Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse

by Nancy Atherton

  “You’re spot-on,” Minnie responded.

  “The man was Edwin Craven,” said Myrtle.

  “Edwin Craven stood on the top rung of the social ladder in Old Cowerton,” said Minnie, “and he was as rich as Croesus.”

  “He was the lord of the manor,” said Mildred.

  “He wasn’t the real lord,” Myrtle interjected. “The real lord sold the manor to Mr. Craven and moved to Majorca.”

  “Craven Manor it was called after that,” said Mildred, “though old folks like us still call it the big house.”

  “Or the manor,” Myrtle put in.

  Mabel, who’d been munching on a meringue, hastened to get in on the act.

  “My cousin Florence,” she said, spraying meringue crumbs far and wide, “was hoovering the carpet in the morning room when William Walker introduced Annabelle to Mr. Craven. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could see them standing together near the grand staircase in the front hall.”

  “Poor William Walker sealed his own fate when he introduced Annabelle to Edwin,” Mildred said dolorously.

  “Once Annabelle met Edwin, she had to have him,” said Minnie.

  “She couldn’t have anyone else,” said Myrtle. “By then, no other man in Old Cowerton would go near her.”

  “They were afraid they’d end up like Ted Fletcher, Jim Salford, and William Walker May,” Mildred elucidated, in case Bree and I had missed the point.

  “Was Edwin Craven aware of Annabelle’s, um, track record?” I asked awkwardly.

  “Of course he was,” said Minnie. “When I heard he’d taken a liking to her, I marched up to the big house and told him to watch his step.” She shook her head. “I may as well have saved my breath. He was too far gone by then to pay attention to anything I said.”

  “He couldn’t marry Annabelle right away,” said Myrtle, “but the moment a judge declared Zach Trotter dead, he whisked her off to St. Leonard’s.”

  “It was a quiet wedding, I’ll give her that,” Mildred allowed, toying with her teacup. “Though how she could stand up in church and say her marriage vows with three headstones and an unmarked grave to her name is past understanding.”

  “I’m surprised Edwin lived long enough to marry her,” said Bree, with a coy, sidelong glance at Minnie.

  “So were we,” said Minnie.

  “She had what she wanted, didn’t she?” said Myrtle. “She was the lady of the manor. She didn’t have to scrimp and save anymore. She didn’t have to make her own clothes or clean her own house or hem dresses for a living.”

  “She had servants to wait on her and more jewelry than was good for her,” said Mildred. “She traveled all over the world with Mr. Craven, and she mixed with his family and friends, but she kept well clear of the town.”

  “She knew we were watching her,” said Mabel. “She knew we were waiting for the curse to catch up with her.”

  “It took longer than we expected,” said Minnie, “but she did him in, in the end.”

  “She did him in?” I repeated, nonplussed. “Annabelle told me that Edwin died of Alzheimer’s disease.”

  “He had Alzheimer’s,” Minnie acknowledged, “but it was the widow’s curse that killed him.”

  “She kept him at home for the first year or so,” said Mabel. “Then she put him into a nursing home.”

  “Your nursing home?” Bree asked.

  Her question provoked an outburst of hearty laughter.

  “We’re at Newhaven,” said Mildred, after the laughter died away. “Newhaven wasn’t posh enough to suit Annabelle. She put Edwin in Cloverhill, over by Tewkesbury.”

  “Cloverhill has an indoor swimming pool,” Mabel said dreamily, “and a riding stable and a garden and painting classes and yoga and concerts and a full-time staff of specialist doctors and nurses.”

  “We’re lucky if we see a doctor once a month,” said Mildred.

  “We’re lucky if we can get someone to clean the toilets,” Myrtle grumbled.

  I ducked my head, too embarrassed by my many blessings to look the old ladies in the eye.

  “It sounds as if Annabelle was doing everything she could for Edwin,” said Bree.

  “It appeared that way,” Minnie agreed, “until she went against his doctor’s advice and brought him home from Cloverhill for an overnight visit. She hired a private nurse to look after him, but—”

  “Stop right there,” Mabel interrupted. “I get to tell this part, on account of my cousin Florence.”

  “So you do,” Minnie said amiably. “I beg your pardon.”

  Mabel straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, as if she were the star witness at a trial. “Florence had a bedsit on the top floor in Craven Manor, but she didn’t have her own kitchen. If she wanted a snack between meals, she had to fetch it from the big kitchen downstairs, at the back of the house.” She peered from Bree to me and asked, “With me so far?”

  “Florence upstairs, kitchen downstairs,” said Bree. “Got it.”

  “On the night Annabelle brought Edwin home from Cloverhill, Florence felt restless,” Mabel continued. “She’d been run off her feet all day, getting a room ready for him and the hired nurse, and she couldn’t settle. She thought a cup of warm milk might help, so she went down to the kitchen to make one.”

  “Very sensible,” said Mildred. “Warm milk always sends me off.”

  “I prefer hot chocolate,” said Minnie.

  “A hot toddy works for me,” Myrtle declared. “Wish we could have hot toddies at Newhaven.”

  “I’ll bet Cloverhill’s residents can have as many hot toddies as they like,” Mildred said with a wistful sigh.

  “Florence was in the kitchen,” Mabel reiterated, raising her voice, “when she heard a horrible noise in the front hall.”

  “It was the same noise my husband and I heard the night Zach Trotter died,” Minnie put in. “A bump-thud-rumbling noise.”

  “The very same,” Mabel confirmed. “Florence ran to the front hall as fast as ever she could, and when she got there, she saw the most awful sight: Edwin Craven was sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the grand staircase, and he was as dead as a doornail. Florence told me he looked like a broken doll, with his arms and legs flung every which way and his neck bent all funny and his wide-open eyes staring up at the big chandelier.”

  “Poor Edwin,” Mildred murmured. “Another headstone at St. Leonard’s.”

  “And there was Annabelle,” Mabel went on, “standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. Her hands were balled into fists and her chest was heaving, and before she started screaming, Florence swears she saw a flicker of relief cross her face, as if she’d finally done what she’d wanted to do all along. All Florence could think of was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, so she ran back to the kitchen and hid in the scullery until the police came.”

  “Where was the hired nurse?” Bree asked.

  “She was sound asleep on the easy chair in Edwin’s room,” Mabel replied.

  “She fell asleep on the job?” Bree said, sounding scandalized.

  “She did, and she was struck off for it, but it wasn’t her fault,” said Mabel. “Annabelle drugged her.”

  “She . . . what?” I said, certain that I’d misheard her.

  “Annabelle drugged the nurse,” Mabel said. “There were sleeping tablets on Edwin’s night table when Florence dusted it that afternoon, but they were gone when the police came.”

  “Annabelle slipped them into the nurse’s coffee,” said Myrtle. “It was the only way she could keep the nurse from putting a stop to her wicked plan.”

  “She waited until the nurse passed out,” said Mabel. “Then she got Edwin out of bed, led him to the landing, and pushed him down the stairs. Florence told the police about the sleeping pills and the look on Annabelle’s face, but they ignored her. She
handed in her notice the next day.”

  “The inquest ended with the usual verdict,” said Minnie, “but Edwin Craven’s death was no more an accident than Zach’s, Ted’s, Jim’s, and William Walker’s. Annabelle did away with all of them.”

  “We reckon they came back to haunt her,” said Myrtle. “That’s why she left Craven Manor.”

  “A guilty conscience can cope with one or two ghosts,” Mildred informed us, “but five is too many.”

  “Have any men died accidentally in your village since Annabelle came to live there?” Minnie inquired, turning to Bree and me.

  “No,” I replied. “Not one.”

  “It’s only a matter of time,” Minnie said serenely. “There’s no escaping the widow’s curse.”

  Sixteen

  The nursing home van collected Mildred, Myrtle, and Mabel at half past two. Minnie sent them off with a shopping bag filled with treats she and Susan had baked especially for them. I hoped fervently that the homemade cookies and cakes would make life a little less bleak for them at Newhaven.

  Bree and I offered to clear the table, but Minnie declined.

  “A fine hostess I’d be if I made my guests of honor clean up after themselves,” she scolded. “Susan will tidy up when she comes home.” She squinted skyward. “It’s time for you to take that daughter of yours back to the White Hart. The house will block the sun in a little while, and it’ll get chilly out here. You don’t want Bess to come down with the sniffles.”

  Minnie insisted on accompanying us to the front door, pausing only to present us with a goody bag she took from the kitchen counter. When we reached the foyer, she nodded at the bag.

  “You’ll find some of my Melting Moments in there,” she said, smiling slyly at me. “I saw your face fall when you thought we’d eaten the lot.”

  “I’ve never been much of a poker player,” I admitted sheepishly. “Are you sure you don’t want us to stay with you until Susan comes home?”

  “There’s no need,” she assured me. “I’ve said all I have to say. What you do with it is up to you.” She shook a gnarled finger at us. “You can’t say you weren’t warned!”

  She caressed Bess’s silky curls and chucked Moo under the chin, then opened the door. Bree led the way to the Rover. We loaded it in silence while Minnie watched from the doorway. She gave us a cheerful wave as we drove away and we waved back, but I was still worried about leaving her on her own. To my relief, we passed Susan’s boxy blue sedan heading into the terraces as we were heading out.

  As we turned onto the main road, Bree burst out laughing.

  “Farewell to the Sunnyside Gang,” she said. “Farewell to Minnie’s house of horrors.” She shook her head, still grinning. “What a big bucket of nonsense. If you ask me, Minnie and her cronies have been skipping their meds.”

  “I take it you have doubts about their veracity,” I said drily.

  “I’d have doubts about anyone who was crackbrained enough to believe in curses and ghosts,” Bree scoffed.

  I thought of the blue journal and suppressed a smile.

  “Besides,” she continued, “their stories were as full of holes as a cheese grater.”

  “Show me the holes,” I said.

  “Ted Fletcher was a professional cowman,” Bree stated. “He wouldn’t let a girl he adored come anywhere near a slurry pit. Can you picture him and Annabelle enjoying a romantic picnic next to a poo pond? It’s ludicrous.”

  “And Jim?” I asked.

  “Gamekeepers have accidents,” Bree said simply. “A knife slips, a shotgun goes off prematurely, a branch falls after a windstorm. . . . I have a lot less trouble believing that Jim Salford slipped on a mossy rock and fell into the river than I have believing that Annabelle shoved him.”

  “William Walker?” I prompted, reassured by her certainty.

  “If Annabelle didn’t know a spanner from a hammer,” Bree argued, “how could she sabotage the heater in William Walker’s greenhouse?”

  “What about the look of relief Florence saw on Annabelle’s face after Edwin’s fatal fall?” I asked.

  “Alzheimer’s is a bloody awful disease,” said Bree. “I’d be heartbroken if someone I loved suffered from it. If an accident put an end to the suffering, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I felt a tiny flicker of relief mixed in with my grief and horror. I might not admit it, even to myself, but I’d probably feel it.”

  “The drugged nurse?” I pressed.

  “Mabel’s cousin Florence didn’t actually see Annabelle slip the sleeping tablets into the nurse’s coffee,” Bree reminded me. “It’s much more likely that the nurse gave them to Edwin to help him sleep.”

  “So the nurse nodded off without Annabelle’s assistance,” I said.

  “Nurses who work night shifts have been known to fall asleep on duty,” said Bree. “It’s a shame, but it happens.”

  I fell silent for a moment, then said, “Wait a minute. You skipped over Zach Trotter. How do you explain his disappearance?”

  “Here’s how I see it,” Bree said, pursing her lips judiciously. “Zach comes home drunk for the hundredth time, falls down the stairs, cracks his head open, and bleeds all over the rag rug Annabelle made by hand for her foyer. It’s the last straw. She kicks him out of the house in the middle of the night and tells him never to darken her doorway again. When asked, she says he left her. She’d rather be pitied as an abandoned wife than reviled as a termagant.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “But why did she bury the rug?”

  “She didn’t want to put it out with the trash, where everyone could see it,” Bree said without hesitation. “She was ashamed of her ratbag husband’s bloodstains.”

  “Answer one more question and you win a prize,” I said. “If Annabelle’s innocent on all counts, why on earth did she tell me she killed Zach?”

  “No idea,” said Bree. “Maybe she’s skipping her meds, too.”

  Bree had come up with a reassuring number of ifs and maybes, but I was no more convinced by them than I had been by Hayley Calthorp’s assertions. The only way to prove our case one way or the other seemed to involve trespass as well as the wanton destruction of private property.

  I wondered if it was time to purchase a spade.

  —

  After a snack and a diaper change, Bess took Bree for a romp in the walled garden. I touched base with Amelia, who assured me that Stanley was eating his cat food with carefree abandon and that all was well at the cottage. I strongly suspected her of supplementing Stanley’s diet with delicate slices of salmon and chunks of smoked trout, as she had in the past, but I didn’t object. With Bill away, Stanley needed his comfort food.

  I could hear Bill easily when I called him. He gave the steam train in Ravenglass a stellar review, but Will and Rob were too busy rock hunting to share their opinions with me. I told him that Bree, Bess, and I had spent the day learning about Old Cowerton’s history. I didn’t specify the exact period of history, or the nature of the lessons, but I didn’t lie.

  When Bree left the suite for a swim and another Mariana massage, Bess was content to play with Moo in the playpen. I lit the hearth’s gas fire and pulled the blue journal from my shoulder bag. It was time to touch base with Aunt Dimity.

  “Dimity?” I said as I settled back in an armchair. “It’s been a strange day.”

  The curving lines of royal-blue ink appeared instantly on the page, as if Aunt Dimity had been waiting for me to check in.

  Good afternoon, Lori. You seem to be having nothing but strange days lately.

  “This one was stranger than most,” I said.

  Did you and Bree go to Dovecote?

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “We saw the infamous rosebushes and we attended a tea party held in our honor by none other than Minnie Jessop. . . .” I told Aunt Dimity about Susan Jessop, Sunnyside, Minnie’s spy ring
, and the cronies, and I summarized the Sunnyside Gang’s tragic tales concerning Zach Trotter, Ted Fletcher, Jim Salford, William Walker May, and Edwin Craven. “You can forget all about Annabelle murdering one man,” I concluded. “At last count, she may have killed five.”

  Tell me more about the Sunnyside Gang.

  “They’re nosy old biddies,” I said, “but some of my best friends are nosy old biddies. I hope to live long enough to become one myself.”

  A noble aspiration.

  “I expected Minnie Jessop to be a hateful hag with a viper’s tongue,” I went on, “and in some ways she was. But she also let Bess bang dents in her saucepans. She baked extra goodies for her friends to bring back to the nursing home. She noticed my disappointment over the Melting Moments, and she made sure I had some to take with me. She was even nice to Moo. She wasn’t exactly complimentary about Hayley Calthorp, but the only time she was nasty was when she talked about Annabelle.”

  It’s hardly surprising that she would focus her wrath on a woman she believes to be a mass murderess. What does Bree think of the gang’s tales?

  “She described them as a big bucket of nonsense,” I replied.

  But you’re not quite as ready to dismiss them?

  I lifted my gaze to stare into the fire, then lowered it to the journal.

  “In Finch,” I said, “we love to gossip. But there’s a level of gossip to which we will not sink. There’s a sort of integrity that governs the tidbits we pass along. It keeps situations from getting out of hand. It keeps people from getting hurt. It’s a self-imposed check on gossip’s wilder—and crueler—excesses.”

  A self-imposed check you failed to detect in the Sunnyside Gang.

  “They accused Annabelle of the most heinous crimes,” I said. “They told the police to go after her. They tried their best to scare off any man who took a fancy to her. They held a tea party for the sole purpose of undermining our friendship with her. Why would they persecute Annabelle then and now if they didn’t truly believe that she was guilty?”