How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law

by Dorothy Cannell

  Whatever, it was too late to say anything. Aunt Ethel had the car door open and her arms halfway across the seat, scooping up shopping bags. “There you are, Frizzy!” Her voice was piercing. “I’ve been that worried, you wouldn’t know. Up and down the streets I’ve been, asking everyone if they’d seen my little girl.”

  “You shouldn’t have worried.” Frizzy got out of the car. “My friend Ellie Haskell gave me a lift home from the shops.”

  “Now, isn’t that kind!” Aunt Ethel had to bend almost double to loom in the car doorway. She had a face that looked as though it had gone sixteen rounds in the boxing ring. Her right eyelid didn’t open properly and her nose looked as if it had been broken so many times, she had given up trying to fix it. She held those hefty shopping bags as if they were filled with candy floss.

  “How do you do?” I stammered.

  “Any friend of my little girl’s is a friend of mine.” Auntie gave me a smile that sported several missing teeth. “An awful time she’s been having, as she’s probably told you, and did I ever foam at the mouth when I found out about her lovely hair. But never you worry, if I don’t get to black both Beatrix Taffer’s eyes, I’ll find another way to get even. And when I’m done with her, I’ll lick young Dawn into shape, see if I don’t! If there’s one thing I won’t stand for, it’s anyone running roughshod over my little girl. She’s never been what you could call strong, has our Frizzy.”

  “It’s been lovely meeting you.”

  Aunt Ethel must have taken to me, because she did not ram my smile down my face, but when she closed the door with a slam that sent the car halfway across the road, I was relieved to be off. Frizzy and her aunt were still waving as I drove around the corner. I picked up speed despite the mist that was now billowing up like steam from a witch’s cauldron. That reminded me. Poor Mrs. Pickle, I thought. The life of a daily help is not all it’s cracked up to be.

  Knowing that Lady Kitty would be very cross with me for being late, I still searched for the hollow tree as I turned off the road onto the wooded lane that looped its untidy way outside the walled grounds of Pomeroy Manor. Yes, there it was—a lofty oak, around which a cluster of scrub trees hovered, like courtiers waiting upon the orders of his majesty.

  I had to hand it to the blackmailer, he or she could not have chosen a better place for the dropoff. In less time than it would have taken me to make a deposit at the bank, I knelt on the mossy ground and shoved the envelope containing four fifty-pound notes into the elf-size opening at the base of the trunk. What took up time was dusting off my skirt; I had to make a production of the business in order to rid myself of the feeling that I had been contaminated by an evil embedded in every stray blade of grass. Getting back into the car, I was glad I had left the motor running, because there was no way I could have grasped the ignition key, let alone turned it.

  As I proceeded down the lane and turned through the brick pillars onto the drive that ran between an honour guard of trees for a good half mile up to the hall, I kept telling myself that I no longer had anything hanging over my head … until the next phone call. At which time I would talk tough to the blackmailer, explain that he had caught me on the hop the first time, but never again. Let him go to the police with his tittle-tattle and have them laugh in his face. Mum was alive and well and the bodies of the other mothers-in-law had certainly not started piling up.

  Pomeroy Manor stood in the sort of leafy setting that might have welcomed Henry VIII on one of his trysts with Anne Boleyn. The house was a proud but friendly old-timer with a ruddy brick face and twinkling window eyes. But on closer inspection, the gardens were a disappointment. Every tree and shrub had been given an army haircut, and what flowers there were stood shivering in the grey mist as if afraid to put a petal wrong. Parking the car on a stretch of asphalt that would have put the average dinner table to shame, I went up the bleached white steps to ring the gleaming doorbell.

  Before I could smooth a hand over my windblown hair, Lady Kitty opened the door. She ushered me into the wainscotted hall that must have seen many a baronial bash.

  “Here you are, Ellie, at long last.”

  “So sorry I’m late,” I babbled, “but on my way here I saw someone I knew and gave her a lift home.”

  “If you rode a bicycle, dear”—Lady Kitty closed the door with a thump—“you wouldn’t get asked for rides. We have to think about the choices we make … and take the consequences.”

  “How true.”

  “Come along, then.” She bustled me down the hall at a pace that allowed no time to gawk. “It’s Hobson’s choice, so I hope you like blood pudding. Pick up your feet, that’s a good girl.” Shoving open a door, she said, “This is the dining room, and as you see, Bobsie Cat and Pamela are sitting waiting to tuck in their bibs. Now, if you’ll take your place, Ellie, I’ll dish up.”

  “Hullo. It’s nice to see you again.” Pamela’s smile gave no indication that we were anything other than mere acquaintances. Our tipsy evening at the Dark Horse and our phone conversation yesterday might never have happened. Today Pamela wore her hair loose with a headband. She looked disarmingly young as she turned to her father-in-law. “Bobsie Cat, this is Ellie Haskell from Merlin’s Court.”

  “Is it, by Jove?”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Robert.”

  “Likewise, m’dear!”

  He was a large, red-faced gentleman with a bald head and a tic to his left eye that gathered speed when Lady Kitty, armed with a huge spoon, plonked a chunk of pudding onto his plate, along with a goodly helping of vegetables. Hers were the ways of a woman who always served “Father” first, so he could hurry back to his plowing the moment he had wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. It mattered not that Sir Robert looked incapable of doing anything more strenuous than cleaning his duelling pistols.

  A serving of pudding and vegetables landed with a thud on my plate. And after dolloping out portions for herself and Pamela, Lady Kitty took her seat at the head of the table.

  “Tuck in, everyone,” she ordered.

  I opened my mouth to lie bravely and say I adored blood pudding, but all heads were down as the knives and forks sliced their way down to the bare bone of the china. Were mealtimes always this way at Pomeroy Manor? Sir Robert struck me as the quiet type who, at least in the presence of his wife, rarely risked saying anything more controversial than “What! What!” But Lady Kitty definitely had a voice of her own. And Pamela could be quite a chatterbox. Was I the reason for this constraint? Or had the family taken a vow of silence at table, to be broken only in direst need of asking for the salt and pepper?

  Toying with my food, I took stock of the dining room. It must once have been very handsome with its cathedral windows and lofty timbered ceiling, but some nameless person had created the marvelous illusion of reducing it in size to a council-house boxiness, where all the furnishings had been bought with more thrift than taste, on the never-never.

  “Anyone for seconds?” Lady Kitty raised her serving spoon on high, and when Sir Robert and Pamela shook their heads, I felt emboldened to do likewise.

  “You can go ahead and speak now, Ellie.” Her ladyship’s smile could have been a frown—they would always be interchangeable. “I don’t allow conversation during meals because it interferes with digestion, but when you’ve cleaned your plate you’re free to chatter on as you like, isn’t that right, Bobsie Cat?”

  “Yes, m’dear.”

  “And I don’t allow comic books at the table, do I?”

  “No, m’dear.”

  “We’ll save our talk about the fête, Ellie, until we’ve had our apple charlotte.” Lady Kitty rose to her feet and began gathering up plates. “Who’s ready for a nice big helping?”

  “I’m full,” said Pamela.

  “That’s not a proper excuse, is it, dear? You know you have to keep your strength in case the day ever comes when you find yourself in the family way with our little heir.”

  “Yes, Mumsie Kitty.�
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  “That’s better.”

  Lady Kitty took out the empties and brought in the apple charlotte and a jug of custard. Both were delicious, but we were not allowed to sit back and relish the memory. The moment we laid down our spoons, Lady Kitty was back on her feet, pouring out large tumblers of milk to be placed with no ifs, ands, or buts in front of each of us.

  “I don’t allow tea or coffee after meals, do I, Bobsie Cat?”

  “No, m’dear!”

  “Too strong for the tummy.” Lady Kitty patted her own affectionately before sitting down and removing a sheet of paper from under her place mat and passing it over to me. “Here’s the list of equipment we’ll be needing for the fête and the estimated cost of purchase or rental. You’ll see that the most expensive item is the hoop-la stall, but there’s no getting around the fact we must have a new one this year. We don’t want to be shown up in front of Bobsie Cat’s cousin—the Honourable George Clydesdale—when he presents the Martha. Georgie is a remarkable man.” Lady Kitty paused to draw breath. “Not only has he done a very nice job with his vineyards in France, he has also managed to hold on to all his hair.”

  “Marvelous!” I avoided looking at Sir Robert’s naked dome.

  Pamela raised her head. “I thought you said, Mumsie Kitty, that if he had an ounce of patriotism, Uncle George would move his vineyards to England?”

  “That was before he and I had our little talk, and he promised to set up a bottling factory in this country.” Her ladyship bestowed a quelling glance on her impudent daughter-in-law before handing me a pen. “So, Ellie, if you’ll just initial the page, dear, we should be all set.”

  “There’s nothing else we need to discuss?”

  “Not a thing.” She watched me trying to turn a blot into an extra-large full stop. “Like always, I have everything under control. And now if you, Bobsie Cat, and Pamela would like to go into the parlour and have a natter, I’ll get back to the kitchen and start the washing-up.”

  “May I help?” I asked in hope of turning the visit to some account.

  “I’m better on my own, dear, especially as I want to give the stove a cleaning. Every day has its set jobs and—” She broke off, possibly as a result of my look of surprise, but more probably because Sir Robert had seized the moment to slump forward on the table. His outstretched arms knocked over the salt cellars along with his brimming glass of milk.

  Pamela let out a squeal. When that failed to bring him around, I rose from my chair, bent on rushing over to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (according to Mum it had worked for Sweetie). Lady Kitty didn’t bat an eye.

  “Don’t encourage him, Ellie.” She was gathering up pudding plates with hands as steady as rocks. “This is the silly old duffer’s way of trying to get attention. I’m the one with the high blood pressure, but that’s life, isn’t it? And it has to go on. So I’ll get started with the washing-up while you girls make sure he doesn’t do something silly like swallow his tongue.”

  To show she wasn’t too cross, Lady Kitty patted her husband’s bald head in passing and went out the door. Immediately after she left, Sir Robert cracked open a decidedly malevolent eye and croaked: “God save me from that woman. What! What!”

  “Oh, Bobsie Cat, you were only teasing!” Pamela fell upon him with hugs as he straightened up.

  “I thought, m’dear, it wouldn’t hurt to show your friend Mrs. Haskell that your mother-in-law is a cold-blooded monster. Not often we have a witness. And, stap me, if I won’t need a fresh-faced young filly to put in a good word for me when I’m standing in the dock at the Old Bailey, defending m’self for bludgeoning the old girl to death. What! What!”

  “You really are naughty!” Pamela dimpled up at him; I stood by, speechless.

  “You’re right, m’dear, and now I’m going straight upstairs to hole up in my room.” Somewhere out in the kitchen a pan clanged and, with his twitch back in full force, Sir Robert bade me a hasty adieu and exited the room.

  “He tries to be brave, poor darling! But you can see he is a soul in torment.” Pamela obviously shared Sir Robert’s penchant for comic books. “If he dies—or I should say when, seeing it’s never an option for any of us—I will be alone all day with Mumsie Kitty.”

  “Couldn’t you find a place of your own?”

  “We don’t have the money. She takes Allan’s paycheque and gives him only enough for expenses. And that’s something I need to talk to you about, Ellie.” Pamela crept up to the door and pressed her ear against it before returning to lead me by the hand back to the table.

  “What is it?” I asked as we both sat down.

  Her big brown eyes sparkled with tears. “I need to borrow some money, I’m in the most awful fix. I haven’t known which way to turn.”

  “Are you being blackmailed?”

  “Ellie! How ever did you guess?”

  “Easy! I got a phone call yesterday, demanding a payment of two hundred pounds in return for him—or her—keeping quiet about what he overheard at the Dark Horse.”

  “When we talked about murdering our mothers-in-law?”

  “What else?” I stared at her.

  “But that’s not why I’m being blackmailed. With me it’s been going on since right after Allan and I were married. You know all about the matrimonial bake-off”—she brushed her hair back from her brow with a trembling hand—“but what only Allan and I and one other person know is that I didn’t bake the pie that won me Prince Charming.”

  “You didn’t?” My voice rose in a squeak; I immediately clapped a hand over my mouth.

  “I’m a terrible cook. I was at my wit’s end at the thought of losing Allan, until I remembered my aunt Gert. She’s a professional baker in Norwich. She sells her frozen pies to a number of supermarkets, and when she knew what I was up against, she offered to make the all-important apple pie for me. On the day of the bake-off she arrived at my house with it nicely under wraps in her carryall. And while we were talking in the sitting room I … realized someone was outside by the open window. But I never thought about blackmail. And even when the phone calls started coming I didn’t get too panicked. The demands weren’t too bad at first—just a couple of pounds at a time. But they’ve been creeping up, and the little nest egg I had before my marriage is gone. I don’t have any more jewellery to sell, and every time I mention getting a job, Mumsie Kitty has a fit. Her daughter-in-law’s place is in the home, under her thumb.”

  “How much does our friend want this time?” I asked.

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  “At least he or she doesn’t play favourites.”

  “Ellie, can you lend me the money?”

  “This blackmail is never going to end.”

  “Yes, it will!” Pamela’s eyes narrowed and her dimples disappeared completely. “I have to find a way out, because I can’t go on like this. Just help me this once, Ellie, please!”

  Reaching into my handbag for my cheque book, I wrote out the required amount and handed it to her. “No mention has been made to you about the mother-in-law thing?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed.” I capped my pen, put it away, and stood up. “We’ll keep in touch,” I said, crossing to the door.

  “Do you have to go?” She followed me out into the hall, and I found myself hating to leave her in that house that should by rights have been cozy and wonderful even though the family portraits had been taken down and replaced by Woolworth prints.

  “I really must.” I gave her a hug before stepping out into the swirling mist. “Please explain to Lady Kitty that I had to get home and didn’t like to interrupt her oven-cleaning. By the way”—I turned back on reaching the path that wove between the flower beds and the lawn—“how have you been able to keep up the pretense of being a great cook?”

  “No problem,” said Pamela. “Mumsie Kitty has never let me touch a mixing bowl since I married Allan.”

  “Typical!”

  It also went
without saying that I would wander around in circles, the way I always did in a parking lot, before stumbling upon my car. The trees lining the drive kept me on the straight and narrow, but when I got out onto the lane I was glad I had put my deposit in the hollow oak on my way to the hall. The fog was thickening with every turn of the wheels and I couldn’t wait to be safely home. Making my way through the village didn’t pose any particular problems. I just tagged along behind a friendly little car in front of me until we came to a parting of the ways at the foot of Cliff Road. Now I was on the home stretch and should by rights have been quite comfortable, seeing I had been known to boast that I could drive it blindfolded. We say these idiotic things and never expect to be punished for them.

  Part of me wanted to hurry, the way you do when you think you’re out of petrol, but caution dictated I take each wavering loop of road with caution. Every boulder that showed itself on the verge was as welcome as a beacon. The bus stop loomed up, looking lost and lonely. Visibility was down to two inches, and I suspected the car of squeezing its headlights shut as we approached the top of the hill. It was certainly making nervous noises. That is why, when I neared the vicarage, I thought the scream was mechanically induced.

  But when it came again, high-pitched and wailing, I knew that someone was out there in the fog. Someone who was dealing with a bigger problem than a dropped picnic basket. Drawing the car to a lurching halt, I flung open the door. The ground not only looked soft and fuzzy, it felt that way as I stumbled blindly towards the voice which continued to scream with utmost helpfulness.

  “Coming!” I shouted.

  “Over here!”

  “Don’t move!” It was advice I would have done well to heed myself, for at that moment I almost went over the cliff, which would have been extremely hard on the shadowy figure who peered up at me from what seemed to be a narrow ledge some ten feet below me.