“Geraldine is a telephone operator, so I suppose you could simply lift up your handset at home, that is, if you’ve got one,” the girl said. “You could simply ask her.”
“Yes, I suppose I could do that. But I do tend to prefer to do business face-to-face. Do you happen to know when I might find her at the telephone office?” Beryl said.
“She’s there most days since she is one of the two full-time operators.”
“If she’s a telephone operator, why would you recommend her to give typing lessons?” Beryl said.
“Because she knows how to type,” the girl said, her voice tinged with exasperation.
“Is that a common thing with most telephone operators?” the village woman asked.
“I have no idea. I just know Geraldine knows how to do it. She has something of a side business writing up letters for businesses and even transcribing handwritten notes from time to time,” the girl said. “She does put on airs about that just a bit.”
“You’ve been very helpful. Thank you,” Beryl said.
“Why are you interested in learning to type?” Alma said. “Does it have to do with your private enquiry agency?”
Beryl saw no reason to share all that she knew. Besides, she was not quite sure she was ready to speak with the public about her creative endeavor. The work was advancing more slowly than she had anticipated, and she felt surprisingly reserved about mentioning it. The agency made a remarkably believable excuse for wishing to acquire typing skills of her own.
“As ours is quite a modern business, Edwina and I felt it best to embrace up-to-date standards in both technologies and methods. While a handwritten invoice or report to a client is certainly an acceptable method of running one’s business, we both felt that typewritten correspondence would help to elevate our professional standing. As Edwina already does so much for our partnership, I thought I would offer to learn to type,” Beryl said.
“Any little advantage a woman can have in business seems sensible to me,” Alma said.
This was just the opening Beryl had been looking for.
“Of course, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Poole?” Beryl said. “Even though yours is a business that specializes in female clientele, I’m sure you have had your share of trials and tribulations on the road to success.”
Alma held a pair of shears aloft as she thought on the question. She lowered the shears and tapped the nameless woman on the shoulder with the flat side of them.
“You certainly can say that again. My Sidney was not as supportive as he might’ve been when I announced my intention several years ago to open the shop. He seemed to think it offended his pride if his wife needed to go out to work. Besides, I think he enjoyed having me at his beck and call if he didn’t think I could claim more important obligations outside of the butcher shop,” Alma said.
“I always think it best for a wife to know her own mind and go about conducting herself as she sees fit,” Beryl said. “I suppose that’s why my own marriages have not lasted as long as some other people’s.”
The nameless woman looked slightly scandalized. Beryl was almost glad to see Alma begin to snip away at the woman’s hair. She left a decidedly uneven course across her forehead in an attempt to create a fringe.
“I understand your meaning. My Sidney is a good man, but there’ve been times when we haven’t seen eye to eye,” Alma said.
“Like the other day,” the shampoo girl said. “It’s not as though you haven’t had other offers, now is it?”
“Now, that’s just what I like to hear,” Beryl said. “Just because one is paired off doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate an admiring glance from another now and again, now does it?”
Two faint spots of color appeared on Alma’s pale cheeks. If Alma Poole had an admirer, Beryl was not likely to criticize her for it either out loud or in her own mind. She was all for taking life’s pleasures wherever they could be found so long as they did not hurt others.
“I wouldn’t call them offers, although it does do the heart good to know one is appreciated from time to time,” Alma said. She snipped off an especially long section of hair from the woman’s forehead. Beryl noticed a flicker of fear pass over the woman’s face as she spotted the hair cascading down the front of the cape draped over her shoulders to protect her clothing.
“I know just what you mean. I should think you’d have to be beating them off with a stick. A woman like yourself, in the prime of life, with a vocation that gives her access to all the secrets of beauty. Tell me I’m not right,” Beryl said.
Mrs. Poole blushed a little more deeply. “I shouldn’t like to say anything as boastful as that. But I have been the recipient of one or two admiring glances,” she said.
“She’s being far too modest, isn’t she?” Beryl said, turning to the shampoo girl with an encouraging smile. “I bet you could learn a lot from Mrs. Poole about letting gentlemen down gently after inflicting disappointment.”
“I don’t know about gently. Mrs. Poole was anything but gentle in her refusal of Hector Lomax,” the shampoo girl said.
“My understanding was that Hector wasn’t easily dissuaded from anything he set his mind to,” Beryl said. “I shouldn’t think a gentle word from a lady like Mrs. Poole would be enough to discourage him.”
“It certainly was not. Even a harsh word didn’t seem to get rid of him,” the girl said. “Although, I thought she ought to let him keep on with his attentions, considering the present he brought her.”
“That sounds intriguing,” Beryl said.
“It was really nothing,” Alma said.
Another jagged chunk of hair dropped to the floor. Beryl was quite certain she heard a squeak escape from the client’s lips. If Alma kept on the way she was going, her client would find herself sporting an uneven and very modern-looking bob. Beryl had been right to ask simply for a wash and set while questioning Alma. Clearly, she was the sort of person who was best suited to focusing on one thing at a time.
“If a ring like the one he brought you was nothing, I would like to see the sort of present you think is worth noticing. I would have accepted it if I were you,” Hattie said.
“Don’t be daft, girl. I have my reputation to think about,” Alma said. Beryl noticed her hands trembled. “I’m not likely to go ruining my life over a flashy bit of costume jewelry.”
“You don’t know that it wasn’t real,” Hattie said, rolling her eyes.
“Of course I do. How could a man like Hector have afforded a ring covered in real diamonds, rubies, and emeralds?” Alma asked.
“I’m sure no one thinks ill of you for Hector’s interest,” Beryl said. “Although I can see how it would be bothersome. To both yourself and to Mr. Poole.”
“Sidney was not best pleased,” Alma said. “I tried to tell him that in my line of work, one must be polite to the public, but he told me that I was the only game in town and that it was not necessary. Especially since Hector frequented the local barbershop instead of my establishment.”
“Do you mean to say he bothered you here in the shop?” Beryl asked.
“In here practically every day, he was,” the girl said. “In fact, it quite disturbed the ladies to have a gentleman hanging about. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Poole?”
Alma nodded. “The hairdresser’s is meant as a refuge for women. No one wants to be seen by the gentlemen of the village with their hair in disarray. I told him he was costing me business with all his foolishness.”
“He wasn’t in bothering you right before he went and got himself murdered, was he?” Beryl asked. “I expect the shop would have been closed by then.”
“Well, of course it was. I need a bit of time to tend to my life outside the shop. The cooking and cleaning, not to mention the bookkeeping I do for Sidney’s business as well as my own.”
“The working woman’s duties are never done, are they?” Beryl said with what she hoped was a sympathetic tone.
She had been trying to pick
up on a few of the finer points of friendly interaction between women from Edwina, who seemed to manage such things with no effort whatsoever. Beryl had no practical experience in running a household. She had always prided herself on having the good sense to marry only such men as could support a large number of trained staff. She felt rather sidelined in the world of women and experienced a familiar sense of being an outsider. Still, she must be learning the ropes, as Alma was nodding at her conspiratorially.
“Isn’t that the truth? I expect you and Edwina have no end of fun without any gentleman getting under your feet and leaving newspapers and cigar ash strewn about the Beeches like they were born to the royal family,” Alma said.
Beryl guiltily considered the coffee cups cluttering the surface of her dressing table and the pile of newspapers she had seen Edwina gather up from beside Beryl’s favourite chair that very morning. Perhaps she had been the reason for much of the staff turnover at the homes she had shared with former husbands. She made a note to ask Edwina if she ought to do more to help with the household chores or at least to do less to create them.
“You must value spending a little time on your own away from here. I thought that very thing the other evening, when I saw Mr. Poole was at the pub,” Beryl said. “He left earlier than I expect you would have preferred, about the same time as Hector.”
Alma’s hand froze in midair, her scissors poised above the client’s head, as if she needed to concentrate on her response. She cast her gaze up towards the ceiling, as if the right answer could be found written on the cracked plaster and water stains.
“It was a sore trial to me, of that you can be sure, when he arrived back home, but there was nothing to be done but to set the bookkeeping ledgers to one side and to make the man his tea,” Alma said.
“There is much to be said for a cozy domestic scene,” Beryl said. “Still, I hope you managed to get a bit of time to yourself before the day’s end.”
Alma looked her directly in the eye and used a tone that brooked no argument. “Not a moment to myself did I have the entire rest of the evening. Sidney talked my ear off about who won the Derby and what the chances were for his favourite in the next race. I kept right on working on the books, but he nattered away in my ear until bedtime. I could hardly hear myself think. It will serve him right if his accounts are all off at the close of the week.”
With that, Alma turned her attention back to the head in front of her. Beryl looked at Hattie’s reflection in the mirrored wall across from the shampoo station. The girl was eyeing her employer with an uneasy look.
Was she worried for the client, or had Alma said something that had given the girl pause? If so, what had she said that was not to be believed? Hattie managed to hold her tongue, but Beryl was quite certain there was something she could add to the conversation if she was less concerned with the status of her employment.
Chapter 20
With her hair freshly dried and set in place, Beryl settled her bill and swept out the door. As much as she did not think it necessary to rely on a hair salon, one could not deny the spring it put in one’s step to feel freshly coiffed. Although, she expected by the time she motored home, her hairstyle would have blown away. She considered wrapping a brightly colored scarf around her head to preserve her hairdo but thought better of it.
As she approached the automobile, she noticed a well-formed young man in a bespoke suit overtly inspecting her prized possession. In fact, he made so bold as to run his finger over the driver’s side door handle, as if he were about to let himself in and slide behind the steering wheel. She quickened her pace. Beryl could not abide the thief. Especially of any form of conveyance.
Although, truth be told, she had been the one doing the taking on rare occasions. Her thoughts turned fleetingly to an occasion in the Arabian Desert, where she had helped herself to a sure-footed camel in a desperate effort to escape the clutches of an enthusiastic suitor who refused to be rebuffed almost as strenuously as had Hector Lomax.
“I see you have exemplary taste in automobiles,” Beryl called out as she approached. She patted her pocket to assure herself that her pistol was safely ensconced in its depths. Despite his appearance, he might be quite desperate.
The young man looked up. “Is this yours?” he asked.
“It most assuredly is,” Beryl said, stepping up beside him and placing her hand on the windscreen.
“I hope you won’t be offended by my perusal. I have one of these black beauties of my own, and I couldn’t help but admire how favorably yours compares. Allow me to introduce myself,” the young man said, pulling a silver engraved card case from an inside jacket pocket. Beryl took the card he offered and read his name from it.
“Rupert Fanhurst,” she read. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Beryl Helliwell.”
“The Beryl Helliwell?” the young man asked, a look of astonishment crossing his face.
“The very one.”
“Whatever are you doing in a quiet little backwater like Walmsley Parva?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be off gallivanting across the globe somewhere?”
It was a question Beryl often found herself being asked. It was not one she always answered. She could not understand why anyone thought that just because a person often did something, they were required to always do that very same thing. Wasn’t life meant to be an adventure, and weren’t adventures made up of changing one’s way of doing things?
Gallivanting across the globe could become just as routine as staying put if one didn’t exercise caution. Still, he was quite young and could not be faulted for having both strong opinions and little wisdom. As he was a rather handsome specimen, she decided to take pity on him.
“I have started out on a new sort of adventure,” Beryl said.
“You have something extraordinary planned here in this quiet place?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, the adventure is not just planned but rather is already well under way. My dear friend Edwina Davenport and I have started a private enquiry agency,” she said, pleased to see Mr. Fanhurst’s eyes strain forward in his long, slim face.
“How absolutely extraordinary,” he said. “Have you actually had any clients?”
Beryl felt her hackles start to rise. She was not easily provoked to anger, but Mr. Fanhurst’s obvious dismissal of the new venture was difficult to endure without comment. She reminded herself that not everyone was as capable of expansive thought as either she or Edwina, and decided to stick to the high road.
“I am pleased to say we’ve been involved in several cases thus far. In fact, we are currently working on a murder enquiry,” she said, enjoying the look of absolute astonishment the poor young man could not disguise as it crossed his face.
“Murder?” he asked. “Isn’t that a job for the police?”
“I am afraid I cannot discuss the details that brought the case to our attention. I am sure a man of breeding like yourself comprehends that some situations call for discretion.”
“Of course. How rude of me,” he said. “Please accept my apologies.”
“Consider it forgotten,” Beryl said. “Tell me, what brings you to Walmsley Parva, Mr. Fanhurst?”
“I am here on business,” he said.
“I confess you have my detecting skills in high gear. Very few people venture to this little hamlet on business,” Beryl said. “What is it that you do?”
Mr. Fanhurst raised his hands in a gesture of futility. “I’m sorry to disappoint a lady, especially as lovely and accomplished a one as you. However, my business is also of a discreet nature, and my lips are, for the moment at least, sealed.”
“Very well, Mr. Fanhurst. As we seem to have little about which we may freely converse, I will bid you a good day,” Beryl said, stepping down from the curb.
“Will you allow me to ask for your advice before you go?” he asked.
“Certainly.”
“Is there anywhere at all in this village besides the pub to find a p
lace to stay?”
“Are the accommodations not to your liking?” Beryl asked.
“Assuredly, they are not. The bed is lumpy, the windows chatter in the frames at the slightest suggestion of a breeze, and there is a most peculiar smell emanating from the cupboard. I daren’t unpack my trunk,” he said.
Beryl suddenly found Mr. Fanhurst a far less attractive man than she had previously. If there was one thing she could not abide besides a gossip, it was a man who was incapable of roughing it with good humor, should the need present itself. She squinted at him and tried to imagine how he would fare on a monthlong trek through the interior of Brazil. All she could conjure up was a sort of constant whining from him, which drowned out the buzz of the mosquitos. Any interest she might have had in getting to know him better was utterly forgotten.
“I can’t say I have anything encouraging to say on the hostelry front. The pub is the only place for short-term accommodation in the village,” Beryl said. “Unless you know someone who invites you to stay in his or her private home, you are entirely out of luck.”
“Do you live in the village?” Mr. Fanhurst said, leaning closer than Beryl found she liked.
“I am happy to say that I do,” Beryl said. “At the home of my friend Edwina Davenport.”
“A large and rambling country house, I would guess,” Mr. Fanhurst said. “Perhaps one with a large number of spare rooms?”
“I am afraid I could not possibly expect a man of your discriminating taste to find satisfaction anywhere in the village, even at a house with as much to recommend it as the Beeches,” Beryl said before giving him a stunning smile and continuing along the pavement.
Chapter 21
There was no doubt about it, Edwina thought. Muriel Lowethorpe, the vicar’s wife and dedicated leader of all charitable projects in the village of Walmsley Parva, was not up to her usual standard of cajoling and rallying volunteers for all those unpleasant tasks that needed doing in any volunteer organization. At the conclusion of the Women’s Institute meeting, Edwina made a point of lingering. She wished to speak to Muriel alone. Not only in her capacity as a friend but as pertained to the case against Frank.
Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 13