“At least you’re not just trying to dig into my personal life for your own gossiping pleasure,” Alma said. “Every morning I see Jack out on the corner, selling newspapers on account of his no-good father. What is it that you want to know?”
“I want to know where you really were at the time of Hector’s murder. Your husband told Beryl that you were not at home when he arrived after leaving the pub. Which means neither of you has an alibi,” Edwina said.
“I was still at the salon. In my business one has to take care of ones looks, and I needed to color my hair,” Alma said.
“Why wouldn’t you just have said that in the first place?” Edwina said.
“Because I’m vain about it, that’s why,” Alma said. “I shouldn’t like anyone to know exactly how old I’ve gotten to be, and coloring one’s hair is practically as good as admitting that one is getting long in the tooth.”
Edwina wondered about the truth of that statement. And she wondered about Alma’s ability to see herself with any degree of clarity. It was obvious to Edwina, a woman who admittedly did not spend much time fussing about with cosmetics and beauti-fications beyond the use of wide-brimmed hats and toilet water, that Alma colored her hair. In all Edwina’s days, she had never seen someone with the naturally occurring hue that covered Alma’s head. She did not expect anyone else in the village had been more easily fooled than had she.
She also entertained the idea that Beryl had not been made aware that coloring one’s hair was as good as admitting to aging. Beryl’s own shade of platinum blond, Edwina was sure, had far more to do with the marvels of modern chemistry than it did with any benevolence on the part of Mother Nature. Beryl’s hair color hadn’t changed much since the two of them had become friends at Miss DuPont’s finishing school so many years before.
She felt disinclined to believe Alma’s latest version of her whereabouts at the time of Hector’s murder. In fact, she felt rather insulted that Alma would wish her to believe her excuse. While she might be convinced that Alma was at her place of business, she remained skeptical as to her reason for keeping it a secret.
“I don’t suppose anyone can confirm that you were there at the time? If you wanted to keep it a secret, I’m sure you were not eager to let anyone know your whereabouts,” Edwina said.
“As a matter of fact, Geraldine Howarth spotted me just as I was heading in. I’m sure she could confirm my story, if you aren’t willing to take my word for it,” Alma said, tossing a final piece of chip at the ducks before folding the newspaper into neat squares.
“I’m not trying to offend you, but I would point out that you have already changed your story. And, after all, a man has been murdered,” Edwina said.
Alma got to her feet and collected her handbag. She shrugged her shoulders. “Everyone has their little secrets, Edwina. Even you. As far as this matter goes, ask Geraldine if she saw me that night at the salon. I didn’t kill Hector, but I can tell you one thing that won’t change,” she said.
“What’s that?” Edwina said.
“Whoever did it did the whole village a favor,” Alma said.
Chapter 30
Beryl had sent Simpkins out to the garden shed for a bit of pottering about before Edwina was expected to return. In her estimation, Simpkins was far more likely to be watering himself from a flask than he was the perennial seedlings he had started that spring with an eye to planting them out in the open garden later in the season.
In front of her, on the morning room desk, sat the infernal typewriting machine. She had wanted to practice her typing skills without being overheard by Simpkins or anyone else. She had gone so far as to close all the windows in order to block the noise of her laborious plunking on the instrument.
After a valiant half hour’s struggle, she had leaned back in the chair and wondered if her writing career would be over before it had begun. She pulled a notebook from a drawer and uncapped her fountain pen. Edwina made it look so easy to take notes about the case, and Beryl thought perhaps she ought to try her hand by that means rather than slowing herself with the typewriter.
But try as she might, no thoughts would come out. When Beryl looked down at the notebook, she realized she had simply created a series of swirls and doodles. Obviously, the sooner she conquered the typewriting machine, the better.
Beryl had realized early on that one of the secrets of her success was to play to her strengths and utterly avoid her weaknesses. Some people felt it was virtuous to try to improve on their areas of weakness, but Beryl was not amongst them. She had never felt that she could improve upon a shortcoming enough to pull it up to scratch.
By playing to her strengths, she found life to be easier and more fun. And, she felt the strategy had proven to be successful. She had never even felt inclined to turn her hand to those things for which she was not well suited. That was until she got the notion to create an adventure guide.
It was an extraordinary feeling to realize she wished to do something, and to do it well, which did not come easily to her. Beryl had never thought anything of hopping into a fast-moving vehicle, jumping on an already moving train, or cutting the sandbags from a barely tethered hot-air balloon and drifting off to God knows where with barely enough provisions and the minimum of gear.
She had entered romantic relationships, confronted criminals, and consorted with royalty with ease and panache. She had long ago realized that keeping house, staying put, or heading volunteer organizations would never be her purview. So she avoided such things entirely and admired those who did not seem to mind them.
It was a curious sensation to realize she might have met her match in a Remington portable typewriter. Or that she might have found a way in which she was not the most entertaining storyteller in the room. Could it be that Edwina had been wise to suggest that she spend a little more time reading books before she thought she could write one?
It was with some relief that she heard Edwina coming along the hallway and calling her name. Beryl replaced the notebook in the drawer and capped her fountain pen. She quickly pulled the disastrously error-ridden sheet of typewriting paper from the machine and crumpled it into the wastepaper basket. Just as Edwina was entering the room, she cranked a new sheet along the roller bar and attempted to look busy.
“I hope I’m not interrupting the artist at work,” Edwina said.
Beryl thought she caught a touch of irony in Edwina’s voice. She had the uncomfortable feeling that Edwina did not have full confidence in her proposed venture. The sooner she could meet with Geraldine Howarth for her typewriting lessons, the better.
“I was just finishing up a bit of work and would be happy for the break,” Beryl said. “How was your chat with Mrs. Poole?” Beryl pushed away from the desk and crossed the room to join Edwina in the seating area positioned before a long stretch of windows. It overlooked the garden and a charming view of Edwina’s cherished koi pond.
“Alma says that she was at her salon instead of at home,” Edwina said.
“Why wouldn’t she just say that in the first place?” Beryl asked.
“She says she didn’t want anyone to know that she was coloring her hair,” Edwina said.
“That sounds rather a flimsy excuse. Can anyone confirm her story?”
“She says that as she was entering the shop, she was stopped by Geraldine,” Edwina said. “I didn’t take the time to track down Geraldine to ask for her side of the story.”
“I shall make a point to do it myself,” Beryl said.
She took that as a sign that everything would be moving along nicely on her project. Beryl believed in signs. Many was the time she owed her life to following her instincts and to reading and interpreting what was happening around her. The fact that Edwina pointed her in the direction of Geraldine just as she had been thinking of her was all the confirmation Beryl needed that her project would be a success.
“Where is Simpkins?” Edwina asked.
“He’s out in the garden, doing some work. I thou
ght a spot of fresh air would be good for him,” Beryl said, thinking of Simpkins huddled up in the shed, slipping nips from his flask, and reclining in a rickety basket chair tucked into a corner, with his feet propped up on an overturned milk crate.
“I’m glad to hear it. I think having as much of the normal routine as possible might be good for him at this point,” Edwina said.
“I’m not sure how much of a normal life Simpkins can expect going forward with his inheritance,” Beryl said.
“That’s exactly why I think he needs the structure of his regular routine,” Edwina said. “I’m not sure how much change he can take all at once, given his age.”
“He’s going to need some help no matter what, isn’t he?” Beryl said.
“Exactly. That’s why I was so relieved when he agreed to engage Charles as his solicitor,” Edwina said.
“I was thinking about navigating the shark-infested waters of the Kimberly Company principals,” Beryl said. “He’s in a great deal over his head with that lot.”
A dark shadow crossed Edwina’s face. Beryl thought once again how complicated her friend’s relationship with Simpkins must be. She herself had no great attachment to her own home or even her elderly parents. Although, if she were faced with the loss of her parents, as Edwina had been with her own, she might feel differently.
“I’ve been giving some thought as to how to deal with them. I think it would be best to keep them as far from Simpkins as is possible,” Edwina said.
“That might be a way of protecting him,” Beryl said.
“But you don’t seem to think it’s the best way, do you?” Edwina said.
“I think this might be a matter of keeping one’s enemies closer than one’s friends,” Beryl said. “How would you feel about inviting them around for an evening of bridge?”
“I sent Mr. Armitage, the chair of the board of directors, away with rather a large flea in his ear the day we met,” Edwina said. “I’m not quite sure how to turn around and invite him to my home for a few friendly rubbers.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You always are good for pouring oil on the troubled waters,” Beryl said.
“I suppose I could apologize and blame it on some sort of female hysteria because of the murder in the village,” Edwina said.
“Well, I do hate to play into stereotypes about women, especially those that would weaken our position in business, but that would likely be an expeditious way to sweep the whole thing under the carpet,” Beryl said.
“I’m sure Mr. Armitage is no more broad-minded than the average man of his class and age,” Edwina said. “When do you propose that I should invite them?”
“I would say in this matter there is absolutely no time to waste. Why not send them an invitation for this evening?” Beryl asked.
“I’m rather afraid I will have missed the post,” Edwina said.
Beryl knew that this was Edwina’s excuse for not wanting to spend the rest of the afternoon tidying the house and preparing the lavish array of snacks she would undoubtedly feel required to concoct even for a simple evening of bridge. As sorry as she felt for her friend’s level of self-imposed hospitality, she could not allow her to wriggle out of her responsibilities on the investigatory front.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Beryl said. “You pen a note, and I will hand deliver it as soon as it’s dry. I would like to go into the village to confirm Geraldine’s account of Alma’s alibi as it is. I can stop in at the pub and deliver the card. I’ll even await their reply, so you’ll know whether or not to expect them as soon as possible.”
“I was afraid you’d say something like that,” Edwina said as her attention was drawn to the door of the potting shed creaking open.
Simpkins staggered out, clutching at the doorjamb as he carefully attempted to place one foot in front of the other in an effort to exit the small building.
“As you can see for yourself, Simpkins needs all the help that we can give him,” Beryl said, leaning her head towards the unsteady journey the elderly man was taking towards the koi pond. “I’ll see to Simpkins while you see to the note.”
Chapter 31
With a creamy envelope addressed in Edwina’s firm, neat hand, Beryl hopped once more into her automobile and set off in the direction of the village. With the cost of petrol, she really ought to undertake such jobs on foot, she told herself. But her mission required haste, and she could not see breaking into a trot.
Even when at the peek of physical prowess, running had never been one of her passions, at least not if she was not being chased by a large predator or an unwelcome suitor. As neither was the case, she delighted in putting her cherry-red machine through its paces.
In record time, she pulled up next to the curb in front of the pub and then walked back in the direction of the telephone office. She peered through the side window. Edwina would have been too short to look in. The window sat at a height that would have disallowed many of Walmsley Parva’s citizenry from peering through it.
Geraldine sat with her back to the window. Beryl didn’t know much about the running of a telephone office, but she was familiar with the idea of listening in, having had her fair share of briefings on surveillance during the war years. She was absolutely certain from the tilt of Geraldine’s head that she was overhearing a juicy bit of gossip. Beryl wondered if Geraldine was in the habit of doing such things often. She could not see why the girl would be inclined to listen in on one conversation but not another.
Beryl made a mental note not to say anything over the telephone line that she would not wish to have repeated. She was all the more pleased to think that she had encouraged Edwina to write out an invitation rather than to choose to telephone down to the pub and request to speak with one of the Kimberly company party.
Beryl gave a fleeting thought to hiring someone else to tutor her on the typewriter. If there was one thing she could not abide, it was a gossip. She certainly had no interest in lining the pockets of one. Still, she knew of no one else in Walmsley Parva whom she could ask for lessons, and it would hardly advance their cause of solving Hector’s murder if she alienated someone she needed to question.
Geraldine pulled the headphones from her head with a guilty look on her plain face as Beryl stepped through the door.
“Miss Helliwell, I thought our appointment was for tomorrow,” Geraldine said. “Have I misremembered the time?”
“No, nothing like that. I just had a question I wanted to ask you,” Beryl said. “Do you have a moment right now?”
Geraldine looked back at the switchboard, and Beryl thought she noted a glance of regret.
“So long as it doesn’t interfere with my duties, I’m free to speak with you,” Geraldine said. “What is it that you wanted to ask me?”
“I wondered if you happened to speak with anyone after your shift on Saturday, in the early evening?”
Geraldine’s posture stiffened, and her expression became guarded. “On the telephone, you mean?” She spun her wooden stool away from the switchboard and crossed her arms over her chest. Once again, Beryl wondered what sort of conversation the young woman had been listening in upon just as she arrived.
“No. I meant after you left the telephone office that evening. Someone you would have met in person,” Beryl said. She did not want to influence Geraldine’s response in any way. If Alma had invented an encounter with Geraldine, it would not further the investigation to put ideas in her alibi’s head.
“I headed straight home after I left work,” Geraldine said.
Beryl felt the buzz of excitement that accompanied progress or at least a new avenue of exploration in a case.
“But now that I come to think of it, I stopped in at Alma’s to ask if she had any appointments available this week. My mother telephoned just before the end of my shift to ask me to put in a call to Alma at home, since it was after hours at the shop. There was no answer at her number, but I happened to see her entering her shop just as I was
leaving, so I popped by to ask about the appointment in person.”
Beryl wasn’t convinced that Geraldine was telling the truth. She did not have the same ability to sniff out untruths as Edwina did, but she was rather well versed in nonverbal communication. It came in handy in parts of the world where one did not speak the language. And when playing cards. Her almost legendary ability to know when to go all in and when to play conservatively was based entirely on her knack for reading body language. If she were betting on Geraldine’s truthfulness, she would assuredly not bet everything.
Still, she couldn’t prove that the telephone operator was lying. She could only suspect that either she was holding something back or she was shading the truth. Either way, the interview left her with more questions than answers. Perhaps Geraldine would slip up and reveal something more useful during their typing lesson in the morning.
“I appreciate your help in my investigation. I trust you are still available tomorrow for the typing lesson?” Beryl said with far more enthusiasm than she actually felt. There was something subtly repellent about the girl, and the more time Beryl spent with her, the more she regretted hiring her.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Geraldine said.
The switchboard lit up once more, and with a sense of relief, Beryl excused herself and withdrew to the street. She checked the pocket of her long silk duster for the invitation from Edwina and headed off to the pub with much on her mind.
The Dove and Duck was empty save for a rosy-cheeked barmaid named Annie, who stood behind the bar, polishing glasses with a white cloth. When Beryl asked after the visiting Londoners, Annie rolled her eyes and informed Beryl that both Mrs. Kimberly and her nephew had retired to their rooms after complaining loudly about the items on offer for lunch. Beryl slid a sixpence across the bar, along with Edwina’s invitation, and asked if the girl would deliver the message to whichever one of the party she found least offensive.
“If you don’t mind, I will pour myself a drink while I await a reply,” Beryl said.
Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 19