by Jon L. Breen
“Please have some,” urged Hyacinth.
“No, thank you, I mustn’t really. I’m not the sort who can get away with eating between meals.”
“Go on, Em,” said Jim. “Your mother’s not here to pull that face at you. And it looks like excellent cake.”
“Oh, indeed it is.” Primrose beamed as she handed them each a plate. “I intend to have at least three slices myself.”
“You can afford to,” replied Emily dolefully, “you’re so dainty: I don’t suppose you ever gain an ounce.”
“And you, my dear, are so young and pretty it won’t matter if you do. Now, eat up while I pour you and Mr. Watson each a cup of tea and then we will discuss your side of things. Sugar?”
“No—”
“She likes two spoonfuls and plenty of milk,” Jim told Primrose while looking tenderly at Emily.
When the cups and saucers and cake plates had been handed out, Hyacinth rearranged the black lace shawl around her shoulders and leaned forward so that her dagger earrings swung in a wide arc. Her face might have been an engraved invitation, and the couple seated on the sofa across from her and Primrose began talking, adding to each other’s sentences as they went along.
“Mother has involved you ladies for one reason only. To cause pain to Jim by injuring his widowed mother. And Lizzie has been through enough already.” Emily bit into a slice of Dundee cake.
“Em’s not just talking about my father’s death,” Jim explained. “She suffered terribly growing up, as you might imagine, from being branded the daughter of a murderer. And she doesn’t deserve to have the business raked up after all these years.
“She’s such a darling.” Emily swallowed a second mouthful of cake. “One of the most loving, caring people in the whole world, just as you would expect Jim’s mother to be. But she’s emotionally fragile.”
“Under a strong exterior.”
“That’s exactly it. Lizzie—she was named after her mother, Elizabeth—has shouldered so much through the years that most people who know her think she’s invincible, but she isn’t. I realized that as soon as I met her. She deserves cosseting. Breakfast in bed and flowers and lots of hugs.”
“And the thing is”—Jim put another piece of cake on Emily’s plate—“my mother loved her father. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have named me after him, would she?”
“Lizzie never believed he was a murderer.”
“Or that anything was going on between him and his secretary before his wife’s death. It developed afterward, when he was going through the grief and the ugly rumors being spread around. She was the one person who stood by him through it all. My mother grew very fond of her over the years.”
“Surely you can see what Mother’s doing?” Emily appealed to Hyacinth and Primrose. “She doesn’t for one moment think you will uncover anything of significance either way. What she’s counting on is that I love Jim too much to put him through this and will break it off with him. That’s why she told me she was coming to see you. Playing fair with me had nothing to do with it. She can be diabolical.”
“Not a nice thing to say about one’s mother.” Primrose replenished their teacups. “But one does tend to agree with you, my dear.”
“Then you did see through her?”
“That surprises you?” Hyacinth raised a black-painted eyebrow.
“Well, yes, it does in a way because . . .” Emily resorted to more cake.
“What Em is trying to say,” Jim grinned engagingly, “is that we’re convinced Mrs. Smith-Hoggles made you her first choice for the job at hand because she had you pegged as a pair of well-to-do women playing at being private detectives. The Sam Spades of this world would very likely have ushered her out the door before she was five minutes into her nonsense.”
“Whilst a pair of eccentric elderly ladies would leap at the chance to interrogate your poor mother.” Primrose nodded her silvery head. “But you young people put your faith in the possibility that we might also be kind. There is a fly in the ointment, however, my dears. If we get back in touch with Mrs. Smith-Hoggles to say we have rethought the matter and will not be taking on the case, I very much fear that she will find someone else willing to take her money. As in all professions, there are those in the private detection business who will do pretty much anything for the money.”
“Despicable, but there it is,” agreed Hyacinth.
“So Mother gets what she wants.” Emily set down her plate as if the sight of the cake crumbs on it revolted her. “Oh, darling.” She turned to Jim and caught up his hands. “You do see we can’t take our happiness at the expense of Lizzie’s pain. But I do promise you that I’ll never marry George Hubbard. That’s one thing about which Mother won’t get her way.”
“We’ll find a way out of this mess, Em.”
“That goes without saying when Flowers Detection is on the job.” Primrose looked genteelly smug.
“Don’t worry your heads about it.” Hyacinth readjusted the black lace shawl, setting the earrings in motion. “It is as well that my sister and I did not show your mother the door within five minutes of getting into her old murder story because that was all it took to make the case entirely clear to myself and—”
“Absolutely, Hy,” Primrose concurred. “Nothing could have been more obvious than who caused the first Mrs. Black’s death, and it was not, let me reassure you two nice young people, her husband. Of course it must needs be said that he made things hard on himself by having her cremated, but men don’t always think ahead. A woman would have been far more alert to the possibilities that doing so would stoke the fire . . . if you will forgive the unfortunate pun.”
Jim looked astounded. “Do you mean to say that you sorted out what really happened just sitting here, using your little gray cells like Hercule Poirot?”
“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of putting ourselves in his elevated category,” remonstrated Primrose. “The man was sheer genius. God rest his soul.”
“But I thought he was a fictional character.” Emily looked confused.
“Correct.” Hyacinth inclined her head. “But my sister believes that if one lives and breathes on the printed page, one is entitled to go to one’s heavenly reward when the time comes. She has not discussed the matter with our vicar, who holds to more conventional views.”
Jim looked suddenly less cheerful. “The trouble is, I don’t see that your knowing will be enough for Mrs. Smith-Hoggles. She will want proof.”
“Very little in life comes stamped with a seal of authenticity.” Hyacinth got to her feet and plied the bell robe. “The best we can offer is compelling evidence of the sort that it will be difficult for her to refute. There is one question I have for you. Did your mother ever mention the maid who worked for her parents? Mrs. Smith-Hoggles said that her Christian name was Kathleen.”
“Yes.” Jim’s brow furrowed. “But what was her surname? I could ask Mum, but she would wonder why I wanted to know. Give me a moment . . . I’ve got it! It was Rose. I remember because Kathleen Rose sounded like two first names, but Mum said it wasn’t that way.”
“That should be helpful,” said Hyacinth.
“Jim has a marvelous memory.” Emily looked adoringly at him. “It’s what makes him such a wonderful writer. One day he could be famous, but even if he isn’t, we’re going to be blissfully happy. If all goes as you promise.” The two young people were on their feet when Butler appeared in the room.
“We’ll be in touch in a couple of days,” Hyacinth assured them. When she and Primrose again had the room to themselves, she said, “Having but a few minutes ago maligned other members of our profession, I fear we must take an unethical step in this proceeding.”
“No need to say more!” Primrose beamed at her. “Our minds work as one, although I prefer to regard our methods as creative rather than as a breach of the code. Ah, Butler!” she said as he padded toward them, his expression at once deferential and inquiring.
“I sensed that I might be needed
.”
“You are in tune as always.” Hyacinth regarded him fondly. “As a reward you may take the Louis VI clock up to bed with you tonight. Meanwhile, Miss Primrose and I wish you to locate a maid.”
“My services aren’t up to snuff?”
“Dear me, your grammar does go out the window when visitors go out the door.” Primrose fluttered back to the sofa. “We’re not looking for a maid to work for us. Sometimes I wonder why we need the services of Mrs. Brown three times a week when you leave so little for her to do. But sit yourself down, and we will explain exactly what we require of you. I am sure it will present you with very few difficulties.”
“I should ’ope not.” Butler settled himself on a chair and flipped open the cigar box on the side table. “Go on ladies, fill me in. What’s it you want me to wangle for you this time?”
Even Primrose could be succinct when she set her mind to it, and Hyacinth rarely waffled.
“So them’s me orders.” Butler tapped ash into a saucer. “A piece of cake. I’d say you can have your meeting with that nasty Mrs. Smith-Hoggles the day after next. I could get things done sooner, but I’ve got eight dozen pots of jam promised to the Women’s Institute for tomorrow. And they’ll have me underpants for garters if I lets them down.”
“No need for that,” replied Hyacinth crisply. “We don’t want to make this look too easy. We’ll set up the meeting for three days from now. That will be Thursday.” Hyacinth went over to the secretary desk in the alcove by the window and made a notation on the calendar she took from one of its drawers. You’re sure that will give you enough time to produce Kathleen Rose?”
“H’ample.”
He was not a man to make a promise he couldn’t keep, and Hyacinth and Primrose went about the business of the day unruffled by qualms. On the following day, he delivered the jam to the church hall. The day after, he went up to London on the early train. And on Thursday evening, he ushered Mrs. Smith-Hoggles into the sitting room where she met with the unwelcome sight of her daughter and James Watson seated hand in hand on a sofa. She had been told that they would be present. It was the coziness to which she objected.
“Good evening, Mrs. Smith-Hoggles.” Jim got to his feet.
“Hello, Mother,” said Emily.
“Why don’t we all sit down.” Hyacinth entered the room just as Butler exited it.
“Yes, do let’s.” Primrose came in behind her, appearing more fluttery than ever as she moved toward a chair. “We do believe, Mrs. Smith-Hoggles, that we have information for you that will lay to rest all your worries on your daughter’s behalf and encourage you to embrace her fiancé with open arms.”
“They are not yet engaged,” came the icy reply.
“Oh, yes we are.” Emily held up her left hand on which a diamond ring sparkled.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to the idea,” said Jim.
“Nothing will induce me to do anything of the sort.” Mrs. Smith-Hoggles remained standing.
“Not even the news that James Black did not murder his wife?” Primrose responded in a soothing voice. “I thought you said . . . but never mind, we don’t expect you to take our words at face value. We have a witness for you. Someone who was in the house during Elizabeth Black’s final months. It is the maid, Kathleen Rose.”
“And I suppose she is going to say it was the house-keeper who did the poisoning, now that the woman isn’t alive to defend herself.” Mrs. Smith-Hoggles gave one of her inelegant snorts. “All I can say is that this Kathleen person must have been in on the murder. Perhaps she hoped to marry that wicked man, but he dumped her for his secretary, when he no longer needed her.”
“Why don’t you hear what she has to say?” Hyacinth opened the sitting room door to a pleasant-faced woman in a shabby coat and a hat that looked as though it had been sat on more times than it had been worn.
“Oh, Mr. Jim!” She clutched at her black plastic hand-bag as he stood. “How very like your grandfather you are! I’d have known you anywhere, and that’s no lie! Such a nice man he was, always so kind and thoughtful to me, and him with all his troubles. And I’m speaking about when his wife was sick, not that awful business after she died. The worst was over for him then, poor Mr. Black. It was watching her suffer that was so hard for him to bear.”
“I thought you went out to Australia,” Mrs. Smith-Hoggles interrupted in her oversized voice.
“It was a nice place to visit, but when it came to it, I didn’t want to live there,” said Kathleen. “I’d had all these fantasies, you see, about kangaroos hopping around in the back garden and handsome young men lying out there on beach towels. But it was just like Brighton, if you ask me. Only hotter. And I perspire something awful at the best of times.”
“But weren’t you supposed to get married?”
“My fellow let me down at the church gate, so to speak. And I never did meet anyone else that seemed worth the bother.”
“This is the right Kathleen Rose.” Hyacinth eyed Mrs. Smith-Hoggles austerely.
“I’m not saying it isn’t.”
“Well, I can’t see why I’d come pretending to be someone I’m not.” Kathleen looked hurt. “It was a shock when my employer told me there was a firm of private detectives looking for me. It’s not the sort of thing a decent woman expects. But when it was all explained to me, I was glad of the chance to have my say. The police and those lawyers in their silly wigs only wanted me to say what they wanted to hear. About Mrs. Black being sick so often after she’d eat. And her losing all that weight till she looked like a skeleton, poor soul. Of course, I didn’t understand at the time. Such things weren’t talked about in them days. I don’t think anyone even knew what it was.”
“What what was?” asked Emily.
“This anorexia business. And that’s what was wrong with Mrs. Black. I can see that now plain as day. When I said I’d hear her making herself sick in the toilet, no one wanted to listen. And most of the time she wouldn’t eat at all. I remember her husband getting so upset once he tried to force some broth down her. Course, he didn’t understand, either. It’s a sickness in the mind, isn’t it?”
“That explains it.” Jim gripped Emily’s hand.
“Explains what, darling?”
“Mum said that when her mother was hours away from dying, she made her promise to eat—not just her vegetables to make her hair curl, but everything. Including lots of cake.”
Mrs. Smith-Hoggles sat down heavily. “So perhaps your grandfather didn’t murder your grandmother. But there’s still instability in your family. And I refuse to allow Emily to . . .”
Hyacinth cut her off. “I think you might do better to concern yourself with the fact that your daughter could end up with an eating disorder, given the fact that you nag her about what she eats.”
“You said that?” Mrs. Smith-Hoggles glowered at Emily.
“No, I did,” said Jim. “And it’s going to stop.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t intend to visit if she marries you.” The outraged mother rose to her feet in a swirl of camel coat. “Don’t even think about building a granny flat!”
“It never crossed our minds,” replied Emily serenely. “Lizzy is going to live with us, under the very same roof. She’s earned herself lots of love, and she is going to get it. And if you try to hurt her or Jim ever again, you’ll have to answer to me.”
She was talking to an empty space. Her mother had stalked from the room. A few moments later, after gratitude had been expressed, Kathleen Rose said she would go and have a cup of tea in the kitchen with that nice Mr. Butler before leaving to catch her train.
“So,” Hyacinth said when she and Primrose had Emily and Jim to themselves. “I hope you are satisfied with the results of our investigation.”
“Lizzie will be so relieved.” Emily gave each sister a hug. “It’s awfully sad about her mother, of course, but at least she no longer has to live with questions about what really happened. I do hope you will get to me
et her.”
“Of course they will.” Jim took her hand. “They’ll do so at the wedding. You will come, won’t you?” The smile he gave them was enough to turn their spinster heads.
“Oh, you must,” exclaimed Emily. “You’ll be our bridal flowers.”
“What a lovely thing to say.” Hyacinth’s black eyes sparkled suspiciously. “And please don’t spoil it by mentioning our fee. There is none. To have allowed you two fine young people to be kept apart would have been a crime of the heart.”
“Very true,” Primrose assured her after they left, “but don’t you feel the least bit guilty. Hy, about having Butler produce that shoplifting acquaintance of his to pose as Kathleen Rose?”
“Not a petal!” came the crisp response.
Marianne Wilski Strong
“The Honored Guest”
Past crimes that cast shadows in the present have been a frequent element of recent crime fiction, usually at novel length. They can be successful in shorter form as well, as shown by Marianne Wilski Strong’s evocative memory piece describing the Christmas customs of a Polish immigrant family in Pennsylvania mining country.
I was six years old when I first saw the honored guest. He slipped quietly and with bowed head into the empty chair at the family dinner table. I didn’t know, then, that he would haunt me into my adult life.
I went to our local Catholic school, rode my red bike to the local playground on Saturdays, played hopscotch with my friends, excelled in history in high school, went to the senior prom with the boy of my dreams, went to college in Washington D.C., finished Georgetown Law School, and landed a position with a high-powered firm.
In the course of all those years, I saw him only a very few times, always a soft-spoken guest who came, sat in his chair at the dinner table, and then went away as quietly as he had entered, leaving me with an ache of love and sadness as palpable as an open wound.