Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  Winnie smiled back. Prudence might be a little ridiculous, but it was impossible to dislike her. Besides, he had known her all his life.

  “But you are not late, Mrs. Barrington . . . see . . .” Winnie gestured toward the austerely elegant black marble clock on the mantelpiece, which had just begun to strike seven in a thin, severe chime.

  “How very nice to see you, Winston. Are you enjoying Washington? Eddie seems to be settling in well, and even his wife appears to be . . . that is, one must not be uncharitable, of course . . .” The Bishop’s voice trailed away unhappily.

  Prudence said briskly, “She is a very beautiful girl. She and Eddie should do well here.”

  “I feel sure,” said Winnie, in his careful English, “that Lady Ironmonger is most sensible to the responsibilities of her new position.”

  “Exactly,” murmured Matthew. “Just what I meant. . .”

  “And now, perhaps, we should be on our way,” Winnie added. “We must not keep your excellent dinner waiting. My car is outside. If you are ready. . . ?”

  “Oh,” said Prudence. “My coat. . .”

  “It will be in the cloakroom, Mrs. Barrington . . . just across the hall. . . after you, sir.”

  The black policeman on duty outside the Embassy recognized Winnie, and gave him a smile and a friendly salute as he came out with the Barringtons. One or two of the protesters shouted ruderies about “Uncle Toms” and “Pigs” as Nelson and his white friends picked their way through the supine bodies on the pavement, but any small amount of steam which had ever propelled the demonstration had run out. A minute later, Winnie was behind the wheel of his gleaming silver Chevrolet, heading northward for Chevy Chase and trying to make some sense of Matthew’s extremely confused directions as to the best route.

  In the reception room at the Embassy, Michael Holder-Watts watched with impatient irritation as Winnie Nelson disappeared in the direction of the small library. Then he continued his progress among the guests. He was apparently relaxed and certainly charming, giving each visitor no more than half-a-minute of his time, and yet leaving each feeling subtly flattered and selfimportant. Within a few minutes, he had located and spoken with the most important of the visitors, and he allowed himself to glance in the direction of Lady Ironmonger.

  All seemed to be well. Mavis was standing very straight, ice-cold and elegant as a snow princess, keeping her mouth shut. A Third Secretary bustled up with a swarthy, handsome gentleman in tow. Michael heard an indistinct murmur. “Lady Ironmonger . . . don’t think you have met. . . Attache . . . Israeli Embassy . . . may I present Mr. Finkelstein?”

  Mavis, swaying just slightly, turned to the newcomer. She extended a drooping, lily-like hand, and at the same moment burst into song. To the tune of The More We Are Together, Her Excellency the Tampican Ambassadress bawled, at the top of her voice—

  “Balls to Mr. Finkelstein, Finkelstein, Finkelstein

  Balls to Mr. Finkelstein, silly old—”

  “Oh, Christ,” said Michael Holder-Watts.

  One stride brought him to Lady Ironmonger’s side. She gave him a ravishing smile, hiccoughed, and launched into the verse.

  “Fuck Mr. Finkelstein—”

  Michael somehow got her into a sort of judo-hold, pinning her arms behind her back, and twisted her body so that the unseemly words of the song disappeared into the lapel of his impeccably-cut suit. He looked round desperately for help. Winnie, blast his eyes, must be well on the way to Chevy Chase with the Bishop. Eddie, on the far side of the room, was charming Senator Belmont and seemed unaware that anything was wrong—which was just as well. Otis Schipmaker, on the other hand, was standing alone, watching the scene with goggling fascination. The Third Secretary had turned purple and Mr. Finkelstein green, between them giving a tolerable impersonation of the new Tampican flag, and both were temporarily bereft of speech.

  It was with the emotion of a drowning sailor who spots a lifeboat that Michael saw his wife come back into the room. She hurried over, and Michael practically threw Mavis into her arms, hissing, “Get her to her room and lock her in!”

  Mavis showed signs of resistance, but Eleanor Holder-Watts was tall and wiry and stronger than she looked. She led the Ambassadress away, as Michael enveloped Mr. Finkelstein in a vast diplomatic handshake, which involved placing his other arm around the Israeli’s shoulder and maneuvering him into the crowd and away from the scene of the crime.

  “Poor Lady Ironmonger . . . victim of a rare allergy . . . being treated with one of these fancy new drugs . . . some idiot of a waiter . . . smallest amount of alcohol absolutely fatal . . . afraid she’ll have to miss the rest of the reception . . . so brave . . . doesn’t like it talked about. . . people don’t realize what she goes through . . .”

  The honeyed words poured out. They could not, of course, efface the blatant fact of Mavis Ironmonger’s inexcusable behavior, but at least they gave Mr. Finkelstein time to recover, and provided a face-saver. Michael knew Finkelstein and respected him as both brilliant and charming. He also knew that he had suffered under Hitler in Germany, and he wondered how much a man could forgive. Brutality is sometimes easier to endure than ridicule.

  Mr. Finkelstein squared his shoulders with a little shudder—a movement which served the double purpose of straightening his jacket and disengaging Michael’s arm. He said, very quietly, “I am extremely sorry for Lady Ironmonger. Also for Sir Edward. May I ask you to present my respects and say my farewells? I fear I have another appointment and must leave now.”

  “My dear fellow . . . of course . . . so kind of you to find time to drop in . . .” Michael watched the strong, sturdy backview disappearing into the crowd of guests. “Dangerous,” he thought to himself. “Very dangerous.”

  Meanwhile, there were other cracks to be papered over. Thanks to Eleanor the incident had been managed swiftly and efficiently, and Michael did not think that more than a handful of people had been aware of it. Of the foreign diplomats who had been in the vicinity, mercifully few spoke English with any real fluency. They might report that Lady Ironmonger had appeared to be intoxicated, and had been quietly removed from the reception, but with any luck they would remain unaware of the enormity of her offense.

  As for Mrs. Ngomo, although English was her second language, Michael was reasonably sure that she was too well-brought-up to understand Mavis’s obscenities. In any case, she had moved away and was now engaged in an animated discussion of pre-school education in Washington with the wife of the Indian Cultural Attache. Michael mentally ticked her off as safe, and started looking for Virginia Schipmaker.

  He soon spotted her, on the far side of the room, talking to Magnolia Belmont. Gossip had already informed him that Virginia and Magnolia hated each other with the peculiar intensity of two southern belles who had adopted different politics and life-styles —for although the Schipmakers and the Belmonts were both Democrats, they were as far apart politically as the Kennedys and the Wallaces. It was also rumored that Otis Schipmaker had his eye on George Belmont’s senatorial seat. Michael felt reasonably sure that the close-knit bitchiness of the present conversation would have prevented either Virginia or Magnolia from noticing anything else that was going on. He breathed a small sigh of relief and moved to where Otis Schipmaker was presenting a square-cut backview to the room, apparently engrossed in one of Sir Edward’s Currier and Ives prints.

  Michael laid a hand on Schipmaker’s arm, saying quietly, “Nice to see you again, Otis. Let me get you a drink.”

  Otis Schipmaker turned slowly to face him. He had gone very pale, but his voice was light, almost amused, as he said, “Good grief. Michael Holder-Watts. What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I work here. Hadn’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “My new job. Counsellor to His Excellency Sir Edward Ironmonger, Ambassador of Tampica.” Michael gave a little stiff mock bow.

  Otis said, “But you’re British—”

  “No longer. Tampican.
We were all given the option, on Independence Day. I thought it might be . . . amusing.”

  There was a pause. Then Schipmaker said, “I presume you also act as Counsellor to Lady Ironmonger.”

  “You presume correctly. Lady Ironmonger has always liked to be surounded by close friends—as you doubtless remember.”

  Otis said, “See here, Michael. It was a long time ago—”

  “And in another country. And beside . . . how’s Virginia?” Schipmaker’s lips clamped into a hard line. “She’s fine. And I hope that Lady Ironmonger is feeling better by now.”

  Michael looked at him steadily. “So do I. She’s not at all well, I’m afraid, and some of the drugs they give her have unfortunate side effects. She has gone to lie down.”

  “It must make life difficult for Sir Edward,” remarked Schipmaker, musingly.

  “Life can be made difficult for lots of people, Otis,” said Michael, brightly.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Certainly not. What an idea. Just a random remark.”

  Under his breath, and masked by a social smile, Schipmaker said, “You’re just the same little shit you always were, aren’t you, Holder-Watts?”

  Michael smiled broadly. “So delightful to come across old friends. I’ll go and see about that drink . . .”

  He moved away among the guests. A smiling word with Mrs. Ngomo . . . a reassuring pat on the arm for Dorabella Hamilton, the Ambassador’s secretary, who looked shaken and in need of a morale-boost . . . a friendly chat with the British Ambassador, who was an old acquaintance . . . the reception was in gear again, and running smoothly. In fact, it manifested that sure sign of a successful party—reluctance of the guests to go home. Eight o’clock came and went, and still the room was crowded. By quarter-past, however, people were thinning out, and Sir Edward was kept busy shaking hands in farewell. Despite the success of the evening, he looked strained and worried, and, catching Michael’s eye, motioned imperceptibly that he required his presence.

  Michael was at the Ambassador’s side in a moment. Quietly, Eddie said, “Where the hell is Mavis?”—and then, to a parting guest, “Good-bye, Senator. So very glad you could come . . .”

  Equally quietly, Michael said, “Upstairs. Resting. Not well.”

  “So very nice to have met you, Mrs. Braithwaite . . .” Sir Edward shook another hand, and added, sotto voce, to Michael, “What does that mean?”

  “Drunk,” said Michael.

  “Go and get her and bring her down,” muttered Sir Edward. “Must say her good-byes.”

  Michael glanced at his watch. Twenty-five past eight. He supposed Mavis might have sobered up. “O.K. If you think it’s wise.”

  “Just do as I say . . . Good-bye, Mrs. Belmont . . . yes, it is a pretty house, isn’t it?”

  Michael made his way through the remaining guests and climbed the stairs to the first floor.

  3

  The Barringtons’ house turned out to be a neat, white-painted rambler in a tree-shaded road just over the district line in Maryland. The half-acre of garden was pleasantly informal but obviously tended with loving care. Apart from the presence of some exotic specimens like tulip trees and magnolias, it might have been on the outskirts of a southern English town instead of in a Washington suburb—as Prudence Barrington remarked as she got out of Nelson’s car at the front door.

  “I am surprised that you are not homesick for the Old Country,” said Winnie. “I find America very interesting, but I cannot imagine myself retiring anywhere except Tampica.”

  “Well, it’s different for us, dear,” said Prudence comfortably. She unlocked the front door. “Come on in.” She opened a door leading off the hall, stuck her head round it, and said, “We’re back, Muriel. Supper in half-an-hour, please.” Then she led the way into the drawing-room, which was pleasantly and unfashionably furnished. “Come along in, Winnie, and have a drink. Yes, as I was saying, it’s different for us. You remember the twins, don’t you? Yes, of course you do. You all used to play together when you were little. Well, they’re both married now.”

  Prudence gestured toward the slightly battered grand piano. On it stood two large, silver-framed wedding photographs. The two brides appeared to be identical, so that a casual observer might have suspected one girl of committing bigamy. Winnie, however, knew better. He studied the two pictures for a moment, and then indicated the one in which the bridegroom wore the uniform of the United States Navy.

  “That’s Janet, isn’t it?” he said. “Her face was always a little more rounded than Jean’s, and her hairline a little lower.”

  “Well,” said Prudence admiringly, “you certainly have sharp eyes and a good memory, Winnie. Of course, you always had. Yes, that’s Jan. She married Sam Bradley—he was a lieutenant at the naval base on Tampica.”

  “Now, now, watch your tongue, Prudence,” remarked Matthew, who was busying himself at the drinks cupboard. “The whole subject of the naval base is a very sore one as far as Winston is concerned. He probably regards Jan as some sort of Mrs. Quisling. Sherry, Winston?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Matthew. Personally I was very glad to have the base on the island. It gave the girls a chance to meet some really nice young men, and their parties were great fun. Anyhow, Sam is stationed at Annapolis now—he’s an instructor at the Naval Academy.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Winnie took the glass from Matthew, with a slightly conspiratorial smile, and went on diplomatically, “Anyhow, I can see from the photograph that Jean married a civilian.”

  “Yes.” Prudence’s kindly face stiffened into an expression of faint disapproval. “Also an American. A tourist. In trade, if you understand what I mean.”

  “I am quite sure,” said Matthew, “that Winston has no idea of what you mean. You really are a dreadful snob, my dear.” To Winnie, he added, “The expression ‘in trade’ belongs to Victorian England. It indicates that a man makes his living by buying and selling, which was not considered a fit occupation for a gentleman at that time. It was perfectly acceptable, of course, to earn one’s living by killing people, whether on land or sea, or—curiously enough—by ministering to them in the flesh as a doctor, or spiritually as a parson. Politicians were tolerated so long as they had an independent source of income. Best of all was to live on inherited wealth and do nothing. But, of course, you know all this.”

  “Things have changed since those days,” Winnie said.

  “Things have, but people like Prudence haven’t,” said Matthew, not unkindly. “In fact, I find it rather charming that she should patronize Jean’s husband, who happens to be one of the richest men in the United States, just because his family made its money in the supermarket business and Homer chose to go into the firm. You’ve been here long enough to have heard of Schipmaker Maximarkets, I suppose?”

  There was a moment of silence. Winnie’s eyes went to the second photograph, flickering over the features of the civilian bridegroom. Then he said, “Yes, I can see a resemblance now. Otis Schipmaker and his wife are prominent in Washington society. They were at the reception this evening.”

  “Were they?” said Prudence. Winnie thought her voice sounded unusually cool. “I didn’t see them. Otis is Homer’s younger brother, of course. The whole family spent several holidays in Tampica—that would have been during the time that you were away at school. In fact, Otis was there when . . . that is, when Jean and Homer . . .”

  Matthew said, “Jean and Homer spend most of their time on their farm in Virginia, about an hour’s drive from Washington. They’re not great socialites like Otis and Ginny.”

  “So you see,” Prudence chimed in rather hastily, “both the girls have settled down in this part of the world, and that’s why Matthew and I decided to retire here. After all, this is where our family is. Would it bore you to see some snapshots of our grandchildren?”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Barrington,” said Winnie gallantly.

  The evening passed quietly and pleasantly. Muriel—a stout, s
miling Tampican woman—served a simple but delicious dinner. Matthew opened a bottle of Beaujolais with a certain amount of ceremony. Winnie was pressed to give a complete account of all that had happened since the Barringtons left Tampica eight years ago. Reminiscences were exchanged of the old days at Tampica Harbour. Eddie Ironmonger was discussed at length—memories of his boyhood interspersed with predictions for his future. Nobody mentioned Mavis.

  It was after dinner, as they sat over coffee, that Prudence suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! The news!” She turned to Winnie, a little apologetically. “I’m not really a television addict, but I do like to watch the ten o’clock news program, and now I’m afraid we may have missed it. If you don’t mind . . . ?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Barrington. I shall be very interested to see it myself.”

  As Prudence fiddled with the switches on the antiquated black-and-white set, Matthew looked at his watch and remarked, “Don’t worry, my dear. You should catch it all right.”

  But as the picture flickered onto the screen and the sound surged up, the announcer was saying, “. . . and finally, the sports report from Harry Duckett. Harry . . . ?” The camera moved to a freshfaced young man, who sat against the backdrop of a montage of sporting events. He began, “Good evening. In the match between Georgetown University and . . .”

  “There you are! I knew it!” Prudence’s voice drowned the telecaster’s, in gloomy triumph.

  “. . . and the Baltimore Orioles blanked the Milwaukee Brewers five to nothing, giving the Birds their fifth straight win of the season . . .” He hesitated, apparently receiving a sign from somewhere off-screen, then added, “I think George has another item for us. . . George? . . .”

  The camera returned to the original newscaster, whose features were now adjusted into the stern lines of one about to announce solemn tidings.