The Widow's Club (11 page)

Jill was behind a third-floor bedroom door, standing on her head. The unnerving part was that her eyes were open. “Don’t gawk,” she snapped. “I’m meditating. Leave me alone.”

I sat down on the bed and sighed. “I guess Freddy proposed and you refused. Seeing his parents in action must have been a shock.” I petered out. If Jill really loved Freddy, Uncle Maurice’s peccadilloes and Aunt Lulu’s kleptomania shouldn’t matter.

“Freddy didn’t propose marriage. He wants us to live together. But Ellie, that’s so conventional. Personally, I find his parents inspiring. If
they
can stay married for thirty years, the institution must have something going for it. Now get out of here. Your happiness offends me.”

“Yes, Jill.”

I would search out Freddy and threaten to break his neck.

He had to be hiding under a bed; I couldn’t find him. I was about to go downstairs when I heard music. Mozart, being played on the harpsichord. I headed for the boxroom with quickened feet and a slight sense of shame; Freddy
had been telling me for years that he was a musical genius; I had never taken him seriously. This … was impassioned, soaring, sublime. I, who cannot trill a note, wanted to burst into operatic ecstasy as I thrust open the door.

The person seated at the harpsichord was Miss Thorn. Her fingers rippled, stirring, teasing the keys. Her shoulders were hunched, the daisies gone from her hair, but—amazingly—she had attained a kind of beauty. Her face was flushed, her eyes dark, languorous. Now she saw me. The fingers stilled, and she reverted to plainness.

“Mrs. Haskell!” She jerked to her feet. Gripping her knobby hands, she did a dip at the knees and twitched a glance around the room—at the chair with the broken caning, the bed tumbled with old blankets. “Oh, my deepest apologies, Mrs. Haskell! I fully intended to return to the festivities after parking my coat, but you had mentioned this precious instrument”—she reached out to touch the wood—“and I could not control myself. I took a peek and was swept away.”

“I’m glad you found the harpsichord. You play magnificently.”

I meant every word; the reason my voice sounded peculiar was because I saw something moving under the blankets. I knew it wasn’t Tobias because he had just wandered in and was pawing at my legs. I knew it wasn’t Freddy because I could see the top of a bald head. Who? The answer came to me as Miss Thorn emitted a terrified screech and Tobias slid across the floor, grabbing at what seemed to be a black astrakhan hat.

Miss Thorn had me by the arm. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Haskell, but I am terrified of cats, m–may we leave?”

She didn’t have to ask twice. It would only take the inebriated bartender to awake and sit bolt upright in bed to make her faint. And I really didn’t have the time. I had to find Freddy, and assist Ben in cutting the wedding cake before I could race into my bedroom, throw on my going-away outfit, tuck my suitcase under my arm, and then at last, at long last, be off on the honeymoon of the century. I, Ellie Simons—sorry—Haskell, was about to live out my most beautiful fantasies—unlike the heroine in a romantic novel who gets slapped in the face with The End. My heart started a drum roll that drowned out Miss Thorn’s voice
as we went downstairs. It could not, however, obliterate the hubbub, musical and otherwise, in the hall.

Then I saw something that squeezed the breath back into my lungs—Ben was near the front door, talking to a uniformed policeman.

He glanced round and spotted me. “Ellie, it isn’t surprising you couldn’t reach Mum on the phone earlier. She’s been missing for three days.” He sounded quite—ordinary.

The constable, young, fresh-faced, and eager, rifled through his notebook. “I have here some pertinent details. A Mrs. Beatty Long of Eleven Crown Street, states she grew concerned when failing to see Mrs. Elijah Haskell leave the house for church services on Wednesday morning, as was the lady’s custom.”

“Mass,” corrected Ben. “My mother is a Catholic.”

“No offence intended, none taken I hope, sir.” Constable Beaker scratched with a diligent pencil and continued. “The aforementioned Mrs. Long also states that she had been uneasy for some time, having noticed the Haskells’ curtains being closed at odd times of the day.”

“Beatty Long always was a meddlesome old woman.” Ben ran a hand across his brow.

Someone grasped my elbow. It was Mrs. Malloy.

“Not now, please,” I said.

“As you like, mum,” she huffed, “but it
is
a matter of life and death.”

Constable Beaker stiffened with professional interest. I grabbed Ben’s hand. “When did Mr. Haskell report his wife missing?”

“That’s the thing Miss—Mrs., he didn’t.”

Mrs. Malloy folded her arms. “Believe you me, I’m not standing here wearing polish off the floor for me own amusement. Seems to me someone should be told there’s a young bloke up in one of the turrets, threatening to jump out the window and—”

“What?” The constable made for the stairs.

My legs wouldn’t move, Ben looked ready to laugh. The dancers had frozen. But the jolly strains of the music flowed on and on …

“And I’m telling you straight, mum.” Mrs. Malloy’s bosom heaved. “I don’t do ceilings, I don’t do drains, and I don’t wash blood and guts off the pavements.”

From the Files of
The Widows Club

Telephone conversation reported by member of Calling Committee, 1st December

“Good evening, Mrs. Thrush, so glad to find you at home. You don’t know me, but …”

“Excuse me, perhaps you would telephone another time.” (
Sound of hanky being used
.) “You’ve caught me at rather a bad time. My beloved husband was buried this very afternoon, and I really cannot think of buying anything or subscribing to a magazine.”

“I understand. But do let me explain that I am from The Widows Club and have been assigned the role of your special confidante during these first difficult weeks. May I leave my name and phone number and urge you to get in touch with me, day or night, if you feel the need to have a good weep or just talk?”

(
Smothered choking sound
.) “What about laugh? Oh, my dear, I can’t tell you how glad I am you rang. The hardest part of this whole business has been keeping a straight face. The only moment when I did feel a bit down was when we were going into the church and collided with a bridal party. That poor young woman—so elated at tying the knot—to the noose around her neck. Oh, chatting to you is going to be marvellous. But I am afraid I do have to go. I see my best friend Vera coming up the path. She does need consoling. They—she and my dear husband—were unofficially engaged!”

(
Responsive laughter
.) “Mrs. Thrush, I cannot wait to get to know you better. Are you interested in ceramics by any chance? Splendid. I am also on that committee. My name is Millicent Parsnip of Honeysuckle Cottage. My phone number is in the directory.”

“Thank you so very much.”

“My pleasure. And Mrs. Thrush, one teensy hint: spray a little ammonia on your hanky. Brings on red eyes and sniffles wonderfully.”

… “And did Cousin Freddy leap from the turret?” Hyacinth inquired.

“Of course not,” I scoffed. “He was on his way downstairs as Constable Beaker hurtled up them. Claimed the police car parked outside the house had killed the mood. He was let off with a warning against breaking the peace. What peace! All those gawkers in the hall! And Freddy ranting on about his broken heart, relishing every minute until Jill sent down a message, via Dorcas, that if she allowed herself to be blackmailed by a temper tantrum she would be at Freddy’s beck and call all of their unmarried life.”

“My dear, I couldn’t agree more,” chirped Primrose. “But what of Mrs. Elijah Haskell?”

“According to Constable Beaker’s notes, Mr. Elijah Haskell stated that his wife told him she was going on a spiritual pilgrimage.”

“Dear me,” sighed Primrose. “Ever since reading
Canterbury Tales
, I have thought one tends to meet some very peculiar people on that sort of tour.…”

The honeymoon, officially speaking, was off. Ben and I, now in pedestrian dress, were seated on the six-thirty-three train, due to depart for London in eight minutes. There were only a few other passengers in the long compartment, all at the far end from us, which was just as well
because Ben had lowered our window. His claustrophobia was acting up.

Chitterton Station looked seedy in the white flare of its lights. A poster of a glamourous blonde with a black handlebar moustache drinking the right whiskey peeled off the concrete wall. I suppose it was my mood, but the thin man in the grubby raincoat lounging against the station-house door, dragging on a fag, looked positively menacing.

One question kept going around in my head. Had the prospect of gaining me as a daughter-in-law driven Mrs. Haskell to suicide? Ben claimed to be convinced that Constable Beaker had simply dredged up any excuse to see inside a house of local interest. And Constable Beaker had admitted that no inquiry of an official nature was underway.

By chance, so the constable said, he had that afternoon been chatting with a friend assigned to the Crown Street beat, and one thing leading to another, they had discovered that one Magdalene Haskell, aged seventy, had absented herself from home to the concern of the neighbors. And said woman had a son, name of Bentley T. Haskell, living in a mansion on the cliffs above Chitterton Fells. Put that way, it sounded plausible enough.

We had decided against driving to London because Ben’s Heinz 57 (it was part Austin, part Rover, part Vauxhall, part bicycle) convertible was growing increasingly unreliable in its old age. Sid Fowler had driven us to the station. Our troubles seemed to restore Sid mightily. He had carried the luggage, and while Ben was buying the tickets, Sid had chatted cheerfully.

“Magdalene was—no, do think positive—
is
a wonderful woman, Ellie. Never felt dressed without her rosary and always dampened her ironing with holy water. Did Ben tell you she wanted him to marry a girl named Angelica Brady? As for Eli, don’t take it personally if he dislikes you. Eli thinks women over five-foot-two take hormone tablets and despises all people who inherit money. Comes from his having worked his way up from being a barrow boy to owning Haskell’s Greengrocery, lock, stock, and pavement.” I wasn’t sorry when Sid went off to play bingo.

Accepted as a daughter-in-law or not, I was going to have to enter the flat above the greengrocery shop. We were bound for London to see Ben’s father. My husband stared out the window, brows furrowed. “Ellie, see that
chap with the cigarette dangling out of his mouth? I feel I know him from somewhere, but the where eludes me.”

“I hate that feeling,” I said, and warmed to the stranger in his grubby raincoat with the upturned collar. He was a bridge back to ordinary conversation. With the advent of Constable Beaker, Ben’s past life on Crown Street had closed around him, separating us in a way that nothing had since we first met.

“Look,” I said, moving closer, “he’s leaving. Seems a bit unsure whether he’s doing the right thing, keeps turning back.”

“Probably decided this train is never going to move.” Ben smiled in my general direction, but his eyes didn’t focus.

A good wife knows when her husband needs to be left alone with his thoughts. I polished my wedding ring. Whatever else changed, our love would endure. I also faced facts. If Mrs. Haskell’s whereabouts were not satisfactorily verified this evening, our honeymoon would be off in every sense of the word. I couldn’t expect Ben to respond to the pearl-pink nightie with his mother’s fate in limbo. I couldn’t respect him if he did. My hope was that the disappearance would prove to be a stunt. What better way to put the nix on a son’s budding marriage to an undesirable party than this? Anger warmed me a little. It held back the fear that something ghastly had happened to my mother-in-law. How many bridges are there in the vicinity of London with dark, oily waters thrashing below? I abandoned my sensitive resolve not to intrude on Ben’s need for solitude and grasped for his hand.

“I wish we could have reached your father on the phone to tell him we were coming.”

Ben put an arm around me, and the gap between us closed a little. “He must have had the receiver off the hook all day.”

“You do think he will stop this silly feud and talk to you in this crisis?”

“Ellie, you don’t know my father.”

True enough.

The train was making deeper rumblings. Doors at the far end of the compartment opened, channelling more cold, smoggy air our way. A white-haired woman dressed in black like an old-world nanny entered. She was followed by a man carrying a child—no, a woman. The woman’s head lolled
away from his shoulder and someone coming in behind them reached out and moved it back, so that the auburn hair spilled down the man’s arm. The nanny was taking pillows out of a carrier bag and arranging them on the seat.

Ben tapped his watch, bringing my eyes back to his. One minute to go. We both looked out the window. A guard was passing at a trot, pushing a wheelchair down the platform—to the guard van, I supposed. My eyes slid back to the newcomers. The nanny and the invalid had taken the seats with their backs to us. The man was standing in the aisle. His was the face of a poet, the kind who writes about the pleasures of the grave. But he became of only incidental interest. The fourth member of the group now stood up. She was a small girl with sandy-coloured plaits—the girl to whom I had given my bouquet. Jenny Spender. She said something to the man and then caught my eye. I flushed, gave a small wave, and sank back into my seat.