his sister?”

Susan nodded. “That’s the one. They had a picnic in the meadow, farther down that way. Then they came into the woods and hid behind some bushes. I suppose they thought nobody would find them there, but they didn’t go nearly far enough in for that. Mrs. Can-field passed close by and heard them and made me come away. She said it wasn’t nice to spy on people.”

“Neither is it,” said Bethancourt.

She regarded him seriously. “I thought that’s what detectives do,” she said.

“No,” said Gibbons. “Detectives mostly ask questions, like us. Do you remember what time Sally and Wes were here?”

“Do you get beaten up a lot?” she asked, ignoring his question. “Detectives on the telly always do.”

“No,” replied Gibbons. “Real detectives don’t get beaten up in the normal way of things.”

“Oh.” She seemed to consider this for a moment and then, shrugging it off, returned to the previous subject. “They were here about teatime. I saw them going off later, when I was talking to Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher. That was about six o’clock, I suppose. Anyway, it got dark soon after, and I had to go in.”

“The Fletchers were here as well?”

“Yes. They came for a walk before supper. They often do when it’s nice. Sometimes they drop in on Mum and have a drink.”

Again, the two young men exchanged glances.

“Did you see any of these people go near Miss Pottlesdon’s cottage?” asked Gibbons.

“No.”

“You mean they didn’t, or that you didn’t see?”

“I didn’t see. I wasn’t looking and, anyway, you can’t see the cottage so well from here. Not unless you’re in a tree.”

“I see.”

Susan gave Cerberus a final pat and looked up at Gibbons. “Do you want to see some mushrooms?” she asked. “I can tell the difference. Miss Pottlesdon taught me. I can show you which are the good ones and which are the bad.”

Gibbons smiled. “That sounds very interesting,” he said.

“Come along then.”

Without further ado, she turned and moved off between the trees, Gibbons following behind her. Bethancourt quickly scrambled to his feet and went after them, Cerberus bounding ahead once again.

Susan led the way confidently. There was a path, but she diverged from this regularly, trampling over the bracken and pushing her way through bushes. All about them, the tree trunks, both slender and wide, were dark with the wet, making the first, pale green leaves even paler in comparison. The boughs stretched above them, dripping on their heads and obscuring Bethancourt’s glasses. These he finally removed and was immediately reduced to squinting.

“Here,” said Susan, stopping abruptly. She crouched down at the foot of an old birch and pushed away some dead leaves, revealing a patch of fungi. The men joined her on the ground and peered intently at this find, discovering in the process that what had appeared to be all one crop was in fact several distinct clumps.

“There were more,” said Susan, “but I picked some of them for Miss Pottlesdon the other day.”

“These would be the good ones, then?” asked Gibbons.

“Some are. Some aren’t. Here, I’ll show you if you like.”

She scrutinized the mushrooms fiercely for a few moments and then reached out and plucked several from the earth. She sat back on her haunches and glared at the roots, brushing away the dirt with her fingers.

“There,” she said, handing one bunch to Gibbons. “Those are the good ones. This here is a poisonous one.”

Gibbons turned them over in his hand. “You said you picked some for Miss Pottlesdon,” he said. “When was that?”

“That day,” she answered. “I put them in her basket with the others. There were only a few, just to be polite.”

“That was nice of you,” said Bethancourt. “Did you always add to what she’d gathered?”

Susan shrugged. “Most times. Mum won’t let me bring them home.” She was starting off between the trees, watching Cerberus running after a squirrel. Suddenly she turned back to them and announced, “I’ve got to go. It’s teatime.”

“Just a moment,” said Gibbons. He had pulled out his handkerchief and was carefully wrapping up the mushrooms she had handed him. “Where’s the poisonous one?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want that for?”

“I want to compare them.”

She considered this and then bent and recaptured the one she had cast aside. “Well, don’t go mixing them up and eating them,” she warned.

“I won’t,” promised Gibbons. “In fact, I won’t eat any of them. Just a very scientific comparison.”

She nodded and turned away without further comment, moving swiftly off between the trees.

The two young men rose more slowly and began to make their own way back, Bethancourt calling to the dog to follow. They were silent for a moment, and then, “Do you think that’s what happened, Jack?” asked Bethancourt, disturbed.

“I don’t know,” replied Gibbons. “I think we’d better find Miss Carberry and have this sample vetted by her.”

“Yes,” agreed Bethancourt. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

It was dark by the time they emerged from the woods, and even Gibbons was beginning to think less kindly of country life. They had followed the wrong path for quite a distance before they realized their mistake, and then it had taken them some time to find the correct path. Indeed, in the gathering dusk they might not have found it at all, had not Cerberus decided he was hungry and begun heading for home. By the time they found themselves tramping back across the meadow, they were cold, damp, and weary. But there was a light burning in Miss Pottlesdon’s window, and they dutifully made their way back to the cottage.

Miss Carberry was just preparing to leave, having spent the afternoon packing books. She appeared a little surprised to see the two detectives back so soon, but obligingly let them in and looked over their mushrooms under the kitchen lamp. She examined them one by one, turning them over with her strong, blunt fingers, setting each one aside with a muttered, “Good.”

“That’s the lot, then,” she said, looking up at them. “You must know more about mushrooms than you let on. They’re all perfectly edible.”

“Here’s one escaped in my pocket,” said Gibbons, producing the reputedly poisonous mushroom. He put it down with the others, but Miss Carberry immediately rescued it and held it under the light. Almost at once, she shook her head.

“Well, perhaps you just had good luck,” she said. “This is a bad one. Just because you found it with the others doesn’t mean a thing. They often grow quite close together.” She rose briskly and disposed of it in the trash bin.

“Actually,” said Bethancourt, “we didn’t find them at all. The little girl, Susan, helped us.”

Miss Carberry looked considerably startled. “Susan?” she said. “But she wouldn’t have missed the bad one. Susan’s very good and very careful. She’s brought Nan and me mushrooms she’s picked herself many times, and there’s never been a bad one in the lot.”

Gibbons grinned ruefully. “I did just pick one or two,” he said. “And we weren’t sure how reliable Susan was, so we thought you’d better have a look at them before we ate them.”

“Oh.” Miss Carberry was relieved. “No, Susan’s quite reliable, although you were wise to come along to me. It’s much better to have two opinions if you don’t know anything yourself.”

They thanked her for her help and then, business concluded, they watched her lock up and accompanied her up the road to her own house, shivering and unable to warm up going at Miss Carberry’s slow pace. They left her at the gate and then hastened along, pausing only to discard the mushrooms into the nearest copse.

“There they are,” said Natalie Padmore, nodding in the direction of the bar.

It was nine o’clock, and the single room of the village pub was quite full. Bethancourt and Gibbons, with Mrs. Padmore, were settled against the far wall, which gave them an excellent view of anybody coming in the door. Gibbons had had his faith in country life reinstated by a hot bath, dry clothes, and a solid supper at a restaurant in Thornegarth. He was now thoroughly enjoying his after-supper pint in the cosy atmosphere of the pub. Bethancourt, on the settle, had leaned back with his usual air of contentment and was smoking and sipping in a manner that indicated he could not possibly have been any more comfortable in his own living room. Mrs. Padmore sat between them, toying with a glass of sherry and occasionally brushing a strand of hair back from her face.

They had been there for a quarter of an hour or so, making desultory conversation. There was a slight constraint among them, caused in equal parts by the facts that Gibbons found Mrs. Padmore very attractive and would have liked to indulge in some light flirtation; that Mrs. Padmore, since her husband was absent for the weekend, would also have enjoyed a bit of flirting, but wanted to flirt with Bethancourt; and that Bethancourt was preoccupied with his own thoughts and was not attracted to the lady in any case. Taken all in all, it was not a situation fraught with possibilities.

The pub had been Mrs. Padmore’s suggestion. She had demurred at calling on the Fletchers with her two detectives in tow. She felt it was tantamount to accusing them of murdering Miss Pottlesdon, and she really didn’t think they had. Besides, a slight rift had occurred in her relations with them when she had supported Miss Pottlesdon’s actions in the matter of Mr. Fletcher’s infidelity.

Mrs. Padmore liked Marjorie Fletcher and knew her to be happy in her marriage. She was therefore incensed at Mr. Fletcher’s deception. She would never have had the courage herself to say anything to Marjorie, knowing how it would hurt her, but she was certainly glad that Mr. Fletcher’s extramarital activities had been sharply curtailed. With such a loving and devoted wife, she could not imagine what he had been thinking of.

To the two young men with her, the explanation leapt to mind as soon as they saw the couple enter. The Fletchers were in their mid-forties, but Mr. Fletcher had kept his figure whereas his wife had not. He was a slim man of upright carriage who, in addition, was the possessor of one of those boyish faces that actually gain attractiveness in middle age when life has left some marks of character upon them. Marjorie Fletcher, on the other hand, had gained weight with her years and let her hair become streaked with grey. The lines that gave her husband’s face character merely made hers look old. However, in spite of all this, she had clearly made an effort to look nice: she was smartly dressed, her hair was freshly cut, and she had applied her makeup skillfully. Bethancourt was willing to bet that most of these improvements had been embarked on after the revelation of her husband’s indiscretion.

He was watching them as they placed their orders and were handed their drinks, wondering how on earth he was going to make contact with them in a place where it would be so simple for them to avoid him. It had been his chief concern about the pub suggestion all along, but he might as well have been easy about it. Just as he was wondering whether he could rouse Cerberus from his position beneath the table and somehow get him to nip Mrs. Fletcher’s behind or raise a leg on Mr. Fletcher’s trousers, they turned and came in his direction. They were looking for seats, of which there were few left, when Mrs. Padmore rose and attracted their attention. She invited them to join her party, motioning toward the two empty stools at the other side of the table, and the Fletchers were caught. Considering the absence of any other two seats together, they could not refuse without its seeming pointed and rather rude. They sat down with the best grace they could manage and pretended to be delighted to make Bethancourt’s and Gibbons’ acquaintance.

“I’m so glad we ran into you,” said Bethancourt, after his dog had been admired and his relationship to Mrs. Padmore and hers to his sister had been dissected. “Jack and I were just thinking this afternoon that you might be able to help us with our inquiry.” Mr. Fletcher’s brows began to beetle at this, and Mrs. Fletcher looked nervous, but Bethancourt went on smoothly. “You see, we understand Wes Barton was seen in the meadow across from Miss Pottlesdon’s cottage the afternoon she was taken ill. Susan said she was talking to you when she saw him leave, but she didn’t see where he went. We thought perhaps you might have noticed.”

Mr. Fletcher’s brow cleared, but Mrs. Fletcher looked perplexed and said, “Wes Barton? But I didn’t see him at all. Did you, Ron?”

“That Susan has eyes like a hawk,” said Fletcher admiringly. “No, I didn’t notice him.”

“Then there was no one on the road or near the cottage while you were returning?”

“There was Ben Banks,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “We walked back with him. I didn’t see anyone else.”

“That might be suspicious in itself,” remarked Gibbons. “According to Susan, Wes and Sally Barnes left just before you did, so by all rights you should have seen them ahead of you in the lane.”

Fletcher laughed. “Not if he had Sally with him,” he said. “He’d hardly parade her through the village on his arm.”

“Someone might tell Sally’s parents, you see,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“They were skulking about together like thieves,” agreed Mrs. Padmore. “No, if they’d seen anyone about, they’d have been off the road like a shot. Especially since — well, in view of what they probably went to the forest for in the first place.” She cast an arch glance at Bethancourt, who did not notice.

“That’s true,” he said, meditatively. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

The topic of illicit love did not sit well with the Fletchers. They both appeared uncomfortable and looked down at their drinks.

“It’s a pity you can’t help us,” said Gibbons tactfully. “I don’t expect you noticed anything, well, unusual about Miss Pottlesdon’s cottage? Well, no,” he added, as they shook their heads, “of course you would already have told the police if you had.”

“They hardly asked,” said Mrs. Fletcher bitterly. Mr. Fletcher looked at her, a little alarmed, but she did not continue and an awkward pause ensued.

“Well,” said Bethancourt, setting down his empty glass, “I think another trip to the bar is indicated. No, it’s all right — I’ll stand this round.”

“I’ll come and help you carry,” offered Gibbons.

“No, no,” said Fletcher, unexpectedly, “Let me.”

Accordingly, the two men rose and made their way to the bar.

“You and your friend seem rather young,” said Fletcher while Bethancourt tried to attract the attention of the barmaid. “For detectives, I mean,” he added. “Marjorie and I were expecting someone older.”

“Everyone has to start sometime,” replied Bethancourt serenely, signaling in vain above the heads of several regulars planted firmly at the bar. “Inspector Daniels,” he pointed out, “isn’t much older.”

“No,” admitted Fletcher.

“Your wife didn’t seem to care much for him.”

“No,” said Fletcher again. “Well, he made some insinuations...” His voice trailed off, and he gazed at Bethancourt indecisively. That young man had momentarily given up on the barmaid and was staring pathetically after her as she busied herself at the opposite end of the bar. “Look here,” said Fletcher, making up his mind. “Marjorie’s had a bad time of it lately, and I’d rather she wasn’t upset any further. I expect you’ve heard about the trouble we had. That Daniels seemed to think we’d poisoned Miss Pottlesdon for revenge, but neither of us felt like that at all.”

“No?” asked Bethancourt, looking round at him. “What did you feel like?”

Fletcher grinned. “Mostly like a heel,” he replied. “But honestly, I admit when Marjorie threw me out, I might have thought of taking it out on the old cat. I certainly called her a lot of names. But after Marjorie and I began to work things out, neither of us had time to think of revenge. We were too busy thinking about each other.”

“Naturally so,” agreed Bethancourt. “So you — oh, look, here we are. You were having lager, weren’t you? Two pints of lager, two of bitter, and a sherry, please.” He turned back to Fletcher while their order was being filled. “So you weren’t particularly angry about having to end your liaison?” he asked bluntly.

Fletcher looked away. “No,” he answered. “I was disappointed in a way — she was a very pretty girl. But really, it was almost a relief. I had begun to feel very badly about Marjorie, you see. I suppose,” he added, suddenly belligerent, “you think I’m a heel, too.”

“Not at all,” replied Bethancourt, paying the barmaid. “I think everyone makes mistakes. And perhaps it wasn’t such a bad mistake, at that.”

“What do you mean?” asked Fletcher, to whom this line of thought was clearly a new one.

“Well,” said Bethancourt, passing over two mugs of beer, “would you say your marriage has improved since your reconciliation?”

“Certainly. It’s been wonderful since we worked things out — almost like a whole new beginning.”

“There you are then.”

Fletcher was silent as they made their way back to the table. As they approached it, he paused, cocked an eye at Bethancourt, and asked, “Are you married?”

Bethancourt grinned. “No,” he answered.

“I still don’t think it looks very good,” said Gibbons, pulling off his socks.

Bethancourt lit a cigarette and sank into the only chair in their room. “No,” he agreed. “Of course, it’s perfectly possible that the Fletchers tossed a poison mushroom into the basket on the porch, but so could anyone else, and we’ll never prove it.”

“Well,” said Gibbons, “it was always unlikely that they had dined with Miss Pottlesdon. There were only two sets of dishes in the dishrack, not three.” He yawned widely and pulled his jumper over his head.

“Yes,” said Bethancourt, “but they could have dropped in on their way home, ostensibly to patch things up, and slipped a mushroom into those she was using for dinner.”

“Not,” said Gibbons, “if they walked home with Ben Banks.”

“Exactly.” Bethancourt sighed.

Gibbons stifled another yawn as he removed his shirt and reached for his pajama top. “Tomorrow we can have a word with the girl, Sally, but if that doesn’t turn up anything new, I’m afraid I’m bound to agree with Daniels: it was an accident.”

“Just so,” agreed Bethancourt, and sighed again.

Gibbons glanced at him. “Aren’t you going to bed?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Bethancourt, rousing himself and laying aside his cigarette. He kicked off his shoes and went to stand before the wardrobe. He opened the doors and began to strip, folding each piece of clothing and putting it away as he went. Gibbons, now attired in a pair of dark green pajamas, joined his friend at the wardrobe with his own clothing slung over his arm.

“One thing,” Bethancourt said to him, struggling out of his pants while standing on one foot.

“Yes?”

“If that little girl made the first mistake she’s ever made about mushrooms, and Miss Pottlesdon somehow failed to spot it, I for one firmly refuse to tell anyone about it.”

“It’s not likely anyhow,” replied Gibbons. “It would be an awful big coincidence to have two people — who don’t usually make mistakes about such things — both make the same mistake on the same afternoon.”

“That’s true,” said Bethancourt, cheering. He tossed his socks into the bottom of the wardrobe and padded over to the bed. “That’s perfectly true,” he repeated, climbing between the sheets and thumping the pillow energetically. “I’m glad of it,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of it just like that.” He put his glasses on the night table.

Gibbons grinned at him as he shut the wardrobe door. “I might have known you’d be worried about it,” he said. “Shall I shut the lights?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, Phillip.”

Sally Barnes was a pert blonde of seventeen with a well-rounded figure. They found her, unexpectedly on a Sunday, at the shop where she worked, taking inventory.

“We tried to do it all yesterday,” she told them, “but there just wasn’t time, and I couldn’t stay late last night.” She threw them a saucy glance. “I had a date.”

“It would be surprising if you hadn’t,” replied Bethancourt gallantly. “I wonder — is it possible you might be free for lunch?”

This was evidently unexpected. “To go with you?” she asked.

“That’s right. We’d very much like to buy you lunch if you can make it.”

She smiled at him and he smiled back, eyes behind his glasses twinkling. “All right,” she said. “Only I can’t leave now. We should be done in an hour or so — how would that be?”

“Delightful,” replied Bethancourt. “We’ll come for you then.”

They took their leave, but Sally peered after them from the window. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the grey Jaguar and a smile touched her lips.

“Who were those men, Sally?”

Miss Hanson, the owner of the shop, had come in from the back.

“The detectives Mrs. Padmore called in. On account of Miss Pottlesdon’s death. One of them,” she added, “is from Scotland Yard.”

“Oh.” Miss Hanson, her fears allayed, joined Sally at the window. “Which one is that?”

“The shorter one. I fancy the blond, though, don’t you?”

“Nonsense, Sally. They’re both much too old for you. What did they want to talk to you about, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Sally airily, “but they’re taking me to lunch. I do hope I get a ride in that car.”

“Very likely they’ll drive you home,” said Miss Hanson a trifle sharply, for she would have liked that treat, too, for all she was almost forty. “We’d best get back to work if you have a lunch date. I don’t fancy having to finish alone.”

“Shall we take a drive?” asked Gibbons as they left the shop. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some more of the country, and we’ve got an hour to kill.”

“If you like,” replied Bethancourt. “First, however, we have to find a copy of Vogue.”

“Vogue? Whatever for?”

“There are some smashing pictures of Marla in this month’s issue.”

Gibbons raised his eyebrow. “You miss her that much already?”

“Don’t be silly, Jack.” Bethancourt grinned at him. “I know how to impress a seven-teen-year-old girl.”

An hour later, Gibbons admitted to himself that this was true. Sally had immediately noticed the magazine and Bethancourt had graciously offered it to her, explaining that he had only purchased it to see the pictures of his girlfriend. Sally’s round blue eyes had grown even rounder and she had asked, as if scarcely daring to hope, whether or not Bethancourt’s girlfriend was actually a model.

“Oh, yes,” Bethancourt had replied, in a very offhand manner. He had taken the magazine and flipped through it. “There she is — the redhead there. There are some other pictures of her further on.”

Sally had let out something approaching a squeal. “Marla Tate?” she had asked, awestruck. “Marla Tate’s your girlfriend?”

“Oh, you’ve heard of her then? Yes, we’ve been going out for about a year.”

After this, Sally was more than willing to do anything she could for them, and was doubly flattered by any interest Bethancourt showed in her. Bethancourt, for his part, made a good show of being quite taken with the young lady. Any inclination she might have had toward shielding Wes Barton was flung to the winds.

“Wes?” she said carelessly, aiming at nonchalance and rather overdoing it. “Oh, he was fun — a bit of excitement, you know. In a small place like this, you’ve got to take what comes along.”

They were in the restaurant where Bethancourt and Gibbons had dined the previous evening, and had reached the coffee stage. Bethancourt had selected this setting as opposed to a pub or tea shop to further impress the girl, and also for privacy’s sake. In a pub or tea shop your conversation can almost always be overheard.

“Of course,” said Bethancourt seriously. “Did he ever mention Miss Pottlesdon to you?”

“He called her an old cat,” replied Sally. “And she was. Always poking her nose in where it didn’t belong. He said she’d ruined his life for him and the last thing he wanted was more trouble from her.”

“More trouble?” asked Gibbons. “He anticipated some problem, then?”

Sally smiled smugly. “He was talking about me,” she said. “We went for a picnic in the meadow near her house, and I said we’d best keep out of sight or she’d be telling my parents. My parents,” she added scornfully, “didn’t approve of Wes.”

“I see,” said Bethancourt. “We wanted to talk to you about that picnic, Sally. What time did you start back?”

“Well,” she said slowly, trying to remember, “it was beginning to get dark, so that would be about six.”

“Was anyone else about?”

“The Fletchers,” she answered. “We just caught sight of them as we were packing up the picnic things. Their backs were to us, so we finished in a hurry and went off before they could see us.”

“You followed the road up towards the church?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “That leads right past Miss Carberry’s. She’d be sure to tell Miss Pottlesdon if she saw us. No, we crossed the road and took the path through the woods behind the church. That puts you farther along, past the village. Wes had left the car there.”

“No one was near Miss Pottlesdon’s when you went by?”

“No. We would have seen if there had been because we were watching to make sure she didn’t see us.”

“Of course,” said Bethancourt. “Wes went with you all the way?”

She looked surprised. “Yes,” she answered. “We went for a drink afterwards — not the village pub, of course. We took the car over to the Dog and Gun.”

“I suppose,” put in Gibbons, “he was also with you all afternoon? He didn’t go off to relieve himself or anything like that?”

The reason for this line of questioning was finally dawning on Sally.

“But the police questioned Wes,” she protested. “And they said it was an accident at the inquest.”

“We think it was, too,” said Gibbons. “But Mrs. Padmore asked us to look into it, so we must go into every possibility. And Wes didn’t tell Inspector Daniels that he’d spent the afternoon with you in the meadow by Miss Pottlesdon’s house.”

“He was probably protecting my reputation,” said Sally, obviously tickled at the thought.

“More likely protecting his own,” said Bethancourt bluntly. “After all, he’s a married man.” Sally looked as though she’d been slapped, and he added more kindly, “Having these little romantic interludes is all well and good, but it really is best to keep some kind of grasp on reality.”

Sally, having no idea what he was talking about, merely nodded.

“So he was with you?” prompted Gibbons.

“Oh yes,” she answered. “We went for a walk in the woods after we’d eaten. He did go behind a tree then to — to relieve himself, but I was there, on the other side, and he came right back. He wasn’t out of my sight otherwise.”

“Well, it’s good to have that clear,” said Gibbons.

“Yes,” said Bethancourt. “You’ve been a big help, Sally. Thank you.”

“Well, that’s that,” said Gibbons. They had dropped Sally off, clutching her Vogue, and absolutely ecstatic over the stories she would tell her friends of her afternoon. Now Gibbons looked over at Bethancourt, who was driving, rather slowly for him, down the road towards their B and B. “Phillip,” he said, “you’re not going to make me go and interview Susan’s mother, are you? I mean, Daniels already spoke with her. If she’d noticed anyone about, she would have told him.”

“Unless,” answered Bethancourt, “she herself went over and poisoned Miss Pottlesdon.”

“Of course,” said Gibbons impatiently. “But if she did, she’s hardly going to tell you. I freely admit that she might have done, or that niece of Miss Carberry’s might have, but there’s not a shred of evidence that they, or anyone else, did. We might as well enjoy the afternoon.”

Bethancourt smiled. “What did you have in mind?”

“They’ve got a cricket match on,” said Gibbons. “There’s a pitch along the road to Littlesdarn. It seemed to me,” he added, “a very appropriate way to spend Sunday afternoon in the country.”

“So it is,” rejoined Bethancourt. “Very well, Jack, I give in.”

He glanced at his watch. “We ought to go straight over — the match’ll be half done as it is. Which way do I go?”

“Back in the other direction,” said Gibbons eagerly, and then he gasped as Bethancourt abruptly stamped on the brakes and swung the wheel over so that the car slewed round in the road. Once the nose was pointing in the appropriate direction, he proceeded to demonstrate that Jaguar’s claim that their cars can go from zero to sixty in eight seconds was not an idle boast.

The cricket match was in full swing. Most of the village worthies were present, as well as many others. Mrs. Padmore, dressed as if she were attending a match at Lord’s, spotted them as they came across from the car park and came to meet them.

“We’re doing much better than usual,” she announced delightedly. “We hardly ever win, but the other team’s best bowler is out with a bad sprain. Anyway, we’re a hundred and twelve for five. Of course,” she added, suddenly concerned, “there are still almost fifteen overs to go. Well, I’m glad you could come for part of it.”

“So are we,” replied Bethancourt, and Gibbons added an affirmative, although his eyes were already glued to the pitch. “However, I’m afraid we haven’t very good news for you.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “The investigation, you mean? Oh dear, I did so hope you could find something.”

“We’ve found several things,” said Bethancourt, “but nothing in any way conclusive. The situation is this—”

“Oh, lovely!” cried Gibbons. “What a marvelous stroke. They should get a few runs for that.”

Mrs. Padmore whirled around. “Oh, splendid,” she said, watching intently. “That’s us, you know.” Out on the cricket pitch, two men were running back and forth, while Mrs. Padmore counted under her breath and the crowd applauded. “Three!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “But, oh dear, that leaves Harry facing the bowling. Come, we should sit down. Mr. Bethancourt, perhaps we should discuss the investigation after the match. I’m afraid, with our side doing so well...”

“Of course, of course,” he said genially. “I’d rather watch the match myself.”

They ambled over and Mrs. Padmore ushered them into the seats she had saved. She also supplied them with lemonade served in paper cups, all the while anxiously watching the players and instructing her guests as to the various merits and faults of the men presently in the field.

Bethancourt accepted his lemonade, lit a cigarette, and settled back to enjoy himself. He was very fond of cricket, although he had never excelled as a player, and it had been some time since he had seen a match played. Nevertheless, he found his attention wandering. He kept his eyes on the play, but time after time he found himself applauding when he somehow had missed what had happened. He replied automatically to all Mrs. Padmore’s information and promptings, with virtually none of what she said filtering through to his brain. He was quite surprised all at once to find that the local side was all out for a hundred and fifty-five and his hostess was urging him toward the pavilion. When the tea break was nearly over and he found he had heard less than half the conversation that had been addressed to him, he gave it up and excused himself. He had seen a small figure in jeans and a sweatshirt sitting in the grass off to one side, and he could not resist closing the last door.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Susan in response to his greeting. She glanced around. “Where’s Cerberus?”

“I left him with Jack, over there.” Bethancourt sank to the ground beside her and leant back on his elbows. “Do you mind if I ask you one or two more questions?”

“About Miss Pottlesdon?”

“Yes. About the day she was taken ill.”

Susan shrugged and looked back at the pitch, where the players were redistributing themselves. Bethancourt decided to take this as an assent.

“You were talking with the Fletchers when your mother called you in?”

“They had gone on. I was up in the big maple.” She turned and looked at him. “I meant to ask you before: what did Mr. Fletcher do that was so wrong?”

Bethancourt gazed back at her, perplexed. This was just the reason he found conversation with children to be so awkward: they were always asking one perfectly simple questions that one didn’t know how to answer. “That’s probably something your mother should explain to you,” he said.

“Well, she wouldn’t. Neither would Miss Carberry.” She sighed. “And I suppose you won’t, either.”

“He was unfaithful to his wife,” said Bethancourt all at once, before he knew he was going to.

She squinted at him. “I know that,” she said scornfully. “What does it mean?”

“It means he’d been going about with another woman.”

“Oh,” she said thoughtfully. “Like my father,” she added after another moment.

“Possibly,” said Bethancourt cautiously; he had forgotten her mother was divorced. “Tell me, Susan, does your mother go out very much?”

“Not very much.”

“Did she go out that night?”

“You mean, after I came in for supper? No, not that night. We watched the telly — we do most nights.”

Bethancourt sighed. That settled it then. He was about to thank her and take his leave when a thought occurred to him. “You said you were up in a tree,” he said. “Could you see the road from there?”

She nodded. “It’s at the edge of the meadow.”

“So you could see the Fletchers walking home?”

“Well, I wasn’t watching them, if that’s what you mean.” Her tone implied that she had better things to do.

Bethancourt persisted. “But you did see them?”

“I caught sight of them as they went round the bend,” she admitted. “They had Mr. Banks with them. That’s probably why they didn’t stop at our house.” She chuckled. “Miss Carberry must have been avoiding them on account of Mr. Fletcher’s being bad.”

“What?”

Bethancourt’s tone was so sharp that she looked at him uncertainly. “Miss Carberry,” she repeated. “She popped out from behind a tree as soon as the Fletchers were out of sight and scurried over to Miss Pottlesdon’s. She’s funny about me, is Miss Carberry...” Her voice trailed off as it became clear that Bethancourt was no longer listening. She regarded him for a moment or two and then turned back to the match.

“Miss Carberry went into the cottage?”

“I expect so. They always have dinner together after the first mushroom gathering.”

Her tone was abstracted. Bethancourt looked down at her and found that her attention had been captured by the match.

“Thank you,” he said gravely. He rose then and left her, turning his back on the game and scanning the crowd. She did not appear to notice.

There was no answer at Miss Carberry’s cottage, but Bethancourt, persevering, followed a little flagstone path to the back. He had found Pam Sullivan at the match, and she had informed him that her aunt had stayed at home, not having much taste for cricket. He had hesitated, considering whether or not he should collect Gibbons, but in the end had come away alone. Gibbons had looked so happy, sitting in the sunshine and rooting enthusiastically for the village team, that Bethancourt hadn’t the heart to disturb him. Besides, he was unsure what exactly he meant to do. On the short drive to Miss Carberry’s, he nearly turned back twice, but each time curiosity and a dreadful, unsettled feeling made him go on.

She was in her garden, kneeling in the upturned earth to plant lettuces. She looked up at the sound of his footsteps, and Marzipan ran barking to greet him.

“Hello,” she said. “Is the cricket over, then?”

“Not yet,” replied Bethancourt. “They’re in the last innings, but I wanted to have a word with you alone.”

“Oh.” She looked a little startled and then, recovering herself, offered him some tea, which he declined.

There was a little stone seat near where she was working. Bethancourt sat down on it and lit a cigarette while she continued to sit back on her heels, her spade forgotten in her lap, looking up at him like a dog awaiting a command. But Bethancourt smoked in silence, looking over the little garden, and at last she said, “Was there something in particular you wanted to speak to me about?”

“Yes.” Bethancourt exhaled and returned his attention to her. “Yes, there was. About the night Miss Pottlesdon was poisoned. Why did you avoid the Fletchers on your way to her house for dinner?”

“But I didn’t—” she began, and then stopped.

“Someone saw you,” he said gently.

A little smile played about the corners of her mouth. “Susan, of course.”

She was silent, looking down at her hands encased in heavy gardening gloves.

“Why did you avoid them?” asked Bethancourt again.

“Because I didn’t want to be seen, of course.”

Bethancourt sighed. “I had been hoping,” he said, “that it was an accident. That you, not she, had washed the mushrooms, and not checked them. It was silly of me.”

“Yes,” she said. “It was.”

She laid the spade aside carefully and removed her gloves and placed them beside it. Rising, she dusted the dirt from her knees and then came to sit beside him on the bench.

“We’d always thought Nan would go before me,” she said. “When I found Pam, I was so pleased that I could do something for her. Not immediately, of course, but when Nan died, her little income would come to me, and I could give it to Pam. I was pleased to think it wouldn’t just be going to one of those stupid little charities after we both had gone, and so was Nan. And there would be someone to go through our little things, not just a sale. Nan liked that, too.”

“But she didn’t change her will when you found out you were ill?”

Miss Carberry shook her head. “No. I mentioned it once, but Nan just said she’d wait and see how things went after I was dead. I suppose she was afraid that Pam would desert her after I was gone. I didn’t like that.” She looked at Bethancourt, and her eyes were angry. “It wasn’t right. It was as if she proposed to pay for Pam’s affection or penalize her if there wasn’t enough of it. Well, that’s not the way it works, and Nan should have known that. Either you want to do something for someone or you don’t. You trust them or you don’t, and if you don’t, then you’ve got no right to expect anything back. And what about me? I’ve been her closest friend for years and I was dying, and she wouldn’t do it just for my sake.”

“So you decided to make certain things fell out as originally intended.”

“No, not really.” She sighed. “I didn’t really plan it at all. We were gathering mushrooms and I was thinking of Pam because I’d had a phone call from her that morning. Nan and I were talking about our old schooldays, and suddenly it came over me how it had always been like this, Nan always having the upper hand, my always going along with her even when I wasn’t sure, because she did have the better mind, and, well... she had a strong personality. I admired that. But all at once I was angry. I had picked up a bad mushroom by mistake. I had it in my hand, I was about to throw it away, but instead I put it in Nan’s basket while she wasn’t looking.” She paused. “It was only a gesture, of course. Nan would have found it when she was washing up.” She smiled at him indulgently. “It was very silly of you, or anyone, to think that either Nan or I would have made that kind of mistake.”

“You knew we would,” pointed out Bethancourt.

“I suppose I did count on it. Well, I went home and was all in a stew, thinking about what Nan would think when she found it. I almost didn’t go to dinner. And then I thought, what if it wasn’t found? Truly, I was in two minds about it when I went over that night. It was when I saw the Fletchers and hid from them that I knew what I meant to do. And I still almost gave it up when I got there. Then Nan asked me to wash the mushrooms while she got the rest of the supper ready. So I did, and sliced them up for the salad.”

“Only, by the time the salad was served, you were consumed with indigestion.”

“That’s right. I thought of eating it, but then we wouldn’t be sure who would die first. So I didn’t.” She sighed. “And now, of course, I miss her dreadfully. We’d been together for so long, you see, and I did love her. Well, at least I won’t be sorry to go when my time’s up.”

Bethancourt lit another cigarette. They sat in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts, gazing at the new spring growths in the garden without really seeing them.

“I told Susan about Mr. Fletcher,” said Bethancourt abruptly, breaking the silence and surprising Miss Carberry with the non sequitur.

She looked disapproving. “Surely that should have been her mother’s choice?” she said.

“I expect so. But she asked and I answered.” He grinned sheepishly. “I hated not knowing things when I was a kid.”

“Nevertheless, it was probably good for you.” She hesitated. “You didn’t actually explain, well, the, uh, facts of life to her?”

“Certainly not.”

“Thank heaven for that.” She paused, and then said, “Well, I’ve told you a story, Mr. Bethancourt. What happens now?”

Bethancourt exhaled and carefully extinguished his cigarette. “I’ve just been thinking about that,” he said. “I don’t think anything happens. Unless you care to tell your story in court — and no barrister with half a mind would let you — there’s no proof. You might have avoided the Fletchers for any number of reasons. And you might have lied about going to dinner because you felt so horribly guilty about missing the bad mushroom when you were washing them up. All the same, I’d very likely have a go at it except for one thing.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“The fact that you’ll be dead in six months’ time,” he said brusquely. “That and, well, I’d rather like to see Pam get her hundred quid.” He rose and looked down at her. “You’ve done a dreadful thing,” he said. “I certainly don’t condone it. But I somehow don’t feel that it’s my part to punish you for it.”

“Perhaps that’s because I shall soon be facing punishment by a higher authority.”

“Possibly,” said Bethancourt, “although, to be frank, that’s not one of my stronger beliefs. They used to hang murderers, Miss Carberry, and you shall shortly be facing that sentence without any help from me. Why should I muck about with it?”

She looked at him gravely. “That is a very amoral judgment,” she said, and then she sighed. “All the same, I thank you for it. It’s odd, though, for someone like myself to benefit from such amorality. I have always led such a moral life.”

“I think you can hardly make that claim any longer,” replied Bethancourt.

Gibbons picked up his spare pair of shoes, shook his head over the amount of mud clinging to them, and sat down to brush it off. He glanced at Bethancourt, who was balling up his dirty socks and mashing them into the corners of his leather carryall.

“Where did you get to this afternoon?” he asked. “You didn’t seem to want to discuss it in front of Mrs. Padmore at dinner.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Despite the fact that they had had to concur in Daniels’ conclusion that Miss Pottlesdon’s death had been an accident, Mrs. Padmore had insisted on standing them dinner. They had explained to her that there were certainly ways in which Miss Pottlesdon might have been murdered by any number of people, but in the absence of any kind of proof, it was impossible to do otherwise than accept the accident verdict. She had been disappointed, certainly, but had taken it rather well. Most of her disappointment had been swallowed up in her pleasure at the outcome of the cricket match, which the village team had won. All in all, it had been a pleasant evening.

“So where were you?” asked Gibbons.

Bethancourt picked up a grey sock from the bottom of the wardrobe and looked about for its mate. “I went to see Miss Carberry,” he said. “I had a hunch.”

“You didn’t mention it at dinner.”

“No, because it turned out to be right.” He paused in his search and met Gibbons’ eyes squarely. “I thought about not telling you,” he said candidly. “But that didn’t seem right somehow.”

“I should say not!” said Gibbons indignantly.

“Well, you’re not going to like what I’ve done,” continued Bethancourt, resuming his search for the missing sock. “So I may as well warn you in advance that there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Gibbons was beginning to feel uneasy. He scraped in a desultory way at a patch of mud. “What have you done, Phillip?” he asked quietly.

“Miss Carberry deliberately poisoned her friend,” said Bethancourt. “And I don’t intend to tell anyone but you about it.”

“Miss Carberry?” repeated Gibbons, looking up in amazement. “Of course,” he added in a moment, “it would be child’s play for her to bring it off, I see that. But why, Phillip? Why would she do such a thing?”

“I’m going to tell you,” replied Bethancourt. “Where the hell are my cigarettes?”

“On the table there.”

Bethancourt, abandoning his lone sock, seized the packet and settled himself on the bed opposite his friend. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and began to explain what Miss Carberry had done and why. Gibbons listened attentively, his shoes forgotten, without interrupting.

When Bethancourt had finished, his friend sat silently for a few moments. Bethancourt rose and began folding a sweater.

“It’s not a very good case,” said Gibbons at last.

“No,” agreed Bethancourt. “It would be the devil to make it stick.”

“I see your point,” added Gibbons. “She’s dying in any case. You’d never get a conviction against a sweet old lady who had six months to live.”

“No — I thought of that.”

Gibbons sighed and went back to his shoes. “I don’t know as I disapprove of your decision,” he said. “I can’t say I have much stomach myself for dragging her into court and ruining her reputation as well as what’s left of her life. I liked Miss Carberry.”

“So did I.”

“All the same, Phillip, if this had been an official investigation, I’d be honor bound to take notice of it.”

“I know.” Bethancourt, having deposited the rest of his clothing into the carryall, was once again looking for his sock, and his reply was muffled since his head was presently in the bottom of the wardrobe.

All at once, Gibbons laughed. “You realize, Phillip,” he said, “that we both can now be considered accomplices after the fact? Not a very good thing for an ambitious sergeant at Scotland Yard.”

“I’ll never tell,” promised Bethancourt. “Jack, I’ve lost a sock.”

“Maybe it got in with my things.” Gibbons set aside his shoes and dug through his own luggage, producing a small cloth bag which he emptied onto the bed. “Check those.”

“There it is,” said Bethancourt, pouncing. “Not only an accomplice after the fact, but a thief as well. You’d best be careful never to cross me, Jack. This is an almost irresistible opportunity for blackmail.”

“No proof,” replied Gibbons dryly, repacking his dirty things in their bag. “Are you ready to go, then?”

“Yes,” said Bethancourt, chucking the sock into his bag and zipping it up. “Come along, Cerberus. Time to leave, old boy.”

Outside, the stars were bright and the crickets were chirping loudly. Bethancourt stored their bags in the boot while Gibbons gazed about him and sniffed the night air appreciatively.

“Well,” he said, “I must say I enjoyed our weekend, Phillip. The country air has done wonders for me.”

“You should get out of town more often,” said Bethancourt, opening the car door for the dog.

“I really do hate to leave,” said Gibbons, lingering outside the car. “The only thing lacking,” he added, “was a pretty girl or two. At least, there was one, but she was only interested in you.”

“What?” asked Bethancourt, arrested in the act of starting the engine. “Who do you mean? Not Sally, surely?”

“Of course not,” replied Gibbons, opening the passenger door. “I meant Mrs. Padmore.”

“Nothing there,” said Bethancourt briefly, switching on the ignition. “She’s far too righteous to ever be unfaithful to her husband. Do get in, Jack.”

Gibbons complied, but paused before closing the door. “It really is pretty here,” he said. “Those trees over there — don’t they look nice against the night sky? Especially that big one.”

“That’s an oak,” said Bethancourt, and let in the clutch.