The Widows Club

by Dorothy Cannell

  Eyes closed so their expression wouldn’t give me away, I groped for Ann’s hand. “What a coward I have been! I haven’t wanted to face the truth about those nights when Ben and Freddy stopped for a drink after work, the hours they spend engrossed in each other, talking about secret”-I had to do better than recipes-“things.” Then I let my anger work for me. “Ann, I can feel it! The beginning of that murderous rage!” I pounced out of the chair and paced the crowded room. “They have taken me for such a fool! I could kill them! Kill them both!” My voice spiralled. I could feel the heat of Ann’s eyes on my back.

  She gave a light laugh. “Wouldn’t one of them be sufficient? It does, after all, take two to have an affair. Ellie, have you ever heard of a novel called The Merry Widows?”

  I tensed. So this was how the approach was made. “I… I can’t say I have.”

  “Not surprising. It’s been out of print for years; a book that sank without a ripple. We get boxes of such in the shop and end up using the paper for packing. This one’s by Edwin Digby actually and is about a group of wives who form a club, the purpose of which is to murder off their adulterous husbands. The especially nice thing about the scheme is that one doesn’t plunge the knife or the poison… into one’s own mate. The necessary steps are taken for one, and afterward, an abundance of emotional and social support is provided.”

  Silence.

  “Amusing, don’t you think?” Ann peeled a price tag off a decanter.

  “I think… it’s a pity there isn’t something like that locally. I could divorce Ben, but then he would get a share of the inheritance and I… I can’t bear the thought of him walking away with more than the clothes on his back.” Pressing my fingers to my brow, I waited.

  “What if there were such a group?” Ann circled around me, fingers trailing the furniture.

  “I suppose… I wouldn’t be eligible. After all, mine isn’t a case of another woman.” I fought a feeling of sickness.

  “Oh, I don’t think that-it’s only a technicality. The important thing is knowing the right people.” Ann brushed my arm. “And, of course, we are talking about fiction.”

  I moved away from her to stand in front of a Victorian standing lamp. “Fictitiously speaking, how would someone apply for membership?” The room seemed to dim.

  “Come here.” Ann pulled a chair away from a table with claw feet. “Sit down and tear a sheet off that pad of paper, and yes, there’s a pen behind this vase. You are going to write a letter.”

  “I am?” My heart pounded.

  “Yes, to Dear Felicity Friend.” The paper nearly blew off the table. Ann stood in front of me, tapping out a beat on the table. “Wisest, I think, to keep the message short and sweet: Dear Felicity Friend, Please help me get rid of a terrible problem-my husband.” Ann picked up a cigarette and flipped it between her fingers. “Sign it with your full name and a code.”

  The pen dug a hole in the paper. Could I assume that Felicity Friend was The Founder, or was Felicity merely an unwitting instrument? “Why a code?”

  Ann touched a cold finger to my cheek. “Why, Ellie, so Dear Felicity can answer you in the confidential column. Let’s see, how about something charmingly traditional like Heartbroken. That’s it! Write it down.” When I had done so, she tweaked the paper out of my slack grasp and folded it in two. The urge to snatch it back made my throat hurt.

  “What next?” I managed. “… if this were fact, not fiction.”

  Ann folded the paper again. “I would take this to the president of the club and urge your admission to our… the ranks.”

  “The president being…?”

  “Let us say Mrs. Amelia Bottomly, although I don’t suppose I should be saying anything of the sort. But we don’t have to be terribly discreet, do we, as this is only fiction. She would then get in touch with the founder of the organisation, who would make the decision as to whether or not you were eligible.” Ann straightened the Sylvania photo. “Then if you got clearance from the top, you would be contacted by telephone and asked in so many words if you wished your husband murdered. If you answered yes, you would be told the amount of dues payable and where to deposit. Simple, isn’t it?”

  “Admirably.” My hands relaxed. No need to snatch back the letter to Dear Felicity. It only constituted an application; it was not a signing of the contract. I was ready to get out of here.

  Ann held the paper between a finger and a thumb. Her eyes gleamed.

  “Would you want me to tear this up if this were fact?”

  “I…” Remember two important things, Ellie, I thought. You are not endangering Ben’s life and you are serving mankind. If you proceed to Point B-the telephone call-you may help accumulate enough evidence to call a halt to these vile murders. “Widowhood certainly becomes you, Ann.” I stood up.

  She tapped the paper to her lips, picked up a black suede handbag, and dropped the paper inside. Then she went to stand by the fireplace, looking up into the gilded mirror. Her reflected eyes met mine.

  “Life is what we make of it, don’t you agree, Ellie? If there were a Merry Widows Club, I would have had to worm my way in because my marital situation wouldn’t have met the admission requirements. Charles was incapable of having an affair, that is, with anyone except himself. But rumour, goodness knows who started it, buzzed it about that he was carrying on with Miss Thorn, of all pitiful people. I have always thought that lies are so much more credible when far-fetched. Although Charles did seem to rather like the poor wretch.”

  Ann turned back to me, her fingers stroking the blackbird brooch. “My only regret concerning this death was your involvement. I like you, Ellie, and I don’t like most women.”

  “Bunty Wiseman, for instance?”

  “You noticed.”

  “Could it be that you are in love with her husband?” When would I learn to be discreet?

  Ann’s smile vanished. She stared at me, perhaps without seeing me. I had gone too far.

  “You’re right,” Ann said softly. “Lionel Wiseman affects me as no man ever has, and he was showing definite signs of being attracted to me before he went and married that piece of candy floss. The day you and I went to his office, I felt the room begin whirling the moment he entered. Here’s something amusing. I wrote a letter to Dear Felicity myself several weeks ago, just to cool off. I told her that I had this uncontrollable urge to rush into Lionel’s office and fling off my clothes.”

  “I have the feeling I read that,” I murmured.

  Ann gave no sign of hearing me. She removed a black hat from a rack on the wall and stood in front of the mirror, tilting the brim over her brow. “Of course, that was before I knew that there were other, more valid reasons for writing to Dear Felicity.” She adjusted the hat to another angle. “Ellie, I do hope our little chat has helped clear your head. It has mine. If there were a Merry Widows Club and I had my suspicions as to the identity of its founder, I might decide that I had waited long enough to approach that person and request a small favour. Widowhood is pleasant, as I have said, but I don’t think I want to make it a way of life.” She stopped talking to herself in the mirror and addressed me. “How about lunch, after which I do have an errand to run…”

  Run was what I was going to do, run to the nearest telephone kiosk. Ann’s last words were fraught with ominous possibilities. I stammered that I couldn’t make lunch. I had to get out of this room. But suddenly it was a long way down the stairs, through the amber velvet curtains, across the shop floor to the fresh air of the world outside.

  21

  “Miss Hyacinth or Miss Primrose Tramwell, please.” I stood in the telephone kiosk at the corner of Market and Herring streets, convinced I was being photographed by hidden cameras.

  “Sorry to keep you, love,” said the female voice from the Pebblewell Hotel. “Our gentleman at Reception says the ladies left word they’d be out all afternoon, fishing.”

  Hair curtaining my face, I stepped into the pedestrian flow. Out baiting their hooks, were th
ey? The tower clock struck noon. My conversation with Ann kept scraping round and round in my head, with certain names making the loudest noise. Bunty and Lionel Wiseman. I stepped back into the kiosk and dialed Bunty’s number. What would I say to her? Ann Delacorte is out to get your husband… and maybe you too. No answer. I hung up.

  Another name bounced out at me. Teddy Peerless. She had found Charles’s body. She was in that photograph with Edwin Digby and the young woman I presumed was his daughter, and Teddy was closely acquainted with both Wisemans. I had no idea what rivers the Tramwells might be fishing, but I would tackle the pond.

  Pushing open the street door, I mounted the bottle-green staircase to the offices of Bragg, Wiseman & Smith.

  “Hello, Teddy.”

  No answering smile. Her hands kept moving, ruffling through cardboard folders in the file cabinet. “You made me jump.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said to the back of her head. Why this feeling that she had been expecting me for some time? I came further into the room, put my hand on the desk, and took it off again. “I see you’re busy, but if you haven’t had lunch, Teddy, could we go somewhere-not Abigail’s-and talk?”

  “I can’t.” Teddy finally turned to me, a folder held to the front of her cardigan. It struck me that she looked more beige than ever. Her prominent teeth bit into her lower lip, but otherwise her face was expressionless. Bunty had provided a detailed account of what Teddy Peerless was-daughter of an earl, neglected sister, dedicated secretary-but did even Bunty know who Teddy was?

  “Are you afraid to be seen with me because people are making nasty jokes about Charles’s death?”

  “I am not.” Her voice was flat, but something stirred in her face. I thought I saw sympathy, the desire to tell me something.

  “Liar!” squalled a voice. I jumped. I had forgotten the parrot. It pranced gleefully upon its perch. Avoiding his knowing eyes, I said, “How about a half hour, Teddy? You have to eat sometime, and I need to discuss that night at Abigail’s.”

  Her face had gone neutral again. “Mrs. Haskell, I have a will that has to be typed immediately.”

  “Liar!”

  Lady Theodora-I couldn’t continue thinking of her as Teddy when I had ceased being Ellie to her-closed the file cabinet and began organising stray paper clips on her blotter. I sat down because I didn’t know what else to do with my legs.

  “I’ll talk fast,” I began. “I’ve been trying to put together all the higgledy-piggledy pieces of the night when Charles died. When I was leaving the room to talk to a man-who turned out to be Mr. Digby”-her hands stopped moving-“you and I collided. And even though my mind was on other things, I was struck by how agitated you looked. Mrs. Malloy, who works for me, had mentioned earlier that you seemed bothered by the presence of Dr. Bordeaux-”

  “I can understand, El… Mrs. Haskell, that what happened was a distressing experience for you and your husband, but really, you sound irrational on the subject.” A paper clip landed in a tin with an earth-shattering ping. “A man unfortunately died. What do I have to do with that?”

  “I want to know why you found him, why you went into the office.”

  “Bite your tongue!” screeched the parrot.

  Teddy was now taking the paper clips out of the tin. “As I told the police, I simply mistook that office for the powder room.”

  “Why?” I stood up. “There would have been a sign-one of those stiff girls with the triangular skirts-on the door.”

  “Please excuse me.” Teddy crossed to the far side of the desk. The protruding teeth gnawed at her lower lip.

  “Did you see Mr. Digby?” I asked. “Were you upset and wanting a place to escape for a few minutes? Is Mr. Digby your brother, returned here under an assumed name… and a beard?”

  “Kill, kill!” shrieked the parrot. “Drown the pretty damsel in the nearest sea!”

  “Silence, you old barnacle. And how do you do, Mrs. Haskell.” Lionel Wiseman filled the small office, not only on account of his height and powerful build, but because he was (with full apologies to Ben) powerfully handsome.

  “Abigail’s lease holding up?” He was still clasping my hand and I didn’t know whether it would be ungracious to remove it or inappropriately friendly to leave it there.

  “The lease is doing splendidly. I came to ask your secretary to lunch-but another time. I did phone Bunty, but she was out.”

  He held the door for me, his gold cuff links gleaming. “My wife keeps herself entertained. I count myself fortunate if I find her at home in the evenings.”

  Teddy was back at the files. As I went down the stairs and out into Market Street, I remembered Roxie saying the village gossips didn’t believe the Wisemans were married. What, I wondered, was Bunty’s real name? Something awful she had said. Something… beginning with a “W”?

  When I entered the kitchen at Merlin’s Court, Magdalene and Poppa were at the table having lunch, the earthenware teapot between them. Sweetie lay across Magdalene’s feet, grunting out little snores. Tobias was a mere dangle of tail from an upper cupboard. My in-laws weren’t talking, but the silence was of the sort that binds people together.

  “Back with us, are you, Giselle?” Magdalene flitted up from her chair. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you want a sandwich.”

  I stripped off my gloves and unbuttoned my coat. “I would like two, please, and some of that soup.” As Magdalene disappeared into the pantry for bread, Poppa’s voice spoke in my ear.

  “Such a feisty one, that woman! Doesn’t look a day over sixty-five, does she?” Was this the man who had talked about Mrs. Jarrod with a similar gleam in his dark brown eyes? Could it be that he was over that woman? I hung up my coat in the alcove. In his favourite red cardigan and leather slippers. Poppa didn’t look like a lecher and even less like a man who would decide to revitalize his marriage by injecting a little jealousy. But then did Miss Thorn look like a vamp? Or Teddy Peerless a woman with a secret? Or the Tramwells detectives? Did I look like a woman who could inspire a grand and undying passion in a breathtakingly handsome man? Well I had, which goes to show that you can’t tell anything about anyone, especially murderers.

  After lunch, all three of us did the washing up. I had just put away the last cup and Magdalene had rearranged the handle when the phone rang. I didn’t think the Tramwells would ring me; we had arranged it would be the other way around, but out in the hall I dropped the receiver before getting it to my ear.

  “Did I tell you this morning how much I love you?”

  “I believe so, thank you, and… ditto.”

  “Is one or more parent lurking in the immediate vicinity?” Ben’s voice dropped to a stage whisper.

  “That could be so.” Apart from Rufus and his mate, I was alone in the hall, but the memory of my visit to Ann stung, and what’s one more lie in a healthy marriage?

  “I’ve been thinking, Ellie.” Holding the receiver was almost like touching him. I could see him, the dark brows coming together, the intensity of his blue-green gaze. One of the more unsettling features of frigidity is that it leaves you at the worst possible moments.

  “What have you been thinking, Ben?”

  “That it may be time to give the parents a nudge. I am sorry about their problems, but I am not sure coddling them is the answer. Living with us is like living in a hotel for them. They are together without ever meeting, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew exactly what he meant.

  “Ben, we can’t hustle them. For starters, your father hasn’t finished my cake. It’s turning into a drawing room conversation piece. Also, I am sure there is more to their marital difficulties than Mrs. Jarrod.”

  “You don’t think that Poppa could be… one hates to suggest such a thing about one’s own father, but… well, impotent, and he’s been trying to give himself an out?” Ben’s voice dropped lower. “If it is that, I hope it isn’t… hereditary.”

  “Ben, it doesn’t do to make wild guesses.”

/>   “You’re right. And I should worry about my own life. Ellie, there’s more to our marital situation than I can put my finger on.”

  Oh, the folly of marrying a man of above-average intelligence!

  “Sorry, Ben, but there goes the doorbell. I have to go.”

  “Let Poppa or-”

  Pretending not to hear, I hung up. Chalk up another lie; I hadn’t even asked Ben if the luncheoners at Abigail’s had included any patrons other than himself and the staff. I whispered into the empty hall. “All for your own good, my darling. You will thank me for my strong-mindedness when single-handedly (give or take Flowers Detection) I unmask The Founder and restore your professional reputation.”

  The phone rang again as I was prying my hand off the receiver. Don’t let it be Ben. I might lose all control and beg him to abscond with me to a desert island.

  “Ellie, such a thrill finding you at home.” Vanessa’s voice breezed into my ear. “I’m at the London flat, but I plan to come down to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang next Saturday and wonder if you and I could get together for a cousinly chat?”

  I didn’t like this. Was she out of work and forced to pawn one of her furs? With so many illusions already stripped away-Ann, Miss Thorn; and big questions raised about Teddy and… Bunty-I wasn’t ready for anything that would put a crimp in a lifetime of loathing Vanessa.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “What a foolish question. Life for me began to fall apart when you got married and I realised that none of the important things-looks, charm, style-counted for anything.”

  “Does Rowland fit into this?”

  She smirked audibly, said, “See you Saturday evening,” and hung up.

  I almost wished the phone would ring again. The prospect of nothing to do stared me in the face. My thoughts weren’t good company. Had I read too much into my conversation with Ann? She had admitted she hadn’t loved Charles and that she wanted him dead. We had discussed a book by a local author and played a silly charade of writing to an advice columnist. I had felt concern for Bunty as the wife-in-the-way; but as it seemed highly unlikely that a wife-murdering organisation had set itself up in competition with The Widows Club, Ann would surely be content with trying to break up the Wisemans’ marriage. An anonymous letter here, a venomous word there… I paced the flagstones in the hall.