The Trouble with Harriet (12 page)

“Your Harriet wasn’t German is what you’re telling me.” Mrs. M. poured orange juice for Daddy as if to spill a drop would be a sacrilege demanding immediate excommunication.

“She was a true English rose.” He studied the urn in front of his plate and caressed its oddly shaped curves with a lover’s hand.

“From London, you say?” The glass of juice was set down reverently at his elbow.

“That’s where Harriet lived when she was married. But she much preferred the countryside.”

“So did my third husband before he passed on.” Mrs. Malloy was patently committed to making this a truly bonding experience.

“How did he die?” Daddy asked in the manner of one whose burden is imperceptibly lightened on meeting a fellow voyager through the vales of misfortune.

“He didn’t. He passed on to his fourth wife.”

“Ah!” Daddy retreated back into the shadows.

“Harriet’s such a beautiful name. If I’d had a daughter, that’s what I would have called her. I’ve often said so to Mrs. H.” My prized daily helper ignored me as I walked past her to join Ben at the Aga.

“Would you really?” Daddy peeked out again.

“And Brown is a lovely surname.”

“It didn’t do my exquisite Harriet justice.”

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, neither does that pot you’ve got her in.” Mrs. Malloy could only be sweetness and light for so long. “But,” she added, remembering to gush, “perhaps it’s got sentimental value.”

“Her friends the Voelkels selected it.” Daddy viewed the urn over the rim of his Roman nose. His pale blue eyes grew troubled. It was as though he were seeing it for the first time as a vessel rather than an extension of Harriet’s earthly being.

“You don’t think it’s suitable?” He appealed to Mrs. M’s superior knowledge.

“Doesn’t do a thing for her.”

“What would you say is wrong with it?”

“Well, for starters, you said she was a platinum blonde, didn’t you? And that sort of clay is absolutely the wrong color for blondes.” Mrs. Malloy spoke with the authority of one who imagined herself to have hobnobbed with the likes of Yves Saint Laurent. “And besides”—she had decided not to mince words— “it’s a horrible shape.”

Daddy pursed his fleshy lips. “Harriet had a perfect figure.”

“Then she should have something with nice graceful lines instead of those funny bulges. Not that I’m trying to make meself out to be an authority.” Mrs. Malloy suddenly remembered to be humble. “But I do remember when my third husband once removed—

“Your what?” My startled voice almost made Ben drop the frying pan while in the process of pouring off the bacon fat into a Pyrex bowl. It was, however, Daddy and Mrs. Malloy who looked most put out by the untimely interruption.

“They tend to do that, your daughter and son-in-law,” she informed him sympathetically. “Creep about the kitchen, I mean, as if they owned it. Listening in on other people’s private conversations. But that’s the price you’re going to have to pay for breakfast, I suppose. At least the children aren’t underfoot. Not that they aren’t dear little things, all of them.” A smile settled like a purple butterfly on her lips, and I knew she was thinking of little Rose, who would have been her granddaughter if my cousin Vanessa hadn’t put one over on her son George. “Life can be rotten at times,” said Mrs. Malloy.

“What did you mean about your third husband?” I prompted as Ben slid a fried egg onto the plate I was holding out to him. “How exactly was he removed?”

“By a couple of very rude policemen. They came bang at teatime and wasn’t even nice enough to let Alfie (or was it Bert?) finish his toad-in-the-hole. Well, that’s what you get for splurging on pork sausages when beef ones would have done just as well is what I had to tell meself.” She shook her head at the vagaries of life. “They charged him with trafficking in stolen goods. Though you tell me how much trafficking he could have done when he didn’t so much as own a bike, let alone a car! Of course, looking back, it does seem a bit odd the sort of presents he bought me that year. A pram for me fiftieth birthday, an airline stewardess’s uniform for our wedding anniversary, and a barber’s sink for Christmas. But men never have a clue what to get, do they?”

“I know enough not to buy anything for the kitchen.” Ben smiled at me in a somewhat abstracted manner as he added several rashers of bacon, a couple of slices of fried bread, and a large spoonful of sautéed mushrooms to the plate.

“Did Alfie ... or Bert, go to prison?” I asked, setting Mrs. Malloy’s breakfast down in front of her.

“I’ve remembered it was Gerry.” She picked up her knife and fork. “And for your information, Mrs. H., he got off. His lawyer told the jury to take a look at the defendant seated in the dock and ask themselves if here was a man with enough smarts to steam off a postage stamp that had gone through the meter. Boiling a kettle engages the thought processes, is what he said, and some people don’t have it in them to think. He called Gerry the biggest patsy he had ever come across.”

“It is a terrible thing to be deceived,” my father murmured into his orange juice.

“Well, the reason I brought Gerry up,” Mrs. Malloy explained, “is that when he died, his wife—the one that he married after him and me parted ways—she went and had him cremated. Said it was more hygienic. Silly cow! It’s not like most people leave the body in the front room, sat up in the easy chair, looking at the telly, now is it? What she wanted was to do things on the cheap. Just like I would have expected, she bought the urn at a going-out-of-business sale. So what was there for me to do but put our differences aside and go out and get one that looked like something? Solid brass, it was, and I hope that every time she looks at it up there on her mantelpiece, the bugger realizes that Roxie Malloy saved her from being labeled the world’s worst cheapskate.”

“And I don’t see anything wrong with Harriet’s urn.” I put Daddy’s breakfast in front of him.

“I’m sure I’d be proud to be in one just like it.” Ben flipped out the last two eggs; one for him and one for me.

“Why don’t you tell my father about the play,” I suggested to Mrs. Malloy. “It might help take his mind off things.” Truth be told, I was feeling just a little bit spooked. Hour by hour Harriet was becoming more of a presence in the house. Before much longer I would be laying a place for her at the table and smelling her perfume when I went into the bathroom. Oleander, I thought; that’s what it would smell like. Just like in the biergarten in Schonbrunn.

I opened a window to let in some fresh air, and the sharpness of the breeze, coupled with the fact that what I smelled was damp earth and chrysanthemums—flowers typical of autumn funerals—snapped me back to my senses. Harriet’s relatives would be back this afternoon. They would take the urn away. And Daddy, having fulfilled his promise, would be able to get on with his life. Perhaps one day he would even meet someone else. Someone kind and sensible. Named something like Agnes or Mary. Who would cook him wholesome meals and remind him to wear his nice woolly scarf in bad weather. Taking my place at the table, I again encouraged Mrs. Malloy, who might not have heard me the first time, to fill my father in on
Murder Most Fowl.

“I hardly think that’s likely to help cheer him up.” Ben scraped back the chair alongside mine and sat down with his plate. “It’s far more liable to put him off chicken for life. And I would be sorry about that because I woke in the middle of the night with the most marvelous recipe, with pictures included, spread out in my mind. It was all there, right down to the quarter of a teaspoonful of white pepper. It even had a name. Chicken a la Marie Antoinette.”

“That sounds fabulous!” I was tucking into my bacon and eggs with renewed good cheer.

“And this morning I still feel inspired.”

“I can’t wait to read it when you get it down on paper.”

“I
must have fallen asleep thinking about our not going to France.”

“Always the silver lining.”

“I think I’ll use Madeira cake crumbs instead of bread for the dressing.” Ben fetched the coffeepot and returned to fill all four cups. “I’ll season it with orange rind and freshly grated ginger. And while it’s roasting the chicken will be basted with Grand Marnier and sesame-seed oil.” Ben sat back down and pronged a piece of bacon. “Would you think me selfish, sweetheart, if after we’re through with breakfast I go and hole up in the study? I really do want to work on this recipe while it’s white hot in my mind.”

“Of course you must.” I was about to tell him that I would be going out shortly to the Old Abbey, but Mrs. Malloy’s voice caught my ear. She had finally picked up on my suggestion and was filling Daddy in on the play.

“As things stand, Mr. Simons, I don’t have a huge part. But it’s all what you make of it, is what I say. And I’ll get to play Malicia Stillwaters should Lady Grizwolde come a cropper between now and opening night. So we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed, won’t we? That nothing nasty happens to her,” she added piously. “Of course, I’m of a more mature age than her ladyship. Although there’s many that wouldn’t notice. Seeing I’m often taken for twenty years younger than me proper age. And as Mrs. Vicar says, me and her ladyship are both dark, stunningly good looking women, with an air of mystery about us that’ll set the audience back on its ears. She picked me for the understudy, Mrs. Vicar did, because of how well I do the cat meowing offstage. I put a lot into that meow. Would you like to hear me?”

Unfortunately, she demonstrated before my father could respond, and Tobias came prowling out of the pantry to register his disgust. Mrs. Malloy ignored the flinching going on all around her. “The cat knows, you see, that Malicia has poisoned Clarabelle, just like she did
Major Wagewar, and is trying to put her in the trunk, where she’s got him hidden. But she’s having trouble —”

“I’m not surprised.” Ben poured more coffee. “From what you have told me about poor Clarabelle, she isn’t at all the sort of woman to cohabit with a man outside of marriage inside a trunk.”

“That’s not the problem, Mr. H.” Mrs. Malloy eyed him austerely. “And it isn’t that the trunk isn’t big enough for two. It’s the one Malicia used for packing her household stuff when she moved to Chatterton Dells. But something’s gone wrong with the lid, and every time she lifts it up, it comes banging down. So she has to put Clarabelle in the wardrobe. But as it turns out”--Mrs. M. was back to addressing my father— “the woman isn’t dead at all. She’d poured most of the poisoned milk into a saucer for the cat.”

“Poor cat,” I said.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Malloy informed Daddy, “Clarabelle comes back to life in the last scene.” She didn’t get to add that this was only a brief reprieve before Reginald Rakehell’s hapless wife shot herself because my father spoke up in his most mournful voice.

“I only wish such could be the case with my Harriet. Ah, to hold her in my arms once more! Alas, I hardly know how I will find the courage to part with her when the dreadful hour arrives. Will my hands falter when I am forced to hand over her sacred remains?” He picked up his serviette to mop up the tears flowing like the Nile down his full cheeks. “How, I ask you all, am I to get through the hours until three o’clock. That is when the relatives are to return?” He eyed Ben, who nodded.

“You could come with me to the Old Abbey,” I suggested. “Lady Grizwolde is a new client of mine. She rang up just now to ask if I could stop by this morning, and when I mentioned, Daddy, that you were here on a visit, she urged me to bring you along. We’ve been invited to stay for lunch. She and Sir Casper have a cook, so we might get served something quite delectable.”

I saw him moisten his lips and nibble on the idea. But then he wrapped his hands around the urn and shook his head.

“You’re a good daughter, Giselle! Always so quick to try and lighten your poor father’s load, but in my present state I can hardly be acceptable to these lofty-sounding people. Tis better by far that I remain here with Bentwick and while away the dreary hours talking to him.”

“That’s fine with me.” Ben responded cheerfully, as if chicken a la Marie Antoinette were the furthest thing from his mind. Without glancing at me, he settled back in his chair and folded his arms for the long haul. I was thinking that Mr. Ambleforth’s revered St. Ethelwort had nothing on my husband when Mrs. Malloy came to the rescue as well as to her feet.

“No need for you to take time away from your cookery book, Mr. H. Your father-in-law can sit with me while I do the dusting. Being the sympathetic soul I am, it will thrill me no end to hear more about his troubles.”

“That’s awfully good of you, Mrs. Malloy,” I said. “But now that I think about it, I can’t be sure how long I’ll be gone, and I wouldn’t like to rush the visit and give Lady Grizwolde the feeling that I’m not fully committed to the job.”

“You mean we might not get back until well into the afternoon?” Daddy looked slightly more animated than I had yet seen him. “It would certainly be unfortunate if Harriet’s relatives were to arrive early and not be able to wait for our return. But surely they would understand that I needed to get away for a brief change of scene. They can always come another day.”

“But, Daddy, you wouldn’t want them to show up for the second time to find you gone.” Seeing that he would, I sighed. “Let’s plan it this way. If we’re still at the Old Abbey when they arrive, Ben can telephone. Lady Grizwolde is bound to be understanding under those circumstances, and it won’t take us ten minutes to get back.”

“Off you go, then, and enjoy yourselves.” It was clear from the way Mrs. Malloy rattled together the breakfast dishes and banged the cutlery on top that her nose had been put seriously out of joint. Daddy, bestirring himself to notice, thanked her for her kindly overture, but I knew what he was thinking. She had a fatal flaw as a listener. She enjoyed the sound of her own voice. For every three words he might get out on the subject of Harriet, she would have six to spill about the play. But, she was far too magnanimous by nature to allow resentment free rein. “So,” she asked him, “do I take the urn around with me while I’m doing me hoovering?”

Understandably, my father blanched, but he recovered most of his voice to say he would take Harriet with him, adding that he was sure that Lady Grizwolde would have no objection to one more at, or perhaps it should be said on, the luncheon table.