After knocking with my elbow a couple of times and getting no reply, I nudged the door open and trod across the wooden floor onto the Turkish-red carpet that somehow managed to look all right with the dusky-pink roses on the wallpaper, probably because not a lot of either was showing. Jonas had so much stuff in his room it looked like a rescue mission for homeless furniture. There was a huge old-fashioned wardrobe, several turn-of-the-century tallboys, at least four bookcases crammed with well-thumbed volumes, and an assortment of chairs stacked with additional books, newspapers, and shoe boxes overflowing with odds and ends.
I crossed slowly to the massive mahogany bed where Jonas slept, gripping the breakfast tray as if it were a balance pole and I a tightrope walker. There was something about the curve of his back under the huddle of blankets and the way his hand rested on the fold of the sheet that made me think for one terrible moment that he was dead. But then Jonas made a sound, something between a sigh and a grunt, which let me know he was still among the living.
Setting the tray on a chair, I eased myself down on the edge of the bed. I had a wonderful husband and two precious children, but the heart has many nooks and crannies, each of which can only be filled by certain people. If I hadn’t felt the tickle of an oncoming sneeze, I would probably have sat there for another five minutes, like a cross-legged cherub on a tombstone. But to blast Jonas awake would not have enhanced his life expectancy. Edging off the bed, I picked up the tray and tiptoed back to the kitchen as Ben came in through the garden door. He looked like an advert for Outdoor Living in his handsome new raincoat.
“There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned wife,” he said, looking at the tray.
My smile met his. “Sorry, this was breakfast for Jonas, but he was asleep when I went up. And I didn’t want him thinking I had gone to any trouble for nothing. How about a cup of lukewarm tea and a piece of toast?”
“Thanks, sweetheart, but I had coffee and biscuits in the church hall after the service.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “Where are Abbey and Tam?”
“Oh, them!” Ben unbuttoned the raincoat, which was very damp, especially around the shoulders. “I put them in the collection plate. Not only was it a particularly moving service, Tam was making the most frightful nuisance of himself crawling under the pew and looking up the skirts of the women in front.”
“What have you really done with my children?” I picked up the bread knife as I spoke, simply to wipe it off, but he feigned alarm, backing away into an open cupboard door.
“That nice woman, Clarice Whitcombe, who recently moved into Crabapple Tree Cottage, made a big fuss over the twins. They really took to her. So when she asked if she could take them home, feed them lunch, and keep them for part of the afternoon, they were delighted. I didn’t think you would mind. It will give you a little time to yourself, as I have to go in to work”—glancing at his watch—”in half an hour or so.”
I stared at him. “But, Ben, we don’t really know anything about Miss Whitcombe.”
“I thought you’d talked to her several times and that she wanted you to help her redecorate the cottage."
“That’s true, and as you say, she seems very nice, but she could still be an ax murderer or deeply into witchcraft or any number of other beastly things.”
“As could be said of almost anyone else here in Chitterton Fells. Ellie, I agree we have to be protective of the children, but I don’t think there is anything wrong with them being babysat for an afternoon by a kindly middle-aged lady. But if you’re really worried”—Ben kissed me before rebuttoning his raincoat—“I’ll go and fetch them now.”
“Don’t do that.” I smiled. “I’ll get them after you go to work. My nerves are on edge, that’s all. Perhaps it’s Jonas. I was afraid when I went up to his room just now that he’d died. I don’t think I’m superstitious, but that broken mirror has rather haunted me.”
“You’re overtired,” came the husbandly response. “You’ve done yourself in with this orgy of spring cleaning. And you’re down about Mrs. Malloy leaving. Why don’t you phone her and cheer both of you with a nice long chat?”
“I’ll do that, though every time I manage to get hold of her it’s impossible to keep her on the line for more than a couple of minutes. She always has to go and see to the baby. I told you how she hung up before I could tell her Mrs. Large wouldn’t come to the phone the other day. And when I rang back she almost bit my head off—she accused me of almost causing her to drop little Rose.”
Ben shook his head. “I thought she was making a big mistake moving in with George and Vanessa, but we both know Mrs. Malloy. There’s no budging her when she sets her mind to something.”
I sighed. “I’m sure there’s something wrong--something even worse than having to live with my cousin Vanessa. Curiosity is Roxie Malloy’s middle name. Under any normal circumstances nothing short of electrocution would have kept her from staying on the phone that day to find out what had Mrs. Large’s knickers in a twist.”
“Mrs. Malloy probably phoned her at home that same day,” Ben said lightly, “and I’m sure they had a good chinwag about the whole thing.”
“I expect you’re right.” I managed a smile. “Let’s hope that whatever upset Mrs. Large was a tempest in a teacup and that when she comes back she’ll not be all fingers and thumbs. Although I do have to say I wouldn’t mind terribly if she broke one or two of the things I unearthed in cleaning out all those cupboards.”
Delving into dark corners where no hand had gone since time began, I had come across some of those horrors—the ones received as wedding presents and painstakingly lost as soon as the thank-you card is sent. Or worse yet, the ones you buy your very own self on a day that you are out shopping and have left your brain at home. So that not only do you think the size 3 dress in the window might come in your size, you decide a whole herd of fake ivory elephants with beaded and fringed black-satin saddles would look lovely on the mantelpiece.
“What are you thinking about?” Ben asked.
“That from now on I’m going to be frugal to a fault.” I wallowed for a moment in virtue. “ ‘Waste not, want not’ shall be my motto. In fact, I may even start making my own housecleaning products. Remember that book I found in the attic the other day, the one that belonged to Abigail? Well, I think I’ll curl up with it this afternoon and see which of her formulas I think I can concoct without taking a course in chemistry.”
“You’re not doing this because you’re worried about the restaurant, are you?” A crease appeared on Ben’s forehead to match the one in the collar of his raincoat. “Has Freddy been scaring you half to death in his hunger and thirst melodrama? Have you been picturing us out on the street trying to sell clothes-pegs for a living?”
“How worried are you? That’s what I need to know, darling.” I looked at him anxiously, then became alarmed when I saw his stricken face. If ever a man looked as though he were trying to come to grips with life at its worst, it was my husband at that moment.
“This isn’t my raincoat,” he muttered, patting the front and poking his hands into the pockets.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I took mine off during the service because the church was stuffy and laid it over the back of the pew. Come to think of it, so did Brigadier Lester-Smith, who was sitting next to me. His raincoat was beige, too. Damn! I must have picked up the wrong one.” Ben’s blue-green eyes met mine in what wasn’t entirely mock horror. The brigadier was an exceptionally fastidious man who would be bound to find a crease where there hadn’t been one.
“Are you sure you’ve got the wrong coat?” I was determined not to laugh. “This looks like yours.”
“The cuffs.” Ben extended his arms. “I suddenly noticed these each have an extra button. And look.” He flapped open the front. “The lining is different. This is brown. Mine is a green-and-navy plaid.”
I smoothed my hands over his damp shoulders. “Darling, there’s no need to pa
nic. I don’t suppose Brigadier Lester-Smith is meeting with the police as we speak and insisting they arrest you. It’s quite possible, you know, that he was the one who took your raincoat. Clearly he didn’t realize the mistake either, or he would have said something before you both left the pew.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it?” Ben now looked more puzzled than concerned. “The brigadier is such a persnickety fellow, I can’t imagine him not realizing it instantly. But this is his coat, all right. See.” Again he turned back the front flap. “Those are his initials—W.L.S.”
“It does seem out of character,” I agreed. “But perhaps the brigadier had something on his mind today. Would you like me to ring him up and arrange for you to switch back?”
Ben looked thrilled at my offer, adding—with a glance at the kitchen clock—that he really must get to work, even though Freddy was there to make sure no one tried to make off with the building. He enfolded me in his arms, kissed me with the fervor of a man being rescued from a shipwreck, and was already heading outdoors when he turned on his heel and exchanged the brigadier’s raincoat for a worn navy-blue one hanging in the alcove.
Men are peculiar creatures. They can dismantle and reassemble entire governments, remap the world, and organize a war as though it were a golfing outing—all in a single afternoon. But when it comes to such things as returning an aerosol can of shaving cream that will neither fizz nor spit or, as in this case, making a phone call to straighten out a simple mistake, they go weak at the knees.
I knew Brigadier Lester-Smith’s number by heart. Not only was he a fellow member of the Library League and a regular attendee of the Hearthside Guild, I had helped him redecorate his house on Herring Street, just two doors down from Mrs. Malloy’s. The brigadier—who lived by his watch—always lunched at noon on Sundays. But it wasn’t until the fourth or fifth ring was drowned out by the first boom of the grandfather clock in the hall that I realized how inconsiderate I was being. Then before I could put the phone down, he was speaking into my ear.
“Walter Lester-Smith speaking.” He sounded somewhat agitated.
“Brigadier, this is Ellie Haskell.” I was forced to shout over the clock’s bonging. “Please forgive my bad timing—”
“Not at all.” I could hear his deep breathing. “I wasn’t doing anything important."
“It was thoughtless to interrupt your lunch.”
“Lunch?” He exclaimed as if pronouncing an unfamiliar foreign word. “No, no, Ellie, I haven’t started to get a meal on the table, let alone sat down to eat. Believe me, your apology is unnecessary. You haven’t interrupted a thing.”
This was said with an emphasis that rang hollow, making me curious as to what had the brigadier in a tizzy. But I wasn’t about to pry. He was in many ways an intensely private man, one whose friendship I valued. So I launched into how Ben had come home in the wrong raincoat—only to be interrupted within half a sentence. Highly uncharacteristic! Brigadier Lester-Smith was always punctilious in letting a woman have her say, even if she went on for a week.
“I suppose that means I have Ben’s coat, Ellie. I can’t say I had noticed.” And this from the man some people said was married to his clothes! “Not to worry. I’ll get his back to you. Perhaps later this afternoon or whenever suits.” Here the brigadier interrupted himself with a gasp. “My goodness!” he exclaimed in a voice of utmost alarm. “It’s been more than ten minutes. I’ll have to talk to you another time, Ellie!” With that he hung up, leaving me at a loss. What was he talking about?
I didn’t get to dwell on the matter. Glancing up, I beheld Jonas stumping down the stairs. He looked very cross. His moustache and eyebrows bristled and he gripped the banister rail as if it were an arm he enjoyed pinching.
“What’s with you, Ellie girl?” he huffed on reaching the bottom step. “You left me to sleep away the best part of the day. Time enough for a lie-in when I’m underground, that’s always been my motto, and well you know it.”
“It’s Sunday,” I reminded him. “Everyone except perhaps the vicar is entitled to an occasional late snooze. Come along and I’ll fix us lunch. Ben’s gone to work and the children are with Miss Whitcombe down the road.”
“And who’s she?” Jonas followed me across the flagstones into the kitchen. “Some retired nanny that’s never happy without little feet scampering about the place?”
“I don’t know what she did before moving here,” I replied. If I sounded tart it was because I was back to wondering if Ben had done a wise thing in letting Miss Whitcombe take Abbey and Tam home with her.
“You know, I think I’ll go and fetch them,” I said after handing Jonas a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich. “She’s probably ready for them to go home by now. And Tam really wants to watch a program that comes on in an hour, the one about lions in Africa.”
“I reckon he’ll make me put on that safari hat, like he done last week, and pretend him and me are game wardens slapping at our mosquito bites.” Jonas still sounded cross, but I could see from the way his eyebrows twitched that he was coming out of the grumps.
Planting a kiss on his cheek, I grabbed up an old jacket from one of the pegs in the alcove by the garden door and hurried out to the courtyard towards the old stables, where we now garaged the cars. Ben had taken the more reliable of our two vehicles, leaving behind his ancient convertible whose hinges had long ago rusted, making it always topless. It also had an unbecoming tendency to stop without warning to admire the scenery, usually with a couple of lorries honking from behind.
It wasn’t raining now, although the sky looked as though it could turn weepy given the least encouragement. I decided to walk to Miss Whitcombe’s house. Once out on The Cliff Road, I turned right and within a couple of minutes was passing St. Anselm’s church with its Norman tower and graveyard of sagging, moss-covered tombstones. From there it was only a few steps to Hawthorn Lane, where Crabapple Tree Cottage stood on the corner. It was a charming place, one of only two or three cottages with thatched roofs in Chitterton Fells. Purple and yellow pansies bordered the path to the front door and a bird feeder was strung from a tree branch near a latticed window.
There was no bell, just a brass knocker shaped like a little Welsh girl. It produced a dainty tap, which I repeated after a full minute of standing on the steps. A shabby grey cat appeared around the side of the house to mew at me plaintively, but there was silence from within for several more moments before footsteps approached and I heard the creak of a bolt being drawn.
“Mrs. Haskell! Come in!” Miss Whitcombe stood bathed in light from the hall ceiling fixture, which was rather too big for the narrow space, as were the Victorian table standing against the staircase wall and the two Windsor chairs facing each other from either side of the open kitchen door. But Miss Whitcombe herself fitted the cottage perfectly. She was trim and neat, with carefully set hair and the look of a woman who always wore sensible shoes and colors that didn’t run in the wash. The most attractive thing about her was her smile. It brightened her Victorian face—in fact, the entire hall—as she beckoned me inside.
“I’ve so enjoyed having the children. What little darlings they both are. Tam all boy and Abbey a fairy child. We were in the dining room when I heard the door. We’ve had roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with two vege and I left them tucking into big plates of spotted Dick and custard. You will stay, Mrs. Haskell?” She bent to scoop up the grey cat, which had sneaked in behind me. “Being new to the area, I don’t have a lot of visitors, just Mrs. Grey here from two houses down who likes to pop in for a square meal now and then”—she stroked the cat’s head with a ringless hand—”and occasionally, very occasionally, Walter Lester-Smith drops by to discuss the Hearthside Guild, which as you know I recently joined.”
“I had heard you’d become a member,” I agreed. “I haven’t managed the last few meetings. But I do promise to be at the one on Tuesday morning, since it’s at Vienna and Madrid Miller’s house. I’d like them to get a nice turnout.” My feeli
ng that Miss Whitcombe wasn’t listening was confirmed when she allowed the cat to jump out of her arms and looked at me without meeting my eyes, speaking in a voice not quite as sensible as her shoes.
“I never call him Walter to his face, Mrs. Haskell. Believe me, I didn’t mean to represent that we are on those kind of terms. He’s always Brigadier Lester-Smith in our dealings, and being the gentleman he is, I know he would be mortified”—a blush mounted Miss Whitcombe’s cheeks—”completely mortified were he to think for one moment that I was creating the impression hither and yon that he and I are on first-name terms. So if you would very kindly not mention my little slip...”
“I won’t say a word,” I promised.
“Thank you, my dear.” Miss Whitcombe clasped my hand in a heartfelt way. “Rumors get started so easily, and when a man is single and as distinguished and handsome as the brigadier—well, you understand me.” Her blush was deepening by the moment. “I would hate him to think I presumed on our very brief acquaintance, or thought there was the least chance of it blossoming into ... friendship.”
“I’m sure you’re concerned unnecessarily,” I said. Her worried eyes were reflected in the oak-framed mirror on the wall, which like the rest of the furnishings looked as though it had been purchased in the hope that the hall would grow a couple of sizes in the near future. But when Clarice Whitcombe again looked at me her smile was back in place.
“The trouble with living alone is you tend to babble the moment you get the chance to talk to someone. My mother was always a chatterbox, so I’ve probably got some of that from her. Although I didn’t get much chance to practice while she and Daddy were alive. Mummy had always hated housework and cooking, so when I left school I took over running the house. But my parents might as well have been on their own desert island. They were everything to each other. Two turtledoves right till the very end.”
The Spring Cleaning Murders Page 4