She could almost hear Frank saying, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’. He’d always hated it when she got involved in other people’s troubles. Perhaps he was right. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble doubled’ as he used to say.
Nora was gone, and nothing could bring her back. It was useless to think she could track down the writer of the letters. Or someone who’d recently had some decorating done. No, she would leave well alone.
That might have been the end of the matter, if dear Rose at the charity shop had not been of an inquisitive turn of mind and Ellie, both conscientious and hospitable.
They met at the café as usual.
‘You’ve heard?’
She of the Marigold gloves giggled until she gave herself hiccups. The heavy-set woman frowned. ‘Control yourself, dear.’ The third woman tidied the pepper and salt to one side and slotted the menu between them. ‘Did she really take a dive in the church? How like her to cause trouble right to the end. She couldn’t have acknowledged her guilt more clearly if she’d trumpeted it from the rooftops. A job well done.’
The heavy-set woman nodded. ‘A service to the community. Now, is there anyone else?’
‘My vote goes to Ellie Quicke. You know? The Merry Widow. Her husband’s hardly been dead five minutes and she’s gallivanting around with all sorts.’
‘I second that.’
Conversation was suspended as the waitress approached. They ordered chicken and mushroom pie, a portion of vegetarian quiche and a salad by way of celebration.
A week later Ellie returned from poor Nora’s ill-attended funeral service and stood at the window looking up at the church. The forsythia and the early camellia were beginning to come out in her garden. Midge was winding himself round her legs, and there was no denying the comforting effect of a warm cat on your lap when you were suffering from the February blues. But Ellie failed to appreciate the beauty of the flowers or the attentions of the cat, for the morning post had brought a Royal Command from Aunt Drusilla.
Aunt Drusilla’s letter was written on such thick paper that it crackled in Ellie’s hand. Aunt Drusilla was the only person Ellie knew who used paper of such quality.
… I have decided to accept an offer for Nora’s effects – including the few trinkets which you have passed on to me already – from the antique shop in Kensington. The list of what they will buy is attached. Would you kindly arrange to be at the flat to let the men in and see that they take nothing they have not contracted for. Then get the house clearance people in, followed by the cleaners, and then the decorators. Time is, of course, of the essence.
I append details of the firms I use for this.
*** With rain spitting at the window, Ellie glanced at the clock. She was expecting John and Rose from the charity shop to lunch. She had asked John to bring his wife, but the poor woman very rarely accepted invitations – nerves, or something – so it was unlikely she would come. Ellie thought what a long time ago it seemed since she had worked at the shop, although it was only just over four months since Frank’s illness had struck and she had stopped working there.
The table was laid in the bay window, the casserole was sizzling quietly in the overn, and a home-baked apple tart awaited a dollop of crème fraiche. Ellie supposed she ought to check Aunt Drusilla’s list, but it was far more interesting to wonder if there was anything she could spread on the garden to deter the squirrels from digging up the early tulips in the tubs outside the French windows. Luckily Midge enjoyed chasing squirrels away.
Ten minutes until her guests were due. She would just run her eye down the list.
Midge jumped up onto her lap as Ellie sat down. Aunt Drusilla had accepted Ellie’s assessment that none of Nora’s clothes, kitchen utensils and bed linen were fit for anything but the rubbish bin, and she acknowledged receipt of the briefcase full of bills, and the box of her papers which had been missing for some days until Ellie had eventually retrieved it from under an old waterproof in the boot of Roy’s car.
Aunt Drusilla declined to take any interest in the poison-pen letters which, with the wax cat, had drifted into the cupboard under Ellie’s stairs.
Aunt Drusilla did not, of course, go to the lengths of thanking Ellie for the hours she had spent so far in Nora’s flat, and would continue to do in the future. At least this meant that Ellie could now get someone to take away the contaminated upholstered three-piece suite and mattress. The place would smell sweeter without them. ‘One oak dining table with two spare leaves, six matching dining chairs …’
At church the sub-organist had replaced Nora, and Timothy the curate was throwing his weight about in a way which Mrs Dawes described as ‘childish’. Roy had treated Ellie to a night at the opera with a splendid supper in Soho afterwards. Ellie thought she’d have to watch her waistline, or her new blue and cream two piece would get too tight to wear.
The news from up north was still unsatisfactory. Diana was going for interviews for a better-paid job. She said she was fed up with Stewart moaning about the cost of running two cars. But how, complained Diana, could she go for interviews if she didn’t have a car of her own? Ellie had nobly refrained from pointing out that their second car was really Ellie’s, co-opted by Diana after her father’s funeral.
‘Three Victorian prints of scenes from Shakespeare in original frames …’ and very dull they were, too. Perhaps they were so dull they were now fashionable again.
Ellie turned over the page. There was nothing to claim the attention of the antique dealer in Nora’s bedroom, but it would be interesting to see how much her father’s heavy old bedroom furniture would fetch nowadays: high-backed bed, armoire with mirrored doors, high chest of drawers, matching low chest of drawers, dressing table … and there were all those silver photograph frames, as well.
Except that there was no mention of the photograph frames in the list.
Ellie made a cross noise. Why was everyone so inefficient nowadays? Her late husband Frank would have been on the phone straightaway, demanding to know why the silver frames had been omitted from the list. Ellie, of course, wouldn’t do that. There would be some very good reason why they were not on the list. A separate page had probably got itself detached.
The weather was deteriorating. She hoped Rose would have remembered to bring her umbrella. Ellie had given her a new one for Christmas.
No driving lessons for Ellie in this weather. Too depressing. Her driving tutor was depressing, too. Each time they went out he made the same remark about women of a certain age finding it exceedingly difficult to learn. It didn’t do Ellie’s self-esteem any good to hear that. Perhaps she could find someone else to teach her.
She went back to the list. No, the silver frames had not been listed. The total for the rest of the furniture was there. For some reason they had excluded the silver frames from their valuation. How had Aunt Drusilla missed them? Answer: she hadn’t known of their existence.
Ellie had a sharp struggle with her conscience. It was hard for her to fight Aunt Drusilla’s corner, but she supposed she couldn’t let the old bat be cheated.
And talking of valuations, she really must start to get quotes for a conservatory extension at the back of the house …
Ellie laid the papers aside with a sigh of relief as down the path from the front gate came her old friend, that dear little brown mouse Rose, with the brand new, gaily striped umbrella that Ellie had given her for Christmas wavering around her in the wind. She was closely followed by stalwart John, catching her up with giant strides, flat tweed cap pulled well down and a tartan wool muffler – also a Christmas gift from Ellie – concealing the lower part of his face. Poor John suffered badly with his teeth and sinuses.
‘Dear Rose! So lovely to see you. John, let me take your coat. So sorry your wife couldn’t make it, but in this weather and her being so susceptible to colds, perhaps it’s as well.’
Rose shook herself, a button flying off her coat. ‘What terrible weather! “February Filldyke” my mother always used to say, tho
ugh I suppose she really meant “ditch” not “dyke”, and perhaps it ought to be “gutter” nowadays? And what a lovely smell of cooking. You’re so clever, dear Ellie, and how are you coping?’
John handed over a box of chocolates, and treated Ellie to a hug and a chaste kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re looking well, my dear.’
Midge bounced in from nowhere, sniffed at the visitors’ shoes, and disappeared with a flick of his tail about some business of his own. ‘I must apologize for Midge,’ said Ellie. ‘He has no manners. He comes and goes as he pleases, especially since I’ve installed a cat-flap for him.’
‘Oh, he’s beautiful!’ said Rose. ‘You must find him a great consolation.’
With two such good friends, Ellie could speak the truth. ‘I would never have thought of myself as a cat person, but yes, he is a great help. Of course I have my bad days, but I am determined not to fall ill. You should both be very proud of me, making all sorts of plans to go to exhibitions and garden centres and even some walks with the local historical society. You don’t belong to the historical society, do you, John? They sound dull, but I’ve been assured the lectures can be quite fascinating. I remain unconvinced, but I’ll try anything once.’
Rose shuddered and John laughed. Ellie drew her two friends into the warmth of the sitting room and poured out sherry for them.
‘I don’t usually, but in this weather …’
‘Just a small one.’
‘Think of it as medicine, a protection against flu,’ said Ellie. ‘Now, do tell me how things are at the charity shop. I don’t really miss it, you know. I miss seeing you two, but I don’t miss having to, be polite to everyone all the time. And somehow my time seems to have got mopped up.’
‘Yes, we heard about your new beau.’
Ellie reddened. ‘Hardly that. He’s at a loose end, here on business, likes to have someone to take out and about …’
‘If you say so, dear,’ said Rose with obvious insincerity.
‘Anybody know where he comes from?’ asked John.
Ellie laughed. ‘Oh really, you two! He’s very charming, but I will admit to you that he’s not Frank. Sometimes I feel a bit claustrophobic because he never asks me what I would like to do, but always assumes I’ll fall in with his plans.’
‘Just like Frank,’ said John with a sly smile.
Ellie laughed again. ‘Yes, just like Frank. But he took me to the opera the other night. Carmen. A new experience. Of course I knew most of the tunes from listening to the radio, but I couldn’t compare performances as he can. Apparently his parents were opera buffs and he expects everyone else to be equally at home with it. But enough of me. Tell me, how is Madam getting on nowadays?’
Rose and John were delighted to fill Ellie in on the latest gossip. After a short period of super-efficiency in which Madam had driven them all mad with a new rule every day, things had gradually lapsed into their usual state of mild muddle. Rose spent much of her time sorting clothes in the back room, while John was in charge of the books and banked the takings. Between them, they could have run a mini-MI5 intelligence survey for the neighbourhood.
‘Now, Ellie,’ said Rose, delicately scraping the last of her portion of apple tart off her plate, ‘tell us about the poison-pen letters. I’ve never seen one. They were saying in the shop that it was the letters which drove poor Nora to commit suicide.’
John protested. ‘She must have been unbalanced already. Surely you don’t commit suicide because you receive a few silly letters?’
Ellie shuddered. ‘Not so silly. Rather nasty, really. Also she was given a wax cat with a pin through it, and a neighbour’s cat was killed in mistake for her own. As a matter of fact, I’d been thinking I might show you the letters. I’ve got some in a bag under the stairs. Coffee, anyone? Tea?’
Piling plates onto the tray, she looked around for Midge, who could hear a fridge door open from the other end of the house and usually had the scraps off everyone’s plate. Prompt on cue, Midge leapt down the stairs and followed her into the kitchen.
The bag of letters also contained the wax cat, which gave Ellie a frisson nowadays, thinking how easily it might have been Midge who had been left hanging from the front door of those flats.
Rose scooped up some of the letters and read them. ‘Goodness!’
‘“Goodness had nothing to do with it,’” quoted John, who had always been a fan of Mae West. ‘You’re right, Ellie. These are nasty. It takes a twisted mind to think this way. But I still maintain that Nora must have been fundamentally unsound to be driven to suicide by a batch of letters, however ugly.’
Rose squeaked, having taken an incautious sip of scalding-hot tea. Waving a clutch of the letters around, she fanned her mouth. ‘Paper!’ she managed at last. ‘Look at the paper they’re written on!’
‘A bit bright for my taste,’ said John. ‘Lurid, even.’
Ellie smiled. So her hunch had been correct – the paper had passed through the charity shop.
Rose was getting excited. ‘But that’s just it, don’t you see? Take one or two of the letters, and you just see bright colours, but if you put a whole lot together – like this – you see a pad of multicoloured paper.’
John nearly spilt his coffee. ‘You’re right, Rose! We sold pads of multicoloured paper like this in the shop just before Christmas. There was – oh – maybe a couple of dozen pads. They went like hot cakes. I even bought a couple myself for when the grandchildren came to stay.’
Ellie refilled everyone’s cups. ‘I thought I’d seen that paper before, but I wasn’t sure. Do you think we could trace the others? No, I suppose not. So many people come in and buy things. But we ought to tell the police, perhaps. Are there any pads left?’
Rose shook her head. ‘No, because Joyce – my daughter, you know, who’s going out with the scoutmaster at church – well, she asked me only the other day if I could get some more for them to use in some craftwork at Scouts, and I looked and there weren’t any left. I gave her mine, of course, but it wasn’t enough.’
‘Could we make a list of how many we can trace?’ asked Ellie. ‘If we asked everyone who serves in the shop if they remember selling them …’
‘Would anyone remember, especially in the chaos just before Christmas?’
They all shook their heads. John put the letters back into the bag and anchored them with the wax cat. ‘You ought to take that lot to the police, you know.’
‘I thought about it, but what’s the use now Nora’s dead?’
Rose said, ‘That poor pussy, dying for someone else’s cat. You know, John, we might be able to get some idea of who bought the pads, if there were only a couple of dozen packs. You and I had three between us. Then Joyce had two …’
‘I rather think that Irish woman who comes in on Tuesday mornings had a couple of packs for her children. I remember because she asked for a discount and of course we had to refuse.’
‘That’s seven,’ said Ellie, counting on her fingers. ‘Though I can’t see Joyce’s Cub Scouts writing poison-pen letters. That was a joke, Rose!’
‘Well!’ said Rose, flushing. ‘I mean, Joyce takes her work with the boys very seriously indeed.’
Ellie hastened to divert her. ‘Any news of the wedding date yet?’
‘And are we both to be invited?’ asked John.
‘Yes, of course! And your dear wife, too, if she feels she can manage it.’
It’s always good to be positive about things, to look forward to a wedding, rather than to think back to a funeral.
Timid Timothy’s sermon that Sunday seemed even less interesting than usual – a mere repetition of the Gospel reading. Ellie was not alone in sighing for the Good Old Days of Gilbert and his sparky, thoughtful, ten-minute talks.
At coffee after the service, Ellie avoided Roy’s eye because she knew he wanted to take her to inspect a decrepit Victorian house which fronted onto the Green beside the church. He said he’d got his firm actively to consider the site for development,
but he wanted Ellie’s advice on the matter. He would treat her to lunch, of course.
Ellie was not sure that she wanted to be taken out to lunch, and she definitely didn’t fancy trudging over the house. Anyway, she was wondering if she were courageous enough to approach Rose’s daughter about the pads of multicoloured paper. Joyce was a handsome enough girl, Ellie supposed, if you liked them dark and sulky looking. Evidently the scoutmaster did.
Ellie herself had always found the girl intimidating, even when not meeting her eyes over the counter at the bank where she worked. ‘Forgive me,’ said Ellie, smiling as sweetly as she knew how. ‘Can you spare a minute?’
Joyce’s eyes said ‘No’, but her lips muttered acquiescence. ‘It’s about the poison-pen letters. You didn’t have one, by any chance?’ ‘What? No, of course not.’ Joyce tossed her hair back impatiently, and
looked around to check on her fiancé’s whereabouts. Ellie wouldn’t give much for the chances of anyone wanting to come between Joyce and her prey. She checked the unworthy thought.
‘Have you seen any?’
The girl frowned. She shook her head.
‘Seen what?’ Gwyneth’s magnificent bosom intervened. Joyce shrugged. ‘Those poison-pen letters. You had one, didn’t you?’ ‘Mm. Nasty. Why are you asking?’
‘She …’ Joyce indicated Ellie, ‘wanted to know.’
Two pairs of dark eyes regarded Ellie with mild annoyance. ‘Whatever for?’
Ellie fidgeted. ‘Well, it was just that it looks as if the paper used came from some pads of multicoloured paper sold at the charity shop before Christmas, and I know that Joyce …’
‘You thought I had something to do with them?’ Annoyance deepened.
‘No, of course I didn’t think that, but …’
‘But what?’
Ellie mumbled something about being sorry for poor Nora. Knowing that she had gone red, she excused herself and dashed off to the loos. There she scolded herself for cowardice. How was she ever going to find out the truth about the letters, if she couldn’t even question Joyce about the pads she had bought? Nonetheless, Ellie waited till she was pretty sure that Joyce would have gone before emerging.
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