The Young Widow Read Online Free PDF

voice, “Will you be able to find who did it?”
    Carmichael was unexpectedly touched. “I’m sure we will, Mrs. Berowne,” he said, carried away by the moment, although in fact he was not sure of anything of the kind.

    Bethancourt, viewing this tableau with a neutral eye, had a sudden moment of doubt as to her guilt. He glanced at Gibbons to see what he thought, but his friend did not look his way; his attention was fixed on Annette Berowne. Bethancourt frowned. He had noticed during the interview how she had spoken to Carmichael and had several times included Gibbons in her glance, but never himself. Was he being ignored because he was not a policeman? Or because she instinctively knew her charm had failed to move him?

CHAPTER 3
    K itty Whitcomb was a great surprise. In view of the conventional way in which the Berowne household seemed to be run, both men had envisioned “Miss Katharine Whitcomb, cook” as a middle-aged or elderly woman of unattractive mien and generous proportions. What they found was a young woman of about twenty-five with a shining cap of dark hair and a fresh, clear complexion. As for being overweight, there was not an extra pound on her slender frame. This they had ample opportunity to observe, since she was clad in a bright yellow spandex unitard which clung to every line and curve of her body, with a close-fitting T-shirt pulled over the top. A traditional white chef’s apron covered the front of this remarkable outfit.
    She was standing at a counter in the vast kitchen, turning over pieces of lamb in a large earthenware bowl. She looked up as they introduced themselves, displaying a countenance which exuded common sense. She waved them to seats at a large kitchen table.

    â€œI expect you want the whole story again?” she said, slapping a piece of plastic wrap over the bowl.
    â€œWe’d like to go over it, yes,” answered Gibbons, as he and Bethancourt settled themselves at the table and exchanged looks.
    She wiped her hands, but made no move to join them at the table and be properly interviewed. Instead, she reached over to flick the switch on an electric kettle. “I do the coffee every day he’s at home,” she said. “That day was no different.”
    She opened a cupboard and began to assemble mugs and plates on a large tray.
    â€œI set up the usual: coffeepot, cup and saucer, plate with two digestive biscuits, and a napkin, which he never touched.”
    She opened the refrigerator and removed a bag of coffee, some of which she spooned into a filter. She swung back to the refrigerator, turning on the balls of her feet. They watched the ripple of her slender leg muscles in silence.
    â€œMost days,” she continued, replacing the coffee and taking out a container of cream, “Mrs. Berowne came down just before eleven and took the tray up. That day she didn’t, so I took it up myself.”
    She turned again, giving them an excellent view of firm, rounded buttocks, and produced scones from an old-fashioned bread box.
    â€œMrs. Berowne was in the study with Mr. Berowne when I came in. I put the tray on the table and she told me that she was going into the village and did I want anything. At no time did she go near the tray. I said I didn’t want anything and we left the room together. Then I remembered Miss Wellman had been asking for tinned pears the other day and I’d forgotten to pick any up.”
    She seized the boiling kettle and began to pour the water through the filter into the coffeepot.
    â€œMrs. Berowne said she’d get them and I said thank you. She went out the side door and I came back here. By twelve-fifteen, I had lunch well in hand, so I went back to get the tray. Sometimes
Mr. Berowne brings it down himself, but not if he’s gotten involved. I knocked and opened the door and saw at once that something had happened.”
    She set the kettle down and replaced the lid on the coffeepot