by Cathy Ace
Edna was listening so intently she was startled by the arrival of Vera and Gwen, a couple of church choir members; she always thought of them as two naughty schoolgirls – the type who’d head for the back of the bus on a school outing, but never really cause much trouble. She knew their order by heart and was genuinely pleased to greet them, though she knew it meant she’d either miss the next part of Joan’s conversation, or their arrival would stop it altogether. She brought tea, toast, and raspberry jam for two as quickly as possible, and could tell the pattern of conversation between Betty and Joan had moved back to the conspiratorial after some general greetings, their heads being bent close together over their almost touching teacups.
She’d missed something. Drat!
To hear anything now, Edna knew she’d have to get extremely close, so she returned to polishing knives, which had seemed to go unnoticed before. This time she needed her most heightened hearing to catch the whispers passing between the two women. She was quite sure about what she heard, but she found it almost impossible to believe.
For once it was Betty who was speaking, and she seemed to be pleading with Joan, ‘. . . but don’t you see, my dear, if we involve someone else to help us, it’ll make everything so much more complicated. In fact, we’d end up having to kill them too. Unless he’ll help us out again. Remember Ruby, last time? I didn’t want anything to do with it, but you insisted she had to go because she’d seen too much, so you had to kill her as well. I can’t see why we can’t just kill this one in his front parlor and be done with it. Then all we have to do is walk away. Who’s to know we’ve even been there?’
Edna realized with horror the significance of Betty’s words. Joan and Betty had killed before, and not just one person. Someone called Ruby was dead, and she hadn’t even been their primary intended victim. Edna didn’t have time to process this information before the next sentence sent her reeling.
This time it was Joan who spoke. Her tone was icy. ‘Oh Betty, grow up. It doesn’t matter how many we kill, so long as I – I mean we – get what we want. In fact, sometimes I think the more the merrier; the world’s hardly going to miss a few old scroungers and moaners, is it? I ask you – who missed Ruby? No one. She wasn’t even mentioned after a couple of weeks. And if we’d let her live she would have tittle-tattled to everyone; she never could keep a secret. And as for the old boy himself? Did you see anyone shed any tears when he went? Not one, Betty, not one.’
Joan’s voice snapped off as Charlie and Ivy scraped their chairs away from their table to leave. Before Joan had a chance to turn around, Edna made sure she was fully involved in helping Ivy to her feet; she suddenly realized it might not be healthy to be caught overhearing Joan’s conversation.
After she’d sent the beaming couple on their way as cheerily as she could, Edna cleared their table slowly, in a piecemeal fashion, allowing her more opportunities to pop back into earshot of Joan and Betty. But, after about ten minutes, it was clear she would hear no more from them about killing people, as they were now discussing the new awning being hung above the Post Office entrance, declaring it an eyesore and a blight on the High Street.
The choristers Vera and Gwen, ever the yea-sayers in support of their doughty lead contralto Joan, were supporting her in her idea of going along to Mrs Vickers, the postmistress, to Have A Word With Her Right Now. As all four ladies rose to take their leave, Edna rushed about collecting payments, pulling at chairs, accepting used napkins, and almost bobbing as the group left on their expedition.
Just as the little huddle left, Stephen arrived. As ever, he seemed to be in a terrible rush; he was looking pink, and glowing with a slightly sweaty luster that Edna found most appealing.
Of course she was delighted to see him, but her mind was in as much turmoil as the blender she was using to make him an iced latte. Should she – could she – say anything to him? If she did, what on earth would she say? She knew Stephen quite well by now, but in a ‘polite company’ sort of way; they’d only ever met in the tea shop. How attached was he to his grandmother? For one fleeting millisecond she even questioned whether he might know about her penchant for poison, but dismissed it immediately. He couldn’t know; he wouldn’t stand for it. She was quite sure of that.
As she handed Stephen his drink, Edna decided to take the bull by the horns; the tea shop was empty except for them, and she sat down beside him at his table, a move that prompted him to get up as she took her seat. Edna liked how that made her feel.
‘Stephen,’ she looked at him seriously, ‘I have to do something that’s very forward of me, and speak to you about something that’s rather awkward and . . .’ She hesitated, searching for the right word ‘. . . personal.’
Stephen sucked hard on his straw, then wiped his brow with a snowy napkin. He placed the tall glass on the table and returned Edna’s serious gaze. ‘I have to talk to you too. I can’t put it off any longer. I have to tell you . . .’ He, too, hesitated. ‘. . . it’s awful, and I can hardly believe it, but I suppose it had to happen one day. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen now.’
Edna was relieved. He knew. He must have overheard something too. He was also nonplussed and anxious; they could Do Something About Joan together!
‘Oh Stephen – how did you find out? I overheard them here – Joan and Betty were talking about it quite openly – I couldn’t believe my ears . . .’
Stephen looked puzzled.
‘What do you mean? I haven’t told Gran. I haven’t told anyone. Good grief, I’m only just telling you, and I wouldn’t tell anyone before you. Mind you –’ he nodded sagely – ‘Gran’s good at that sort of stuff – knows a person better than they know themselves, as she always says. She told me when I was just seven that my nanny was no good, and she was right; nanny just upped and took off one day without a by-your-leave, leaving me all alone in the house, if you please. And Fred Wilmslow, who ran the Scouts a few years ago, she spotted him as a bad ’un, and sure enough all the Scouts’ funds disappeared at the same time he and Ruby Smith did a runner.’
‘Ruby Smith? Who’s Ruby Smith?’ Edna pounced on the name.
Again, Stephen looked puzzled.
‘Ruby Smith? She lived in Acre Lane. Retired schoolteacher. Never married. Bit of a gossip if you ask me, but harmless. At least, that’s what we all thought until she ran off to Scarborough with Fred Wilmslow, and all the money from the Scouts’ bank account. A couple of years ago. Gran always gave her a bit of a wide berth, too. So you see, Gran really does know people better than they know themselves. So, maybe she knew how I felt, even before I did.’
Edna cut across Stephen’s wistful voice with a sharp, ‘How do you know they went to Scarborough? Did someone see them there?’
Stephen seemed more than puzzled; he seemed to be getting frustrated. ‘Well, yes, Gran saw them when she was on a weekend break there with Betty. But, look, why are you so interested in old Ruby Smith? She’s nobody. She left ages ago. You’re the important one, Edna. We are important.’ He pushed back his chair and stood, looking down at Edna. Then he went down on one knee. ‘Edna Sweet – I am in love with you and I want you to marry me,’ he declared.
Edna stared at him. Stephen placed his hands over hers where they lay on the table. He felt very warm, and comfortable. Somewhere in the distance Edna heard bells, and in his eyes she saw a future. But what sort of future?
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she muttered, suddenly dry-lipped.
‘I’m thirty-two years old, healthy, wealthy, and I want at least two children,’ announced Stephen proudly. Then he faltered, ‘But if you don’t want children then we could talk about that, but I really do want children. And I am healthy – I got a check-up last week. And I am wealthy – I own the big house where Gran and I live and all the fields behind it and the orchard, and I own a row of cottages at the back of Acre Lane. I own all the stables and the houses on the farm – oh, and the farm too, of course. In fact, if Great-Grandad hadn’t s
old it off, I’d have owned the whole village. Now I only have about a thousand acres – we’ve been here since the Domesday Book was written, you know. Isn’t that great?’
‘The Domesday Book?’
‘You know – the book they did in 1060 -something to find out who lived where.’
‘Yes,’ replied Edna calmly, ‘I know what the Domesday Book is. But why are you telling me this?’ Her mind was in a whirl.
‘Because I love you, silly, and I want you to know you won’t go short; I can look after us both. My family is established. We’re reliable; we’ve been here forever. I don’t have to worry about money, and nor will you. This job with the newspaper is just to keep Gran off my back about being a rich layabout. I’m not really a layabout – I just haven’t found out what I’m good at yet. But I know I’d be good at loving you, and you’d be the making of me, Edna Sweet. All your energy – all your vision – that, and my money, and there’d be no stopping us. It would be wonderful.’
Had anyone else been there they’d have been treated to a tableau, the type of which is rarely seen: a true English gentleman, down on one knee, proposing marriage to a woman he has yet to kiss properly.
Edna knew exactly what to do. In fact, she knew it was the only thing she could do. She burst into tears. Stephen stood and dug in his pockets for a handkerchief, which Edna took from him. She had to give herself time to work out what on earth to say. Tears were a useful device, and they were having the desired effect on Stephen; he was now begging her to take her time to answer him, reassuring her that he understood how sudden all this was, that she needed to think. She agreed to talk with him on the phone that evening, then a couple of customers arrived, and he left.
Eventually the day was over, and, as she flipped the sign on the door to read ‘Closed’, Edna could feel the weight of the day lift somewhat, only to have that weight replaced with another, greater load; thinking about Joan and Stephen, and murder and marriage.
She dragged herself upstairs and flopped onto her bed, her face buried in her pillows. She didn’t want to think about it all, but knew she had to. It wouldn’t go away if she ignored it. Indeed, it could only get worse, because now she knew two things for certain that she hadn’t known when she woke that morning: Stephen Halyard loved her and wanted to marry her, and Joan Halyard was a cold-blooded killer.
The question was – did Stephen love Edna enough for them to be able to deal with the fact that she knew his grandmother to have killed already, and to be planning to do it again?
As she flipped onto her back and kicked off her kitchen clogs, Edna turned her mind to Stephen; he was attractive, funny, gentlemanly, and the fact he turned out to be wealthy as well didn’t hurt. Not that she’d ever marry for money, but, coming from where she did, she certainly didn’t underestimate the value of it. She didn’t know one single negative thing about Stephen; indeed, no one in the village had a bad word to say about him. He obviously felt strongly about her, loved her, and it had been so wonderfully chivalrous when he’d gone down on one knee.
Edna dwelt upon that image for a moment and almost entirely forgot about Joan. But, with Stephen being Joan’s grandson, it would never be possible to forget about her altogether.
Edna had to face facts. She’d heard Joan talking about a murder plot, and was convinced that Joan had killed before. What should she do? Should she confront Stephen? Would that break his heart? Would he rally to his grandmother – the woman who had all but raised him after his parents had died – or would he support Edna – the woman he had known only briefly, but with whom he wished to spend the rest of his life?
As she dragged herself toward the bathroom, for a revitalizing, cool shower, Edna made a decision she knew would change her life forever; when she phoned Stephen that evening she would accept his proposal, not mention her suspicions about Joan, and continue in her efforts to listen to Joan and glean information about her and her possible victims over the next weeks.
She clung to the hope she might be wrong about the woman. She rationalized that, if she was wrong, and she gave up Stephen because of a partially overheard exchange, she would regret it for the rest of her life.
The decision was made; why threaten her own future happiness on the basis of what might prove to be a misheard phrase or two?
The news of Edna and Stephen’s engagement flooded the village within half a day. Almost everyone who came into the tea shop had heard, and immediately congratulated Edna; if they didn’t know when they got there, they certainly knew before they left. Edna was overwhelmed by the kindness being shown toward her, but was not the only person to note that Joan and Betty were not in their usual window seat at their usual time.
By noon Edna was beginning to get nervous; she suspected there might have been words between Stephen and Joan – after all, she wasn’t a girl with the sort of background that a legendary family like the Halyards might want within their ranks. Of course, ‘their ranks’ was comprised solely of Joan and Stephen these days, so it might be a fifty-fifty vote. What could Joan’s absence mean?
By four o’clock Edna was also concerned that she hadn’t been visited by her fiancé that day; usually Stephen would have found some reason to pop in for a refreshing drink or a sustaining bun, and on this day – of all days – Edna had rather expected to see him. But there was no sign of him. Edna knew it wasn’t copy day for the newspaper, so where could he be? Of course, she was so busy that the rest of the day slipped by, and it wasn’t until she’d closed up for the night and was taking a well-deserved bath, that she could turn her whole attention to worrying about the non-appearance of Stephen and Joan.
By the time she was dry and curled up on the sofa with a salad and a cold drink, Edna had decided to finish supper then telephone Stephen – after all, they were engaged now, why wouldn’t she phone him?
Edna picked up the receiver, punched in Stephen’s number and the telephone rang out at the other end, but all she got was the recording of Joan barking that she should leave her name and number after the tone. Edna did so, in a somewhat hesitant voice, and left a feeble message telling Stephen that she’d like to hear from him, when it was convenient. Edna padded around the claustrophobic little living room, not knowing what to do next. All her chores were completed, she had cleaned and fed herself, and she had no idea where Joan or Stephen were, nor how to reach Stephen. The clock told her it was nine thirty. She thought she might as well try to get some sleep, and face the next day at least refreshed.
But Edna couldn’t find sleep; she tried reading, listening to the radio, then she played some soothing music designed to help those who, like her, could not relax into a restful night. When she finally did sleep, she did so fitfully, and by five thirty the next morning Edna was exhausted, sweaty, feeling decidedly wobbly, and totally unprepared to face the day.
She operated on autopilot preparing the tea shop for the day ahead, turning the sign to ‘Open’ bang on time. As she was walking back to the kitchen the door flew open and there – as so many times before – stood Stephen, his face glowing with perspiration. Edna’s first reaction was of genuine joy – but that initial response was immediately replaced by something else; Stephen’s face didn’t show his usual, puppy-like mixture of happiness and eagerness, instead his eyes were truly panicked, his face about to break into a tortured grimace, not a smile. Edna knew something was horribly wrong.
‘Stephen – what is it? You look awful.’
‘It’s Gran,’ he cried. Edna saw a tear roll down his cheek as he sprang toward her. He gathered her tight in his arms and cried like a baby into her hair, his sobs mixed with words, ‘Oh Edna, it’s Gran. She’s dead. The brakes on her car went. They couldn’t save her. Yesterday. Bottom of Long Hill. Her and Betty.’
Edna held Stephen tight. His whole body shook. She stroked his hair and, when he was able to pull back, she wiped his bloodshot and swollen eyes; they were still the most wonderful eyes she had ever seen. She knew right then tha
t it had been perfectly correct of her not to say anything to him about her suspicions regarding Joan. Terrible though it was that she was dead, at least it meant Edna didn’t have to worry any more about her possibly being a murderer. She realized this was an entirely selfish response to Joan’s tragic demise, but, after all, it was a blessing in many ways.
While Edna felt relief and compassion in equal measure, and set about delivering the sympathy she felt for Stephen as best she could, she could tell he was devastated. She locked the door to the shop and turned the sign to ‘Closed’, then pulled all the gingham curtains shut, so that no one could see inside.
She suspected Stephen had been up all night, and that proved to be the case. Over several cups of fortifying tea she discovered Joan and Betty had decided to visit some friends from a neighboring group of the Women’s Institute. The village being about thirty miles away, they had decided to make a day of it, so Joan had gone off with Betty, leaving Stephen to busy himself making arrangements for the forthcoming wedding which – although Edna had agreed it should be soon – seemed to be something Stephen envisaged as happening in a matter of weeks.
Putting her surprise about that particular matter to one side, Edna poured more tea, and let Stephen talk. Apparently he hadn’t begun to worry about Joan until about six o’clock in the evening; usually home from any trip by around four, it was unheard of for her to miss her six o’clock sherry. Stephen didn’t know who she’d gone to visit exactly, and got no answer when he telephoned Betty’s house. Ringing around a few of the other church ladies he’d managed to discover the telephone number of one of the women Joan had planned to visit. Upon phoning them he’d been told that Joan and Betty had left for home at around two thirty.