Betrayal at Blackcrest

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  She turned around for the first time and stared at me as though she expected me to leap over the counter with a dagger. I stepped back, my eyes wide. The woman studied my face, her blue eyes hard and thorough in their scrutiny. I tried to smile pleasantly but failed to carry it off.

  I was sure Jiggs was harmless enough, but she looked like something out of a gangster movie. She was small and wiry, with steel-gray hair cut close to her skull. Her face was a network of wrinkles, brownish with tiny purple veins. A wart protruded from the side of her nose. Her lips were thin, the corners of them stained with tobacco juice. She wore a pair of soiled blue coveralls with, strangely enough, a large pink-enamel daisy fastened to the lapel.

  She studied me for a moment longer and then reached into her pocket to pull out a knife and a plug of tobacco. She cut off a generous piece and stuck it in the corner of her mouth.

  “Ain’t seen you before, sister,” she said.

  The “sister” was too much. I smiled to myself. I had studied enough basic psychology to know immediately that Jiggs was a lonely old woman who craved attention. In order to satisfy this craving, she had created a personality that would not go unnoticed. Like most eccentrics, she was deliberate and studied in her eccentricity. The plug of tobacco gave proof of that. She probably hated the stuff.

  “I am Andrea Hawke’s secretary. She asked me to pick up some books for her.”

  “Thrillers, I see! Old Andy still say they’re for the cook?”

  “I think they are.”

  “Don’t you believe it! She reads ’em herself. Better than sleeping pills, she told me once. She ain’t foolin’ anyone.”

  I wanted to tell Jiggs that she wasn’t, either, but I thought better of it. She stamped the check-out slips, stacked the books to one side, and counted my money before ringing it up on the cash register. Then she stared at me again, grimacing. I decided that flattery was the best way to reach her. If she wanted attention, I would give it to her.

  “Do you do all the work here?” I asked in an innocent voice.

  “Every lick and smack of it!”

  “Amazing,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded, ready to take offense.

  “I would think it would take three or four people,” I said. “I’ve just been here a day or so, but I’ve already noticed what wonderful mail service Hawkestown has. We have nothing like it in London. You drop a letter in the box and just pray for the best.”

  As obvious as the tactic was, it worked. Jiggs preened visibly. She smiled smugly and nodded her head. Her blue eyes were full of satisfaction.

  “Been doing it for over twenty years,” she said, “day and night. Live right upstairs, and if work piles up during the day, I grab a bite to eat and then come right back down and light into it. Sort every piece of it myself, incoming, outgoing. Used to make the deliveries myself during the war, and you think that wasn’t something. Rainstorm, snowstorm, there I was in my boots and mackintosh, heavin’ that bag. People don’t appreciate it.” She shook her head, frowning. “No, Old Jiggs is a loony, the town character, and little children run, but they get the best mail service in the country. Why, I remember a time—”

  At that point the door banged, and a man in khaki came in, saving me from a no doubt lengthy monologue. The man carried a burlap bag over his shoulder. He slung it down and leaned it against the counter, breathing heavily. His face was flushed, and he wiped drops of perspiration from his forehead. Jiggs gave him a withering glance, seized the burlap bag, and slung it behind the counter. It landed with a plop, and several letters spilled out.

  “You’re thirty minutes late,” she snapped. “Truck break down?”

  “I had to stop for a beer and sandwich.”

  Jiggs gave him a look that left no doubt as to what she thought of such laxity. The man was brawny and husky, but he backed away from her. She sneered as he left the building.

  “Panty-waist,” she said. “Ain’t none of ’em nowadays got grit and gut. Don’t know how to do an honest day’s work. Don’t understand the meanin’ of the word.”

  “I imagine you know a lot about the people in Hawkestown,” I said, smoothly changing the subject.

  “The stories I could tell if I was a mind to! Ain’t many secrets I ain’t on to. You’d be surprised—letters, postcards, bills, magazines that don’t belong in decent homes! I’m on to all of ’em.”

  “Are you good at remembering faces?” I asked.

  “Ain’t a face in this town I don’t know.”

  “Have you ever seen this girl?” I asked, abruptly showing her the snapshot of Delia.

  She took the photograph and studied it carefully. Then, apologetically, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a pair of spectacles. She studied the photograph again, squinting her eyes behind the thick glass. She took the glasses off and handed the picture back to me. She shook her head.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, “so many people coming, people going, me so busy half the time I don’t even look up when they come in.”

  “She was wearing a pink scarf and a gray fur coat. She sent a telegram. This telegram.”

  I handed the slip of paper to her. She read it aloud.

  “ECSTATIC EXCITED ELATED STOP WEDDING ARRANGEMENTS BEING MADE STOP I’LL WEAR WHITE AND ORANGE BLOSSOMS STOP IMAGINE STOP TAKE CARE STOP BE SURE TO MISS ME DARLING STOP DETAILS TO FOLLOW.” She looked up, nodding her head. “Sure, I remember her. Pretty little thing with red hair. It must have been six weeks ago—April 15 the telegram says here in the corner. Yes. That’s about the time she came in. Couldn’t forget anyone as striking as that. Didn’t recognize the picture at first.”

  “You sent the telegram?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Would you have a record of it?”

  “’Course. Right here in this ledger. Want me to check?”

  “Would you?”

  Jiggs whipped open the ledger, turned a few pages, and ran her finger down a column. “Here it is. Sent to London on April 15. A Miss Delia Lane to a Miss Deborah Lane, Chelsea address. That what you wanted to know?”

  “Yes,” I replied quietly.

  “She your sister?” Jiggs asked.

  “My cousin,” I said.

  “I suppose she ran off and eloped with some ne’er-do-well, stopped here to send you a telegram. I thought it was peculiar at the time. She came in here breezy and bright, smiling all over the place. She was all bubbly, like she’d been drinkin’, only she hadn’t, or I would of smelled it. I remember her well. That girl had mischief in her eyes, cute little thing, but mischievous, for all her smiles. Like it was some sort of grand lark. Never saw her again, or the man either.”

  “A man came in with her?” I asked, trying to contain my excitement.

  “No, he didn’t come in at all, and I wouldn’t of noticed him if she hadn’t waved at him as she left. He was in a big dark car. I didn’t pay any attention to what kind it was. He was wearing sunglasses, that kind that wraps around your face like goggles, and he had dark hair. She ran and got in the car with him, slid right up against him, and they drove off.”

  “You … didn’t recognize the man?”

  “The car was across the street, under a tree, and I just noticed the sunglasses and dark hair. He kept his head down, I noticed that. Could have been anyone, I suppose. Say—there’s nothing wrong is there? He wasn’t one of them gangsters—”

  I smiled, playing it cool. “Oh, no. I just wanted to know for sure that Delia sent the telegram. She … she plays pranks.”

  “Probably told you she was goin’ on a vacation, then ran off with that man. Sounds like something these young girls would do. Irresponsible, all of ’em. She’ll regret it, if that’s any comfort.”

  It was evident that Jiggs was willing to go into some detail about her opinion of the younger generation, but I gathered up the books and smiled at her, indicating my readiness to leave. She had given me more information than I had hoped for, and that tattered ledger
held all the proof I needed to show that Delia had actually sent the telegram. Jiggs looked a little disappointed that I was leaving. I doubted if she often had an opportunity to talk as much as she had this afternoon.

  “You say you’re working for Old Andy?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m typing up her memoirs.”

  “She finally getting those things finished?”

  I nodded, edging away from the counter.

  “If they’re ever published, this town’s going to be gaspin’! Old Andy was a high-steppin’ filly back in her day, and her husband’s father was the founder of this town. There were lots of juicy scandals back in those days, and Andy didn’t miss out on much. Went to school with her, I did. She was a lulu then—still is.”

  “Thank you very much for your help,” I said, cutting her short in as pleasant a manner as possible. “Since I was in Hawkestown, I wanted to check on the telegram to satisfy my curiosity. I’ll tell Mrs. Hawke you remember her.”

  “You do that. Tell her I might write a book myself!”

  Jiggs turned back to her bags of mail, and I left the post office. I stood just outside the door, looking across the street at the oak tree the car had been under. The boughs drooped low, casting thick shade. It would have been almost impossible for Jiggs to have clearly identified anyone sitting in a car there, particularly someone wearing sunglasses, but I was certain the man had been Derek Hawke. I could visualize Delia waving at him, running across the street with a smile on her lips, getting into the car with him. The car had driven away.… I refused to dwell on it any longer.

  I went to my own car, put the books and parcel in the back seat, and locked it again. I went back to the Tea Shoppe. The old man had gone, and Tottie was alone in the shop. She was rearranging the blue larkspurs in their white bowls, humming a song to herself. She seemed surprised to see me again so soon.

  “Hello, ducks. Did you forget something?”

  “No, I wanted some more information.”

  “Sure thing, luv. Fire away.”

  “I want to know about the churches of Hawkestown.”

  Tottie arched an eyebrow and pursed her lips. “You’ve come to the wrong place for that kind of information, duckie. I mean, I’d help if I could, but I haven’t stepped foot in either of them.”

  “There are only two?”

  “Righto. Catholic and Episcopal.”

  I frowned, thinking.

  Delia’s telegram had said that wedding arrangements were being made and mentioned white and orange blossoms, and that indicated a church wedding. If what she had said were true, I could safely assume that she had already discussed plans for the wedding with someone at the church, perhaps even made arrangements for the ceremony itself. She would not have been married in the Catholic church, as she was not of that faith, and that left just the Episcopal. Tottie told me a Vicar Blackstock was in charge and gave me directions for getting to the vicarage.

  “Got another lead?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Jiggs was helpful?”

  “Very much so.”

  Tottie smiled, patting her short black curls. “Good luck to you,” she said. “If you need to know anything else …”

  “Thank you again,” I replied. “You’ve been an angel.”

  “First time I’ve ever been called that,” Tottie said.

  13

  The vicarage was only a few blocks away. I decided to walk, knowing the exercise would do me good and help curb the growing excitement I was beginning to feel. I passed the town square and turned down a shady lane with large, substantial houses set behind beautifully kept gardens. I crossed a small stone bridge and followed a footpath through the park. Bright yellow daffodils grew wild on the rich green slopes of lawn, and there were formal beds of white and yellow daisies. Birds flitted from tree to tree, chirping angrily as I walked beneath them. On the other side of the park there was a dirt road, and across the road the vicarage stood behind a low wall of gray rock. I opened the gate and stepped into the yard.

  I was rather worried as to what I should say, how I should present my problem to a complete stranger. I had no intentions of telling him the complete story, and I wondered how I was going to elicit information from him without revealing my suspicions. I was over the shock of finding the scarf now, but I did not know if I could keep my composure if the vicar began to ask pointed questions. I shook these thoughts out of my head and looked up at the house.

  The vicarage was constructed of the same gray rock as the wall. It was an ancient dwelling with dormer windows and a neatly thatched roof. The yard was poorly kept, just a few patches of grass, the rest dirt, but tall red and purple hollyhocks grew all along the fence inside. It was a humble, mellow place, and some of my apprehension vanished as I walked up the path and knocked on the front door. The vicar obviously had little time for gardening, I thought, and that seemed a good sign to me. I heard hurried footsteps within, and in a moment the door flew open. A rather breathless middle-aged woman stood wiping her hands on a long white apron. She smiled radiantly and nodded her head at me.

  “Come right in, dear,” she said, as though she had been expecting me.

  Her round cheeks were flushed pink, and there was a compassionate look in her light blue eyes. She had soft brown hair turning gray, and a drab blue dress covered her plump body. Somehow she made the garment seem beautiful.

  “Are you Mrs. Blackstock?” I asked.

  “Yes, dear. Come …”

  She led me into a foyer with white walls and a dark green carpet. A green vase of daffodils stood on a small white table, and a hat rack was draped with two raincoats, a black cloak, and a jaunty red cap. The woman smiled again and stood back to look at me, still wiping her hands on the apron. A delicious odor drifted in from the back regions of the house.

  “You must forgive me, dear,” she said. “I’m making strawberry preserves, and things are in chaos, absolute chaos. I’m afraid our maid has deserted us—poor thing, she’s gone back to Liverpool—and the house is in shambles. Why I chose to make preserves at a time like this, I’ll never know.” She shook her head, then looked at me again with that compassionate gleam that made me feel strangely guilty. “You see, we all have problems, dear. Robert is in the library. I’ll just announce you. You wait here.”

  She turned down a hall, and in a moment I heard her opening a door. “A young woman to see you, Robert,” she called. “I’ll bring her right in.” She returned and took my hand, leading me down the hall. She gave my hand a gentle squeeze as we stopped in front of the door. “It’ll all work out,” she whispered. “Now don’t you worry.” I walked into the room, extremely unnerved by this curious reception. I felt like a sinner come to do penance, and that wasn’t my intention at all. The man who walked toward me did little to relieve this mood.

  He was tall and stoop-shouldered, with tawny gold hair tumbling in heavy locks over his large skull. His broad face was pink, dominated by an enormous nose that had been broken and gave him a rather savage look. He wore a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses behind which dark brown eyes glared strongly. He wore brown tweed pants and a brown-and-gold-checked hunting jacket with dark leather patches at the elbows. A pipe stuck out of one pocket, and his flowing green tie was sprinkled with ashes. His hands were large and bony, and they seized both my own, pulling me toward him.

  “There, there!” he said. “You look fine and fit. Just relax! We needn’t be in any hurry about this.”

  His voice was gruff but kind. Vicar Blackstock gave an impression of enormous vitality and strength. With his broad shoulders and thick neck, he would have looked more at home behind a team of mules than behind a pulpit, I thought, and I was sure his sermons would be full of fire and brimstone and violent crusades against Satan. He squeezed my hands and pulled me across the room.

  “Just a moment,” I protested.

  “Don’t be nervous, child!”

  “There seems to be a mistake—”

  “
We all make mistakes,” he said firmly, leading me across the room. “We’re human beings. It’s comforting to know that all of us err, though hardly encouraging to men of my calling. Now, you sit down here. We’re going to relax and get to know one another before we discuss anything. I understand completely—”

  “I don’t believe you do,” I said. “You see—”

  He held up his hand for silence, and furrowed his brows. There was a firm determination in his manner that would make argument futile. I gave a little sigh and delivered myself to his ministrations.

  “That’s better,” he said in senatorial tones. “Now, we’ll just finish this puzzle. It’ll relax you, make things easier later on.”

  He sat me down at a card table on which a partially completed jigsaw puzzle was spread out. He had fit all the edges together and filled in one corner section. A formidable assortment of pieces was piled to one side of the table. “It’s the Matterhorn,” he said, taking a chair across from me. “I spent most of the morning on it. I find them most stimulating, most conducive to thought. Some of my very best sermons have come to me while I’ve been fiddling with these things. I have over a dozen of them, but the Matterhorn is my favorite. It’s so majestic! Now, you take the white, I’ll take the blue. Sort them all out; then we’ll try to fit them together. I’ve been searching for a piece with a rounded edge. There’s a little green sprig at one corner.”

  I was utterly bewildered, and trancelike, I obeyed. I gathered up all the white pieces, and in the process, found the piece the vicar had been looking for. He gave a little cry of glee, grabbed the piece, and slapped it in place as though he had a personal vendetta against it. The man had an amazing vitality, which made even something as sedentary as fitting together a jigsaw puzzle seem like a blood sport.

  We worked industriously at the puzzle. The vicar seemed delighted to have someone helping, and in a short while we had the whole thing almost completed. I sat back in my chair and looked around the room. Two walls were covered with golden oak bookshelves crammed with books, magazines, and papers. A cocker spaniel with glossy brown coat was curled up on a brightly colored rag rug in front of the fireplace. The desk was cluttered with books and papers. A shabby old sofa covered with cracked brown leather stood against one wall. The room was a masculine lair, and it emanated the personality of the man who lived in it.