“Are you certain I cannot tempt you to a sandwich? Marjorie will need fresh ones when she wakens.”
“Thank you, I’m quite full.” My stomach growled and made a liar of me.
I wanted to leave and stay all at the same time. I stood there teetering between staying and going. I sat on the chair’s edge, watching him intently.
“I’m interested in what you’ve said there, Cedric. What else fascinates you about women?”
“Everything about them really. Considering you all have weak physiques, women must use other methods to survive. Like in the Bible, Eve tempted Adam. Women have lots of ways of corrupting the world around them, or moulding it to suit their needs. Like my mother – she convinced my father that the new carriage was for his status but it was simply because she liked to be driven about in style. You should learn to drive. That is a fine car.”
“I don’t need fine things. I never had them with John. He spent our money foolishly. On things like that car. I’m frugal now and I don’t want to drive.”
“You sound insulted. You see, I do this all the time!” He smiled.
It irked me. He irked me.
“With a name like Eve Good, how could you be a bad person?”
“I intend to be called Eve Kanaster from now on.”
“Name change … why?”
“A fresh start.” The noise of him chewing and swallowing was disgusting.
“You asked me about prison.” He took a look at his aunt. She was out for the count. “How did you know about me visiting the women’s prison?”
“Marjorie mentioned it.”
“She wouldn’t know about that,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. “I told no one about my visits there.”
“As you say, you find women fascinating. Some of the most intriguing women are in prison, I’d imagine.”
“Were you ever in one?” he asked.
“No. Never.”
“They are stark places. Women who go in there are never the same afterwards. I got curious when I set the type for the articles about the trials of those women. I wanted to know what criminal women were really like. I’m drawn to them.”
“I see!” My tone was high-pitched with disgust.
“It’s for their minds, nothing more. For instance, I visited a fascinating woman called Lydia Babbington in prison. You must have read about her? She was notorious. Aunt Margie even followed her plight. Mrs Babbington shot her husband, a policeman! It was a scandal ... many years ago now. Do you know who I mean?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Aunt Margie even thought she saw her here on the street recently. It brought me back to when I read about her first and to when we all heard the tales of her antics in the courtroom. Fascinating woman. Absolutely mesmerising when you’re in her company. I miss chatting with her.”
“What was Lydia Babbington like?”
“Normal. Adamant she was innocent. She kept telling me she was not guilty of anything at all. The whole experience was difficult for her. She seemed pained at Edward’s death. She was genuinely sorry that her husband had been killed. She made no secret of the fact that it was an arranged rather than a love match, but she was shocked to be in the dock and then in prison. It almost broke her. She was passionate about her innocence. She always carried herself with a high dignity, though. She’s still a truly remarkable woman, I’m sure.”
“What do you think convinced the jury of her guilt then?”
“There were many problems. The dogs being one.”
“Dogs?”
“No one heard them bark. There were two cross dogs in the yard and, if a stranger had been there, they’ve have alerted the neighbours and everyone else. They never barked that evening. No one heard them. Lydia was alone in the house and it was known she didn’t have it easy with her husband. One of the reasons I may never marry. Unhappy wives are a dangerous thing.”
“Do you think she was guilty then? Do you think she shot him?”
“She most definitely killed him.”
“Did she admit it?”
“No. But I always felt she was driven to the worst kind of crime by the worst kind of man.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“I never lied to her but I was not forward with her. I respected her too much.”
“You respected her?”
“I felt Lydia was pushed to the edge of the moral abyss. She was driven to do the evil deed. It was against her nature. Whatever happened in the house that night, she snapped. She convinced herself she did not have anything to do with it. I found myself visiting her over and over again, to know more about her. Like I say, she was fascinating. What drives a woman like her to do what she did?”
I got to my feet. “I must go.”
“I need to talk with you about your rent,” Cedric said. “Don’t get up. Finish your tea.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“I wish you wouldn’t go, Eve Kanaster,” Cedric said to my back. “We have a lot to discuss about your future. Sit back down. Things were just getting interesting.”
But I didn’t want to hear any more from that vile man. Discussing the rent indeed! Where was a widow to pull money from? What did he expect me to do that would be interesting? The shiver I got told me I’d not like his suggestion on how I might pay my rent. The whole scenario was all leaving a bad taste in my mouth. Also, when he looked at me it felt like he knew I was a Sinful Rose and I didn’t want that at all. There was no way I was going to stay one minute longer listening to him sort out my life or finances. The cheek!
I suppose it was then that I was sure I would kill him. I just didn’t know how or when I would do it.
Number 5, Newburn Crescent stood as I had left it. John’s car sat pulled in at the side of the house. No one had set foot in his car since he drove it home on that fateful day. The police had wanted to see his things and went through his pockets. No doubt they searched his car too, but it all looked untouched. I slid inside onto the leather seat. The pedals were not near my feet and the seat was well back from the steering wheel. I rubbed the chrome finish and peered at the dials. How might I move such a machine? The crank of a key, the pull on the lever and the push of particular pedals. But which ones and in what order?
There was a slight scent of John lingering in there. His hat was on the passenger seat. Placed there in haste, still at the edge. I lifted it and sniffed it. John’s hair and scalp always had a pleasant smell. My fingers rubbed the rim and inside the maker’s label was yellowed.
Stuck in the material on the inner rim was a piece of cardboard. A square of white was placed there for safekeeping, I plucked it out and turned it over.
Mrs Alice Longmire, 53 Marshall Meadows,
Netterby, Co Down
The ink swirls were pristine. I couldn’t believe it! How was Alice’s calling card in my John’s hat? Why might he have kept it there? When did he meet her? The thoughts clattered in on top of one another.
I put the card into my pocket and scanned the car. Like a demon, I rooted around for some sign of how he knew Alice-bleeding-Longmire. Ranting, cursing and clambering about inside the small space, I hurt my hand ramming it hither and thither with fury. Alice knew my John before he died. Where did they meet? Why did they meet? Alice never said that she knew him. How dare she shock me in such a manner. How bloody dare she!
John liked to keep his cars well. As with everything else he could not afford, he kept it like a new pin. Everything in its place, including me.
There it was, as plain as day – her name. Alice-fucking-Longmire, that killing woman I brought into our lives. She spied on me, talked with John – probably seduced him. For what? For sport? Then killed him? Lydia mentioned her unusual passions. What might John have thought of her?
She’d be just his type. He always liked the exotic, beautiful and confident women in films. What man would say no to taking her card? What man would refuse to do anything with her? How did I not know about this? How did I not know? I knew
about his other women, of course I did. I’m far from stupid.
They must have met in the time between me going to Ravenscairn and John lying here at the bottom of the stairs. When else would it be? I was busy then. Distracted by Tim and my plan-making. Things might have slipped through the usual tight net I held on John’s comings and goings and on his moods. It was remiss of me. She burrowed her way in. I was seething!
I ignored the post on the mat, stepped over it and headed for the whiskey decanter in the parlour.
I lit the fire and watched the flames leap up the chimney and I thought Ravenscairn would burn well, with all of its wooden furniture, large drapes and rugs. Alice and Lydia could easily be trapped inside and their bodies would burn with it. Their screams would be covered by the crackling flames.
After I finished my whiskey, I searched through all of our things with a finetooth comb and found nothing further which could push me in the direction of knowing why Alice Longmire gave him her card.
When I was passing by the front door in a flurry of searching further for answers, the lock turned on the front door and in walked Cedric Fellows.
“Ah! You’re in,” he said. “I felt you left before I got a chance to explain. I’ve been trying to find ways to help you, Eve.” His shoes moved on the letters on the mat. He pointed at them. “You’ve got many official letters about the rent that is owed. I know that you’re good to my Aunt Margie and we wish to help you, but the debt is getting a little out of hand. In the past I never said anything to you about my arrangement with your husband, as he asked me not to. And I felt it prudent to follow his wishes, especially following his circumstances of his death. But you’ve been ignoring all correspondence and not trying in the slightest to even pay a little of the rent that is owed. I cannot allow this to continue – but perhaps we might come to some sort of arrangement?”
“Stop!” I covered my ears. “Stop!” Curses came to my mind and my mouth dried.
I lashed out at him, hitting him square across the jaw. His glasses skimmed clean across the tiles. He touched his face and I held both of my hands to my mouth.
He leant down to get his spectacles, groaning. Something in me moved me to kick the glasses forward and through his legs. They landed on the step outside. Without a word he went to retrieve them. His body inside and his bald head out, level with the door frame.
One swift slam thudded the heavy door off what I thought should be his ear. I couldn’t see very well at the angle I was at but I bashed the door again regardless of its mark. Another thump. Then another. I possibly hit his shoulder and I swung again with the door and there was an almighty crunch. It must have been his skull. His body slumped forwards and I heard and saw his face hit the hard step with a wallop. His body crumpled outside. He moaned.
My heel made his ear bleed. A rock from the flowerbed made blood gush from his face and forehead. Over and over the dirty stone sank into the skin and blood flew. It all made a nasty mess of the doorstep and the door itself.
I stopped to breathe.
“Oh dear me. A man does not accidentally jam his own bald head in a door. Dear me, I’ll never learn.”
I shook his shoulders and poked at what is left of his face. Nothing much happened. His chest wasn’t moving up and down but I’ve known that to happen and then them still to be moving or their lungs to come back. Mother especially didn’t stop breathing despite all the medication. But then I didn’t wish to harm her, it was more to help. She wished to be on her way to be with Father.
I found some sheets and laid them on the hall floor. Cumbersome job that it was, I dragged him inside and heaved him unceremoniously onto them and closed the front door with my foot. I hauled him in the sheets towards the cubbyhole under the stairs which was clear of clutter. I had sold everything of any value so I propped the nasty fellow against the broom. Once I got him settled I located a long skewer from the kitchen and pulling back his shirt stabbed where I thought his heart should be. It was harder than I thought to get it into him. Why is killing not easy?
“A good hard blow to just above the ear,” Lydia had said. “But that’s no accident. Only use it in emergencies. Only hit there if totally necessary and then make it look like a fall. I learned some skills in prison.”
Her words must’ve stuck in my brain for a reason and I know my capabilities are better than this. My talents are not being used to their finest. I am flying off the handle far too readily.
Closing the small door on the cubby I noticed red streaks on my clean hall tiles. He was lying on my broom and the mop was wedged behind him, so – on my hands and knees – I wiped and washed all away with a basin, wire brush and soapy water.
“Such a quiet cul-de-sac,” I mused and went out into the garden and strolled past the bushes and into the street. There was not a being there to know what had happened. I glanced up at Marjorie’s window where she usually sat. Dread filled me. She might have seen my front door. She’d have watched Cedric come over here.
“Cedric never came over – no, I’ve not seen him, Marjorie,” I practised in the little mirror that hung in the hall. “I wonder where he might be? Of course he’ll visit soon. He left his coat herewith you? How strange? The weather is much better, isn’t it? Are you sure you wouldn’t like more tea? It’s a lot safer around here since Cedric started calling. No prowlers. Yes, indeed. We’re very lucky to be neighbours. Perhaps, though, I should move in. Especially if Cedric is missing. What do you think? Of course I’ll look after you, Marjorie. It’s the least I can do. We women should stick together. Men are fickle creatures and perhaps he has found a lady friend."
And when I looked again Constable Irvine was at the door of Number 4.
Chapter 30
Eve Good
Since John's fall, all the men in my life have scared me. Irvine, Tim and now Cedric were all – in one way or another – intimidating. Why must a woman alone be tortured at every turn? I should have been enjoying the pleasure of freedom but I was drowning in worry. What was Irvine doing in the cul-de-sac again? My heart thumped in my chest.
The wind was getting up and the rain lashed the panes on the front door. The draughts banged a door on the second floor and it made me jump. Irvine was next door and I had a corpse under my stairs.
I checked the attic carefully and all of the rooms, locking the ones I could before tiptoeing my way back down. I always tried to step on the last few stairs extra hard. I sensed John’s body still there to be trodden upon.
The knock on the front door startled me and there was Irvine’s face and waving fingers in the pane at the side of the door.
I opened the door.
“Constable.”
“Mrs Good. I thought you might’ve been with Mrs Fellows next door but there’s no answer there. May I come in? I’ve something to tell you.”
I moved aside and let him in to drip on the floor. I stood waiting on an explanation on the tiles where John’s head spilled open. Irvine looked like he wanted to sit down or move further into the house. But I couldn’t face inviting him! How could I have a policeman in my house considering what I was hiding?
“We’ve had a word with a fellow called Tim Harbour. He came forward with information.”
Irvine removed his wet cap.
The pause was one where a good woman would bring the man into the parlour or into the kitchen even, but I remained on the tiles that killed my husband.
“He told us that he knew you and had some things he wanted to get off his chest.”
“Huh!”
"He says that you and he were ... intimate, Mrs Good." He coughed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes. The little runt says that it was you who threw yourself into his arms. And there’s more …” Irvine said. “Perhaps you should sit down.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“He also said … now let me get this correct …” He took a notebook from his pocket. “He says, and I quote … please excuse the language now, Mrs Good
, these are his words not mine: ‘I gave her a good poking many a time in their house in Newburn. She used to let me stay in secret in her attic.’”
I could feel the colour drain from my cheeks. “He said that?”
Irvine glanced at the notebook and twitched his moustache to the side. “He said ... ‘I used to stay for days at a time in that big house of theirs. She’d bring me food and her husband never knew. He was hardly ever there but even when he was we’d still be at it like rabbits in his attic. That Good man drank and snored like a train. She liked to …she liked to have me when he was downstairs. It seemed to make her more frisky.’”
I began to cry and held in the curses. “I can’t speak. I …”
“I have to ask you, Mrs Good,” Irvine was cautious. “I have to ask you this, I’m afraid. Is he telling us the truth?”
I closed my eyes and muttered through my teeth, “I can’t believe you’d even consider these vile … oh, my dear Lord! What a nasty boy he is!”
“Has he been in this house?” he asked. “Did you let him in here like he says?”
“No! Never! Still less up to our attic! I’ve no words. Why would he say such a thing? Such things about me?”
“He’s a boy with no morals or breeding, Mrs Good. A real piece of work. I’m sorry I’ve had to trouble you with this.” Irvine’s eyes were full of pity.
I could barely breathe. I wiped the tears from my cheeks.
“He told us that he felt that it was you who had something to do with John’s accident. Did he mention this to you then?”
I slumped to sit on the stairs. Ironically, it was onto the exact step where John’s crotch lay all those weeks ago now.
“Harbour said and I quote ... ‘I think she pushed that John Good to his death. She’s got the nerve to do it and try to get away with it. She told me that she would get rid of him and we could be together. She said I had to leave the house and not contact her for six months. That we’d be together then. But then I heard about his accident. I’m telling you that she got rid of him all right. But she doesn’t want a bit of me now that she’s not got a husband downstairs. I’m of no use to her any more. She got rid of us both and I’m not going back to her as she’d knock me down the stairs too.’”
The Murdering Wives Club Page 17