The Widow's Club (13 page)

Hyacinth’s hooded black eyes gleamed in the rosy light. “Mrs. Woolpack must have received a raking over the coals by the president and her associates on the board … if nothing worse. The Founder had to be very displeased. An exquisitely coordinated plan wasted. Note that Mr. Daffy did not catch the train at Chitterton Station where both he and Mrs. Woolpack would more likely be recognised. No, someone persuaded him to catch the train at Pebblewell—one of the wedding guests perhaps who happened to be driving to Pebblewell that evening and would be happy to save Mrs. Daffy a trip.”

I touched my wedding ring. “Mrs. Daffy was so warm and friendly. She liked cats. And she spoke fondly of her husband, who called her Froggy.”

Primrose shook her head. “My dear, she called him Squeaky, which surely is every bit as vicious as his calling her Froggy. Mr. Daffy had been engaged in an illicit affair for weeks. We have it on good authority that he had asked for a divorce.”

I forced my mind away from Mrs. Daffy’s amiable visage … and custom-made murder. “What do you make of Dr. Bordeaux and his entourage being on the train and his rushing to offer assistance to the victim?”

“An aborted alibi turned to excellent account,” declared Hyacinth.

“What I wonder,” Primrose interrupted, “is whether Mr. Daffy’s wig dislodged when he fell off the platform? How very embarrassing that would have been. It brings back memories of that terrible time the elastic in our Aunt Ada’s unmentionables gave way and—”

“Wig?” I stared at both sisters.

“My dear Mrs. Haskell,” said Hyacinth. “I was so certain you had guessed when you made mention of”—she resorted to the notebook—‘his oversized mop of black curls.’ But enough of the Daffys. Let us wend our way with you to North Tottenham and the meeting with Mr. Elijah Haskell.” …

*   *   *

We gave up on the bell. Ben rapped on the door of Haskell’s Fruit & Veg., at first tentatively, then loud enough to set the Closed sign rapping back. Nose pressed against the pane, I beheld a fuzziness similar to a telly on the blink. The contents of the room, counters, and vegetable bins, were visible in the glow from a low-wattage bulb. Ben shoved his fingers through his hair and rapped again.

“He must be asleep.” Stepping around our luggage, I peered up at the narrow rectangle of window on the second floor. The curtains were drawn shut.

“Dad’s a light sleeper.” Ben stared up and down the street, reabsorbing the feel of the place. Again I felt excluded by his past. It wasn’t exactly raining, but the night had a cold sweat about it. The houses on Crown Street were terraced and of sooty, buff-coloured brick. Their front doors opened directly onto the narrow pavement. Lights burned in many of the windows.

A bus skimmed down the road. A man, hands in his pockets, head down, walked past opposite us; a boy of about seven airplaned along behind him, making zoom-zoom noises.

Ben stopped rapping.

“Do you hear your father?”

He shook his head. “That bloke across the street—I went to school with him. Tom somebody. Doesn’t look like life’s treating him too well.”

“What makes you say that? The little boy seems to be his and they’re well-dressed.”

“His walk.” Ben squinted in concentration. “It’s depressed. Haven’t you ever noticed, Ellie, how people often reveal more about their state of mind by their walk than their faces?”

I hadn’t thought about it, and I wasn’t sure I agreed. The widow going up the church steps had looked jaunty from the rear. I made noncommittal noises. A good wife does not set herself against her husband on every occasion. I wondered whether we should break into Haskell’s Fruit & Veg. or knock on a nearby door and ask to use the phone. I pushed our luggage closer to the wall with my foot, then heard a sound that inspired hope—clanking beer bottles. “Ben, does your father frequent the local pub?”

Ben peered into the deepening gloom. About a dozen
houses down, a humanoid shadow was emerging from the shadows. “No, but I am an expert on more things than human locomotion. Approaching beer bottles are to me what fingerprints are to Scotland Yard.” The bottle noises were now accompanied by the
tat tat
of high heels on pavement. “These tell me that Mrs. Merryfeather is upon us. Damn! She is the biggest gossip since speech was invented.”

“I thought that was Mrs. Long, the woman who informed the police that your mother was missing?”

“It’s a tie. Sorry, Ellie”—Ben grabbed hold of me—“I have to do this.”

Snogging on a street corner was every bit the vulgar thrill Aunt Astrid had led me to expect. There was only one niggle on the periphery of my delight: Was Ben scared that Mrs. Merrywhoever might dredge up stories about his youthful love life?

The bottle medley slowed to a jingle, the heels stopped tapping, and a high-pitched shriek pierced the air.

“Don’t tell me, ’cos I won’t believe it! Little Benny Haskell all grown up! And what’s this?” The voice dropped to gravelly coyness. “Got yourself a nice girl, have you?”

Ben and I fell apart. He straightened his tie. “Mrs. Merryfeather, this is my wife, Ellie.”

“Married, never!” The twin bags, full of beer bottles, trembled. “My Stella will kill ’erself when she ’ears Benny ’Askell is taken.”

Mrs. Merryfeather turned to me, a headscarf tied package-fashion around her head and a froth of blond curls bunched at her forehead. Her apron bib protruded through the V-neck of her coat. “Oops! Me an’ my big mouth. Cracking jokes at a time like this! I said to Stell, somebody’s nipper will be netting for tiddlers under a perishing bridge, and he’ll fish out Mrs. ‘Askell instead.”

Fumes were coming out of Ben’s nose. “My mother is not missing. She knows precisely where she is.”

“Right you are, love! Keep on ’oping until the very last.” Mrs. Merryfeather poked Ben with her elbow, the bags lurching against her hip with a heavy
thwam
. “And in future don’t be such a stranger. The place in’t the same since you and Cassanover Sid did a bunk. I used to say to Stell, ‘Them lads can pick their women like fruit off a tree.’ ” She looked me up and down, deciding no doubt that I didn’t come up to Stella. “ ’Ow do you like Crown Street?”

“Very nice.”

“Well, it’s ‘ome, in’t it, Benny? Course my Fred an’ me always wanted a place at Southend. And, six months gone, whole street thought it was gonna be out on its lug’ole. Up to the armpits we was in talk that old man Patterson”—she nodded the blond curls at me—“the landlord he is, was ready to sell out and this was all gonna be an arcade, with all sorts of fancy shops. But it didn’t come to nothing. Never thought it would! Them what got up the petition said it done the trick, but I says to Stell, someone be’ind the scenes ’as put a cog in Mr. Patterson’s wheel.”

Ben was leaning up against the shop window, a look of boredom hovering around his lips.

Mrs. Merryfeather wriggled her shoulders, setting the beer bottles off again. “Serve ’im right. Always seems ’is sort flourishes like dust under the bed.” She prissied up her lips. “We now ’ave to post the rent to some fancy address office. The dim-witted son don’t come round collecting door-to-door no more. Remember ’im, Benny? Always pretending to be ’Umphrey Bogard or the like.”

Ben moved away from the wall, his eyes bright in the lamplight. “I remember he stole an apple from the shop once and I gave him a nosebleed, but we mustn’t keep you, Mrs. Merryfeather, your beer will go flat.”

“Aren’t you a caution! But I know you want to get inside and start cheering up your dad—not that he in’t getting plenty of that already.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ben’s brows came down like iron bars, but Mrs. Merryfeather, with a coy giggle, was already clanking away.

Ben began idly punching the bell. “What was she implying?”

“I don’t know.” I nudged a suitcase with my foot. “But I do know you are wonderfully loyal to your father, who you say won’t speak to you even if we do get to see him.”

“He’s a man of his word. I have to admire that.”

Nothing in the Bible says a woman has to understand her husband. A light flared with sudden and dazzling brilliance against the glass door of the shop. Someone was crossing the floor to open up. I was instantly very uneasy.

A key turned, bolts were thrust back, the shop door swung inward and a deep voice spoke graciously but remotely. “Who comes here at this time of night?”

This man looked nothing like the father-in-law of my imagination. I had pictured Mr. Haskell as short and stocky, certainly elderly, and prone to woolly dressing gowns. This man had to be at least six-foot-four, was broadly built, of similar age to Ben, and wore a flowing purple caftan. He was also indisputably black.

Had we come to the wrong address? Had Ben’s parents sold Haskell’s Fruit & Veg. and his mother not mentioned doing so in her letter?

Ben’s eyes flashed with something I couldn’t read. “Paris, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were off treading the boards of some Shakespearian theatre.”

“Ben—and your wife—how splendid!” The man stepped backward to let us enter. He was holding a book. “I work for your father. If you remember, it was my parents who dreamt that I would play Othello.” He closed and locked the door. “I tell them that one day my name will be above a door, but not in lights. All I ever desired was to own a shop like this.” His smile gave a glimpse of perfect teeth. “One day.”

“Do your parents still live on the street?” Ben picked an orange out of a bin and tossed it in the air.

“They moved to Reading. I have the back bedroom here.” The purple caftan swished. I had worn one once, but had not looked so magnificent.

“I hope you were not waiting long at the door. Eli and I were wearing earphones and listening to music. Mrs. Haskell has been a little edgy lately and the wireless bothered her.”

The air was sweet and earthy. A hook of bananas moved above our heads. Paris tucked the book under his arm. “Forgive the inquiry, but is this a visit of reconciliation or have the rumours concerning your mother’s disappearance reached you?”

Ben tossed his orange in the bin. He explained about Constable Beaker. “Is my father still listening to his earphones?”

“He was in the bathroom when I came down. He and I have both become rather fond of medieval love ballads. Shall we go up? Mrs. Haskell, I will make you some tea.”

Such a voice—a sun-drenched sea of a voice, in which to drift forever. A gift, surely, from the gods. And those black eyes! In their depths I caught a glimpse of lost civilisations. The purple silk did not so much rustle as breathe
softly. I adjusted the belt of my detestably dowdy coat and fingered a strand of loose hair. “Tea would be lovely, and please call me Ellie.”

“Willingly.” The perfectly chiseled lips lifted in a smile, highlighting his marvellous bone structure. A silken arm gestured toward the staircase in the corner. “Ben, please lead the way.”

The stairs were sharply perpendicular, carpeted in a chrysanthemum yellow and burnt orange floral design. The treads were pinned down by gleaming brass rods.

A mezuzah was attached to the door jamb of the entrance facing us across a small, dark landing. My arm brushed a holy water font. Talk about hedging all bets! The room we entered was heated to intense stuffiness by a fake-log electric fire. While Paris went to find Mr. Haskell, Ben moved around, touching things. An enormous maroon sofa and chairs were positioned on a carpet of similar pattern to that on the stairs. The curtains at the wide window were mustard yellow with a green leaf design. Strung from the ceiling in front of them was a row of hollowed-out hen’s eggs, each painted a primary colour and sprouting spikes of vegetation.

I dropped my coat on the sofa and studied the rainbow galaxy. “What interesting planters.”

Ben lifted up my coat, hung it on a stand, and came back to plump up the cushion. “Dad’s handiwork. The crocheting and tapestry work was all done by Mum. See those pictures over the fireplace? The one of the old rabbi won a blue ribbon at some church show.”

“He looks like St. Francis of Assisi.”

Mr. Haskell was clearly taking some persuading to see us. I sat down, then stood up, straightening the crocheted doily on the back of the chair. There were crocheted doilies on tables and cabinets, crocheted cushions on overstuffed chairs. I did covet one thing in the room—Ben’s photo on the sideboard. He was about seven years old, in school cap and wrinkled socks, looking adorably cross.

“What do you think of the furniture, Ellie?”

“Very … solid.”

“Dad made every piece, can you believe that? The man never took carpentry class.”

“My word!” I looked admiringly at the sideboard, with its Victorian body and Queen Anne legs.

Ben was adjusting a bowl of plastic fruit when the door
opened. My immediate impression of my father-in-law was that he was the spitting image of Father Christmas. He was stocky and wore a red cardigan. He had a beard and hair (minus bald spot) so white and downy it might have been made of brushed nylon. His dark eyes never moved from Ben as the door closed behind him.

“Hello, Dad,” said my husband.

The silence became as stifling as the heat. I walked around the sofa, hand outstretched.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am your new daughter-in-law, Ellie. Ben and I took the first train here after a policeman stopped by during our wedding reception to alert us to the fact that your wife—”

“Humph.” Mr. Haskell stroked his white beard, then begrudgingly took my hand. “Better than I expected. You don’t look rich.”

I took my hand back. “And you don’t look like a man who would quarrel with his only son and vow never to speak to him again, all because he wrote a … flagrante novel—which never got into print.”

“It would have”—the dark eyes burned into Ben—“if he’d let me help him write the tricky parts. But he’s stubborn—he was always that way. In the end I washed my hands of the book and him!”

Another silence. The two men assessed each other. I slumped down on the sofa. “What about charity and forgiveness?”

My father-in-law patted his bald spot. “What sort of a man would I be if I raised my son to be a man of his word and then broke mine to him?”