by Joan Boswell
I stared at the ledger. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” I said.
She nodded. “I believe I can trust you. When my great-uncle first came here, he lived in a small hut. He planted the trees to remind him of England, and he dreamed of a strong stone house.”
I wriggled to the edge of the chair, wishing she’d hurry.
“Life was precarious in pioneer days, and when Uncle James drew the plans for this tower, he incorporated an escape route in case he should ever be trapped.”
My toes curled with excitement. “A secret tunnel?”
Aunt Muriel nodded and passed me the ledger. “See if you can find where he hid it.”
The wet week went in a flash. I measured walls, tapped stones, consulted the plans and lay sleepless in bed working on the problem. I didn’t find it that year, or the next.
I found it in 1934, my twelfth year.
We, at Grove House, had settled into two camps. Laura ignored me, providing I didn’t interfere with her domination of Nana and Pop. She allowed me Aunt Muriel. After that first devastating summer, I found I preferred being with Aunt Muriel. She encouraged me in my efforts to write poetry and, to hone my mind, she taught me the intricacies of bridge. I learned to tat and proudly presented my mother with a lace doily for her birthday. The evenings I devoted to deciphering the cryptic references in the plans.
July 8th I walked over to the fireplace and pushed the stone beneath the mantle. The one closest to the chimney breast.
A small section of wall swung open with a screech. I held my breath and waited for the household to come running. Aunt Muriel said the walls were too thick for the noise to penetrate.
Stomach churning, I peered inside. I could see a couple of steps leading into a dank smelling blackness. “Where does it go?”
“To the stables. Tomorrow we’ll oil the mechanism, and I’ll give you the keys to the doors. There are two. One at the foot of the stairs and one at the far end. You mustn’t go down there without my knowledge. If you were to have an accident, I’d never forgive myself.”
While the novelty lasted, I went to and from the house via the tunnel, thus avoiding Laura. The secret gave my sagging self-confidence an enormous boost.
September, 1936. Because Merton had no senior high school, Laura came to live with us during the school term.
She fascinated the other students, especially the boys. She had inherited Nana’s musical voice and captivating laugh, and at fifteen she’d learned how to use her beauty to her advantage. Few people realized her lovely exterior concealed a self-centred manipulator. On the rare occasion when a boy became interested in me, she switched her charm full on. It never took long for him to defect.
Until Richard.
We met in November, 1942. Mother and I had moved to Regina to be with her sister while Daddy did something for the war effort, in Ottawa. In the three years away from Laura, I’d crept cautiously out from my shell and made a few friends.
Dragged by a girlfriend to a musical evening for lonely British airmen, I was half-heartedly doing the actions to a raucous rendition of “Knees up Mother Brown” when someone spoke from behind.
“Is this your kind of music?”
I turned and looked up into warm brown eyes set in a thin, tanned face.
“Not really.” I hoped it wasn’t his favourite.
“So let’s go somewhere else.”
We talked and talked. Richard missed his home and family in England. He had been in Regina for over a year training pilots for the Royal Air Force. We discovered a shared love of poetry, history and Bach. The best, most magical winter of my life flew by with every spare moment spent with Richard.
At Cambridge University, he’d belonged to a quartet specializing in Elizabethan madrigals. One late spring evening he brought a guitar over and sang to me while I sat dreamily working on a lace collar.
“When I see you tatting, I feel I’m in another era.” He lifted my chin and kissed me. The world stopped for a moment, and when it started again, we were engaged.
Until then I’d managed to keep him out of Laura’s way. I hadn’t been to Grove House in two years, not since Aunt Muriel had died. Now Daddy insisted I take Richard to meet Nana and Pop.
“This,” I told Richard on the train, “will be a very short engagement. Once you’ve seen my cousin, that will be that.” And I told him all about Laura.
“Have some faith, my love.” He grinned. “I can’t wait to meet this siren.”
Laura made a play for Richard as soon as they’d been introduced. Head on one side, eyes wide and innocent, she lured him away from me with apparent ease. I crawled straight back into my old shell.
Immediately after supper finished, I slipped away, unnoticed. The tower rooms had been kept for my use. Aunt Muriel had insisted and, to give them credit, Nana and Pop had agreed despite Laura wanting to use them herself. The lawyer for her estate had given me the only key and now, desolate and bitter, I shut myself in.
Hardly a minute had passed before someone hammered on the door. “Help. Open up.”
I plodded over and unlocked it. Richard rushed through and closed it quickly behind him.
“Whew.” He leaned against the heavy wood. “Why did you ditch me?” He studied my face. “Ruth, love, you didn’t think I’d fallen for her, did you?” He pulled me to him. “Silly sausage. I love you.” He kissed me. “You. Got it?”
Life bubbled up again. He’d met Laura and still loved me. How could this be? Apart from Aunt Muriel and my parents, this hadn’t happened before.
“Laura’s gone to help your grandmother wash the dishes. Seeing the surprise on Nana’s face, I suspect it’s not normal. Let’s sneak out for a walk while she’s showing what a good little granddaughter she is.” He grabbed my hand, and giggling like children, we crept out.
In the fading summer light we strolled in the woods behind the stables. I showed him my childhood hiding places, but I kept my promise to Aunt Muriel. The tunnel remained a secret.
After the weekend, letters from Laura arrived daily at the base.
“What am I going to do?” Richard showed me half-a-dozen fat pink envelopes. They smelled of roses.
“You could write and ask her to stop.” I itched to know what she’d written. When I asked, Richard ran a hand through his hair and reddened.
“Stuff about being in love. Nonsense really.” He didn’t pass me the letters to read.
“If you returned them unopened she’d get the message.” I couldn’t tell how he really felt. Flattered, perhaps. Whatever it was, I sensed danger.
“Good idea.” He looked relieved, and I relaxed a little. Loving him wasn’t enough, I had to have faith in his love for me.
July and August were busy for both of us. Richard had a new batch of conscripts to deal with, and in the Red Cross, where I volunteered, many of the workers had come down with a summer flu. He never mentioned Laura’s letters during our fleeting moments together and I, content to be with him, never thought to ask.
Her arrival in Regina came as a shock.
“Didn’t Richard tell you?” She sat on the chesterfield in our parlour. Her blue suit intensified the colour of her eyes. “I’m going to be staying in a hostel and working on the entertainment side.”
“Entertainment side?” My mind had gone numb. Richard hadn’t said anything. What else was going on?
“Yes. Entertaining the airmen. You know,” she gave a husky laugh, “singing, kicking my legs, taking their minds off the war.”
As soon as she’d gone, I phoned Richard at the base.
“Sorry, Miss. I’ll get him to call when he comes in.”
I paced round the kitchen, trying not to panic. Why hadn’t he told me? I couldn’t bear to lose him to anyone, let alone Laura. She’d crunch him up and spit him out later. I’d seen it so often in the past. Desperate men pleading with her to tell them what they’d done wrong. I wouldn’t let it happen to Richard.
The phone rang, and I snatched it up.
“Ruth? What’s the matter?” Richard sounded out of breath. I rarely called him during the day.
“Why didn’t you tell me Laura was coming?” My voice cracked.
“Your cousin? How would I know?”
“She sounded surprised you hadn’t told me.” I swallowed a sob.
“Put the kettle on, I’ll be there shortly.” The line went dead.
Before the tea had time to steep, the roar of his motorbike reverberated down the road.
He erupted into the kitchen and uptilted a bag on the table. Pink envelopes, still sealed, tumbled out.
“I never got around to returning them. I meant to write and ask her to stop.” He spread his hands. “I suppose she thinks I’ve read them.”
“I thought . . .”
“I know what you thought, and it hurts me. Particularly since you’ve had so much experience with Laura’s little games.”
We comforted each other, and I promised him I’d always check before accepting anything Laura said.
By Christmas, she had become the sweetheart of the entire airbase. Laura, however, was obsessed with Richard. She would wait for him outside the hangar, shivering in the wind. Badger him into going to her concerts, where she would sing love songs to him. Richard, my chivalrous love, couldn’t bring himself to be unkind.
When Laura promised him a real prairie Christmas with Nana and Pop in Merton, he reminded her of our engagement. She went alone but cut her visit short, and on her return she started to dog Richard again.
I’d had enough and confronted her. “Why do you always try to take people away from me?”
“You don’t understand anything, Ruth. You’ve been wrapped in a cocoon all your life. I love Richard, and I’m going to fight you for him.”
Over the months, as Richard continued to rebuff her, she lost weight and I began to believe she truly cared for him.
February, 1944. Nana and Pop were killed in a road accident.
Richard, preparing to return to England, made time to come to the funeral with us. He was very gentle with Laura.
“I wish she’d meet someone else, Ruth. This is going to be tough for her. She didn’t have a real family until she came to Grove House. She never had a father, and she was put in a foster home while her mother struggled to support them by acting and dancing. Her mother died, and the money stopped coming. Then the depression set in, and the foster family couldn’t keep her. Not much of a childhood.”
I wondered why her rotten childhood had given her the right to ruin mine and, more to the point, when she’d confided this mournful history to soft-hearted Richard. I didn’t say it aloud. “She’ll have some security now with the house and the money from Nana and Pop.”
“Yes. That will help keep her mind off me leaving.” Richard was due to go in three days. We’d discussed our wedding. I wanted it now, but he thought we should wait. Although he never said so, I suspected it was in case he didn’t survive the war.
I will never forget the reading of the will.
Our great-grandfather, the lawyer explained, had decided Pop was irresponsible and had left everything to his daughter. Aunt Muriel had given Nana and Pop the rights to use the house and the interest of the fortune while they lived. I was her sole beneficiary.
Laura fled from the house. I sat, stunned. I’d won it all. The house, the money and Richard.
“I’d better follow her.” Richard headed for the door. “She may do herself a mischief, the state she’s in.”
“Tell her I’ll make provision for her,” I called after him. I got tied up with the lawyer, and it was late when we finished. Richard still hadn’t returned, and I thought he must have gone straight to his hotel room in Merton.
In the morning, I wandered round the house waiting for him and worrying about Laura. She had stayed away all night.
She walked into the tower room just before lunch, a pale waif in a crumpled black dress. I rushed to speak, to reassure her.
“I’ll arrange for you to have the house, Laura, and half the money. I won’t need it in England.”
Laura lowered her eyes. Her hands stroked the wrinkles in her dress. “I stayed with him last night, Ruth. He has to marry me now. He’s coming to tell you soon.” She yawned. “I came by to get some clothes.”
Richard had finally succumbed to Laura’s smile.
The deep anger which had smouldered inside me for years, ignited. She wouldn’t win this time . . .
“Ruth, Ruth, are you okay?” I hear a voice calling. “Take a breath, dear.”
I open my eyes. Carol is patting my hand, a frown creasing her forehead.
“I’m fine.” I whisper. I feel on my lap. “The paper. Where is it?”
“Here it is.” She bends down and picks it off the floor. “Would you like me to read it now?”
I shake my head. “Read it to her.” I point across the room. My cousin, Laura, sits in the chair beside the window. The best chair in the room. She’s been here since the death of her third husband. Two old men are dallying close by.
She pats her yellow curls and smiles as Carol goes towards her, but her eyes are on mine. I’m glad she will finally know what happened. We hold each other’s gaze while Carol reads the story.
Then Laura gets up. Leaning on her cane, she shuffles over to me.
“When you told the military police you’d sent him away, I believed you,” she says. “Didn’t you ask him what happened?”
“Ask him?” My hands start to shake. I am gulping for air. A vice is squeezing my lungs.
She stares at me. “You didn’t.” She laughs, “Oh, Ruth, I never slept with him. We spent the night drinking stewed tea in the mess. I said I was going to tell you we’d spent the night together, and you know what he told me?”
I cannot breathe. I clutch at the pain in my chest. My heart is breaking.
“He said, ‘Ruth won’t believe anything you say without checking with me’. He was wrong, wasn’t he?”
Liz Palmer writes from her home in the Gatineau Hills. She has had stories in three of the previous Ladies’ Killing Circle anthologies. She won the Capital Crime Writers short mystery contest in 2001 and placed 2nd in 2002. She loves to kayak on still mornings.
Sing a Song of Sixpence
Sing a song of sixpence
A socket full of die
Mabel fixed the outlet
To make her husband fry.
When the plug was shoved in
Brad began to roast
Oh, wasn’t it a dainty dish
To make her husband toast?
Joy Hewitt Mann
Three Coins in the Fountain
Pat Wilson and Kris Wood
The cramped vestry was airless and hot. Under my heavy robe, I could feel a trickle of sweat running down my back. Trust the Koff-Carstairs wedding to be on the steamiest day of the year. I wondered how Father Donald was going to stand the heat once he put on his vestments. And where was Father Donald? The wedding was due to start in less than ten minutes.
The door crashed open, hitting my elbow and knocking Sunday’s bulletins off the table. “Oh, shoot! Did I hit you with the door? Dear Charles, my faithful lay reader, you’re always here first.” Father Donald lumbered in like a huge overinflated beach ball, the illusion heightened by the striking orange and yellow striped shorts and pistachio green T-shirt he was wearing. His flip-flops squeaked in protest at every step.
“Dottie’s idea,” he beamed, holding out the hems of his shorts and looking down at himself proudly. I doubted his sister Dorothy had ever suggested such an ensemble. “Well, not really her idea, but she encouraged me to dress coolly, that is, as coolly as you can dress on a day like this, although I’m not sure she really meant shorts, but then who will see them, except you, although on the other hand, I suppose if something untoward were to happen, and I had to remove my vestments, although, knowing what I’m wearing . . .”
I threw the alb over his head, mercifully muffling whatever he was saying.
I confess that I pulled the cincture rather tighter than necessary around his middle, effectively cutting off his breath, his words and his train of thought, if he ever had one.
“Ooof! Easy there. I’m not a sack of potatoes, you know, although I might look like one, or perhaps a sack of flour, what with the alb being white and all, and . . .”
The door banged open again, this time, striking Father Donald rather smartly on his ample rear.
“Oh, sorry, Rev’rint Peasgood. I didn’t see you there.” I wondered at the blindness of anyone who could miss the mountain of white in the middle of the vestry.
It was William (“Call me Billy . . .”) Koff, father of the bride, resplendent and sweating heavily in his white rental tux garnished with a deep purple cummerbund. “The Missus just reminded me that I had to give you a little somethin’ for your services today.” His eyes slid over to me, and I felt the dealer’s appraisal of his glance. “You and your sidekick here.” I winced. I’d been called a lot of things since I started serving with Father Donald in St. Grimbald’s, but never a “sidekick”. He handed me a large white envelope. “Money’s tight right now, what with the wedding and all, and little Krystal and the Missus wanting nothing but the best . . .” The seams on the jacket strained as he searched fruitlessly for a handkerchief and finally pulled out the purple fan of silk in his breast pocket to wipe his crimson face. “. . . and sales is down everywhere,” he continued, stuffing the now damp piece of silk back into the pocket, “and the business is no exception, so when I noticed that you hadn’t bought tickets to the reception, why, me ‘n the Missus thought you’d just as soon come and join in the festivities, as our guests, so to speak.”
I opened the envelope with a sinking feeling. When two garish gold and purple pieces of card fell into my hands, I kissed my new LaFlamme omelet pan goodbye.