“Can it be true, Mrs. Haskell, that you never suspected?” Miss Thorn’s eyes shuddered away from mine. “Vernon Daffy, may he rest in peace, refused to leave me alone. At your wedding reception he followed me upstairs, and after we had… delighted in each other, he begged me to play the piano for him, and I was so transported that I didn’t notice that his wig had come off until the cat started playing with it. The next moment you entered, and Vernon hid under the bedclothes.”
Hyacinth thumbed through the green book. “Mr. Vernon Daffy made the fatal mistake of asking his wife for a divorce, so he could marry another woman.”
“My men, God bless them,”-Miss Thorn closed her eyes-“have always respected me too much to reveal my name, but some suspicions must have been aroused because-” She stopped, digging her fingers into the edge of the table. “I heard rumours, shocking, unfounded rumours, that I was having an affair with a gentleman whom-although I never disliked him as much as many people did-I was never once tempted to visualise… naked.”
Primrose closed her eyes.
“Ellie,” said Hyacinth. “Miss Thorn is speaking of Charles Delacorte. Granted, he may have been having an affair with some unknown woman and used Miss Thorn as a scapegoat. But, what if he were guiltless of all wrongdoing, other than being an extremely unpleasant human being?” She paused for emphasis. “Something tells me we may have encountered a motive for murder different from the norm here. In other words, Mrs. Delacorte’s reason for wishing to be a widow may differ from that of the other club members.”
I tried to grip the seat of my chair, but my hands kept slipping. “You’re thinking Ann may have wanted Charles out of the way because of what I told you about her feelings for Lionel; but that doesn’t add up.” We were talking about a friend of mine. The sisters nodded and Gladys Thorn’s mushroom eyes magnified behind her glasses.
“Bunty’s still in the picture, you mean?” Hyacinth stood, paced for a few seconds and sat back down. “A stumbler, but Ann Delacorte may be banking on her allure as a heartbroken widow. And Flowers Detection must bank on her loyalty to the club not equalling that of her sisters, making her a little more approachable, a little less guarded if someone-”
She stopped significantly. I finished for her. “If someone attempted to infiltrate the group.” I picked up Edwin Digby’s book, The Merry Widows, then dropped it, as if it were white-hot. “I can’t do it; I can’t phone Ann and tell her I’ve just begun to realise how much we have in common-that I, too, want to murder my husband. What if something went wrong? What if I got in too deep and couldn’t get out?”
The pink bows in Primrose’s silvery curls and the Mickey Mouse watch were suddenly at odds with the sternness in her blue eyes. “Ellie, men are being murdered. Can you live with yourself knowing that?”
“I’m not at all sure that they are,” I flashed back.
“Then, my dear, nothing terrible can happen, if you just have a little chat with Ann about your unhappy marriage and how you are desperately seeking a way out.”
I couldn’t answer her. I didn’t have any words left. I opened up The Merry Widows and continued reading from the jacket where I had left off.
The heroine of this macabre tale is a foolish female who eventually gets what is coming to her.
20
“And now, my dear Ellie,” said Primrose, “it’s time to assign Bentley a paramour. Remember, to meet the eligibility requirements of The Widows Club, you must accuse him of conduct unbecoming a married gentleman.”
Miss Thorn raked fingers through her hair. “Anything I can do in the line of duty?”
Hyacinth froze her with a smile. “Without doubt, cousin Vanessa is the ideal choice. Her attentions to the vicar can so easily be made to look like camouflage. Now, Ellie, as to contacting Mrs. Delacorte and requesting she put you up for membership in The Widows Club, I suggest you allow a decent interval to elapse, say, a few days. Perhaps you could use the interim period to do something about eating sensibly?”
Miss Thorn twitched agreement. In addition to her other shortcomings, she undoubtedly ate like an elephant and lost rather than gained.
At midnight, after that marathon talk with the Tramwells, I crept into Merlin’s Court like a thief.
“Ellie.” Ben came out of the hall shadows and crushed me in his arms. “I thought you had left. And I was desperately worried about you; I didn’t think you would like being a nun.” He attempted a laugh. “I couldn’t blame you though if you’d had enough. I’ve failed you miserably.” He kissed my neck, my weakest spot. “My illness is no excuse…” Something in his voice told me he hoped it could be. “My treatment of you has been unforgivable.”
I wasn’t the innocent I had been when we married. I knew now that unless one chooses to join the ranks of the divorced-or worse-a spouse has, at times, to forgive the unforgivable. And Ben was compounding all the horrors of my situation by being utterly desirable. I stood there, my nose against his ear, arms rigid at my sides.
“Ellie, I know that even without what happened to Charles Delacorte, this has been a time of adjustment for you. First Mum, then Poppa descending on us with their problems, but in the end nothing counts but our love for each other. That is still so, isn’t it? We would have married even if so doing had cost us the inheritance. The house, and the money is just the fondant françois on the cake.”
This from the man I was plotting to murder! That I was doing so in a just cause and did not plan to bring the matter to fruition seemed, as the shadows in the hall stealthed the walls, to be splitting hairs. Ben had every right to know about my involvement with Flowers Detection; he was crucially involved. But if I told him everything… anything, he might be consumed by guilt, thinking that he had reduced me to this state of lunatic credulity. And… he might respond with heavy-handed chivalry and demand that I stop. A big chunk of me wanted to stop. But what if no one combatted the widows? What if they expanded their horizons? Did I want to raise children in a world where it was off with the heads of grannies who wouldn’t babysit every other Saturday or teachers who didn’t give all A’s?
In such a frame of mind, how could I go freely into my husband’s arms? That night I did not worry about the absence of violins; my head was filled with bells knelling. That sort of thing makes a woman frigid in a hurry.
There was, however, a glimmer of help for me. Ben blamed my abstraction upon his mother, who spent half the night pacing in her turret room. Even now we could hear every step, every chink of the rosary beads.
Poppa, on the other hand, caused us daytime audio problems. The next day and the next, the sound of his saw was enough to send anyone into orbit. He had turned the loggia into his workshop, and sawdust rose like a Sahara sandstorm. I tried to look pleased. He was, after all, engaged in making the cake from which I was to leap the night of Bunty’s Follies-now only a few weeks away. I had expected something disposable, but this was a magnificent edifice, good for the wear and tear of the next three generations. Not that my crystal ball showed any future generations.
Monday morning, three days after Charles Delacorte’s funeral, I determined I could do something about my marriage. I could eat the attractive, delicious, well-balanced meals Ben prepared. And if in so doing I gained a pound, so be it. Somewhere along the pathway to becoming the perfect wife I had forgotten that I had needed Ben’s help to keep trim; I had stopped letting him support me in this very important area of my life. We had been more of a team, more married, in the days when we were friends.
If only… if only we could have a second chance. I made a second determination. At nine-thirty, give or take an hour, I would pick up the phone and dial Ann’s number.
Magdalene and I were alone in the kitchen, but I was barely aware of her until she said, “If it’s something I’ve done to upset you, Giselle, I’d rather you told me straight out. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings, I’m not as frail as I look.” She picked up the milk jug with both hands. “I draw strength from doing for others.
”
I believed her. The kitchen was a changed place. Strung above the window were brightly painted egg shells sprouting tiny plants. A patchwork rug lay on the floor, a doily draped over the back of the rocking chair, and a new army of statues topped one of the cupboards. But the biggest change was in Magdalene herself. She wore a secret glow that perked up her dusty sparrow face. She and Poppa still weren’t speaking beyond essentials, and she continued to cross herself every time he came into the room. But there seemed something different about the way she did it. Had Charles’s untimely demise brought home to her the temporary nature of all things, including extramarital flings?
“You haven’t done anything to upset me, Magdalene. I’m just a bit preoccupied.” A nicer person would have reassured her with a hug. My uncooperative arms dangled at my sides. In a few minutes I must take that long walk to the phone.
“You’ll just be saying that, but it’s not in my nature to poke and pry.” Opening the garden door to admit Sweetie, her expression clouded. “Hm! Here comes Mrs. Malloy.”
“Morning!” Roxie rattled the supply bag at Sweetie. “Not another in the world like the little moppet, is there? Only scratches to come in when she has to go.”
Magdalene and Sweetie bristled. Hurriedly, I mentioned the post Roxie had in her hands.
“Don’t get excited, Mrs. H. Nothing of interest.” She licked her index finger and continued to flip through. “Nothing but bleedin’ bills, by the looks of it.” She whapped the envelopes on the table and prissied her lips at Magdalene. “We can’t get letters from France every day, can we, Mr. H.’s Ma?”
My mother-in-law hadn’t mentioned any foreign correspondence. She avoided my eyes and got busy stroking Sweetie; her lips were tight. Roxie dumped the supply bag on the table and gave me a lavish smile. “How’s Mr. H. and the restaurant coming along?”
“Ben’s at Abigail’s now. It’s going to reopen for lunch tomorrow.” I leafed through the envelopes and put them in the wire rack. I didn’t want either of the women to realise how scared I was that he wouldn’t be given a fair chance to live down the… my past.
Roxie unstoppered the all-purpose bottle. “My guess is things’ll be all right. There’s always them what like to live dangerously.”
Spoken from firsthand experience? Did that two-tone hair and madam makeup hide a face I didn’t know?
“Mr. Flatts’s back on the job, is he? Not nursing his dart wound so he can sue Sid Fowler?”
I started to say that Freddy was again an employee, but was cut off by my mother-in-law.
“Mrs. Malloy, this isn’t my house but-”
Roxie looked right, then left. “You could’ve pulled the wool over my eyes.”
“-and I’m never one to criticise, but the last time you were here you did miss three finger marks on the left side of the cooker.”
“Ooooh!” Roxie snarled a breath which tripled the size of her bosom. “Begging your royal pardon, I must not have had the time. I’m that busy these days putting fresh water in all them little birdbaths you’ve got dotted around the house. And there’s not even a budgie in the house!”
Magdalene crossed herself.
“And another thing!” Roxie smacked her lips. “Haven’t I been telling Mrs. H. until I’m purple as this hat that I don’t dust little graven images.”
A blessing on my house. I was driven from the kitchen, driven to phone Ann. Out in the hall I seized the telephone off the trestle table and trailed its cord into the drawing room. Closing the door, I deposited the phone on a chair, shoved another chair against the door, and paced the room. Ready or not! Hands shaking, I picked up the phone, put it down, picked it up again, and dialed. Ann answered at the second ring.
“Ellie! Lovely to hear your voice.”
“And yours.” I was appalled at how calm I sounded. “How are you feeling?”
“Serene. In so many ways this has been harder on you than me.”
Indubitably true, if the suspicions of Flowers Detection were correct.
“Ann, you are incredible.” My voice splintered. “You make me ashamed of myself. There you are getting on with your life while all I’m doing is making the most terrible botch of mine.” Again, true.
“Ellie,” her voice rang with sincerity. “Clearly you need to talk, really talk. Would you like to come over here?”
“Now?”
“What better time?”
I had to wash my hair, grow my nails…
I drove, rather than taking the bus, because the odds as always were excellent that the Heinz would break down midway. That damn car!
Ann met me at the door of the shop, put up the Closed sign, and led me through the amber velvet curtains, across the storage room, and up a flight of varnished stairs into the flat. On first coming here I had been intrigued by Ann’s collections. Music boxes, clocks, crystal, jade, salt cellars, and inkwells crowded the sitting room. Now the place had a narcissistic look. The many photos were all of herself, most of them taken in childhood with some singer of forgotten fame. Several were inscribed, Me with the wonderful so-and-so. My misgivings intensified when I saw, newly pinned to the collar of Ann’s white crepe blouse, a blackbird brooch. She closed the door. The very ordinariness of her smile made my skin prickle.
“Would you like a sherry?” She moved to a table covered with a tapestry cloth and crammed with decanters, some with price labels on them.
“No, thank you.” My fingers brushed a silver frame surrounding the image of little Ann gazing idolatrously into the face of the songbird Sylvania. “I… I am avoiding alcohol at present on account of its being a depressant.” Far smarter not to think about what I was going to say or the consequences. Get on with it and get out of here.
“I understand.” Ann smoothed down the sides of her maroon and black skirt and perched gracefully on the arm of the horsehair sofa.
“No, you don’t!” I crossed to the window and flung my arm around my eyes. “You’re too good, too decent to have any idea what is going on inside my head. All the anger! The feeling that all men are beasts!” Was the great Sylvania smirking at me?
“May I hazard a guess as to what is distressing you so? You feel guilty because you don’t pity me… you envy me.”
My neck came up, almost snapping off my head. Thank God for long hair. It is forever tumbling down and providing something to do for one’s hands.
“Ann, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” She crossed her ankles, inserted a cigarette in a jade holder, and lit up. “This, for instance.” She blew out a curl of smoke. “When Charles was alive, I couldn’t have a cigarette in peace. I couldn’t do anything in peace, even dislike him.” She leaned back and exhaled. “There, I am finally telling you the truth. All the other stuff I told you regarding my relationship with him was rubbish, invented according to the rules of…”
“Yes?” A hairpin dropped down the front of my shirt.
“The rules of… the stiff-upper-lip club.” Ann tapped away ash. “Strangely enough, I never hated Charles. He wasn’t man enough to inspire that deep an emotion. But even from a distance I can see Ben is different. He is virile and dynamic, and you are in love with him, you poor fish.”
“Why else would I marry him?” I turned back to the window.
“Not for the reasons he married you. It isn’t necessary for you to tell me anything, Ellie.”
How convenient, considering my lips were hermetically sealed.
“It was crystal clear to me the day of your wedding that Ben was nothing but a handsome rogue. That service, a menage à trois, and the reception crammed with his debauched friends. Where did he dredge up that woman who did obscene things to the suit of armour? And that paunchy man who kept chasing the woman in paisley up and down stairs! Small wonder his parents refused to come. Ellie, dear,” she continued serenely, “everyone felt frightfully sorry for you, especially when the policeman dropped in and Ben was so cavalier. ‘Just a little private business.’ �
� Ann mimicked his voice so closely that I almost wrenched the cigarette away from her and stubbed it out in her face.
She leaned toward me. “Sweet, innocent Ellie. When word got out that you had hooked up with him through an escort service, no one was surprised or thought any the less of you for succumbing to his fortune-hunting charms. Your being overweight made you an easy mark.”
“I was fat, actually.”
“Yes, well…” Ann touched her fingertips to her smooth dark hair. “Poor dear.” She sounded as though I had said something a little coarse.
“Happily you are a resilient person, Ellie. I imagine you would have continued to endure being used if only Ben had exercised the decency to be discreet in his relationship with your cousin.”
Incredibly, Ann was speaking the lines assigned to me by the Tramwells, making everything so much easier, but I forgot I was playing a role. “Not true, there is absolutely nothing going on between-”
Ann rose from the sofa and placed a hand on my arm. “Ellie”-her voice throbbed with sympathy-“you know it is true. Don’t hide behind passive misery. Feel anger! Feel murderous rage! Think of all you have done for your cousin-giving him a job, letting him live in your cottage.”
Him? She wasn’t talking about Vanessa. My eyes dilated. Ben and… Freddy! Those two would collapse with laughter if they heard this. But my mind went into reverse. I was back at the wedding reception, overhearing snatches of conversation puffed on the air.
“A fairy story in the true sense of the word.” “Extremely good-looking, but then they so often are. More unfair, I always say.” “Best man a hairdresser…” And later, Ann herself had talked about it’s being worse when the Other Woman was a man.
I sank into an armchair. It made grotesque sense. Freddy’s masquerade had set the spark and eager tongues had fanned the flames.
“Ellie, do you feel faint?” Ann was all solicitude.
“No, I’m fine.” And so I was. Blood surged to my brain. I was angry-for Ben, myself, and Freddy. Whatever my cousin’s failings, he would never have stooped to setting his cap at my husband. I didn’t doubt that the most venomous of the gossips were those same women who were bumping off their husbands right, left, and center.
The Widows Club Page 28