The Widow's Club (35 page)

“Shhhhh.” I couldn’t get the parsley to sit right.

Roxie rammed herself against my elbow. “Believe you me, he’s no social asset. Only look—every time he and that kiddie with him take a step close to Ladyship Peerless, she footsies the other way. Course, who can blame her, Mrs. H. Him turning her ancestral home into Bedlam!”

“Nonsense!” I gave up and ate the wayward sprig of parsley. “The Peerless is a private nursing home for nervous disorders. And Lady Theodora is a sensible woman. She has no grudge against Dr. Bordeaux. He didn’t steal the place. Her brother sold it.”

Guests eddied past. I smiled, exchanged a few words, and poked at the roses in one of the silver vases. A waiter held a champagne bottle over the punch bowl. Roxie shifted her silver tray to her other hand and slid her lips around to reposition her lipstick.

“When it comes to that Charlie Delacorte, Mrs. H., I wouldn’t buy a button from him. Although, to give Lucifer his due, I don’t believe what’s said about him carrying on behind his wife’s back. I’d lay me bingo money that Mr. Delacorte’s vital organs have been in cold storage for years.”

“Really, Roxie!”

I focused on Charles Delacorte, who was in the middle of the room gingerly eating around the edges of something. He was alone. I hadn’t once seen him and Ann standing together this evening. Was this her, coming up to him now? No, it was Millicent Parsnip, very smart in a black pillbox hat. Her pussycat face all atwitch, she opened her evening bag and brought out a flutter of papers.

Roxie swayed left, whether accidentally or to gawk I don’t know. “Getting him to sign some petition, she is, Mrs. H. Probably that one to save the lighthouse.”

Apparently Millicent was some spokesperson. Charles handed her his plate and uncapped his pen, his face solidified boredom. Poor Ann. Does she love him? Frightening to think she may have when they first married. My eyes sought her out—over in a corner by herself. Roxie veered off to the kitchen, ostensibly to refill her tray.

Ann was staring into space. No, she was looking at Lionel Wiseman. I remembered the day she came with me to his office. Was it dislike I sensed behind her composed
manner? No, something more smouldering. Fear? Lionel was quite a big fish in the Chitterton Fells pond. Was there some problem, say, a financial one, with the antique shop? If Ann would confide in me, perhaps Ben and I could help. I started across the room. Through the press of people and the smoke, I could see Ann. Her dark eyes were once more as smooth as her rolled hair and draped emerald dress. One of the men in the group turned to me.

“Compliments to your hubby. Fabulous affair.”

At last someone had recognised the genius at work here. I must get to a phone.

Mrs. Hanover from The Dark Horse had joined Millicent Parsnip in talking to Charles Delacorte. Ann hadn’t moved. I smiled myself away from the man who spoke kindly of Ben and saw Bunty come up behind Lionel. She placed her fingertips on his broad shoulders and mouthed “Boo” against his neck. Almost in slow motion, he turned toward her. A smile lightened his strong-jawed face and the ticking inside my head picked up the tempo. What I saw was a unit of three people, not two. The ticking got louder until it was tapping out a message. If Ann Delacorte feared Lionel Wiseman, it was because she loved him passionately, obsessively.

A touch on the shoulder surprised me; a shudder jolted my spine. I turned to face one of the waiters, trampling on his foot.

“Mrs. Haskell, forgive me for startling you.”

“Yes?” I looked up at him, then away—there was some sort of commotion going on to my right. Had a chance spark from a cigarette ignited something or someone?

“A gentleman waiting beyond the h’alcove wishes to see you, Mrs. Haskell.”

All sound faded. People bumped up against me in passing—Millicent Parsnip and, I think, Mrs. Hanover. With them was a man with his head thrown back. And then they were gone. I couldn’t move. The gentleman in the hall had to be a policeman, here to inform me that Ben had suffered a relapse. A fatal one. Never would I get to tell him how sorry I was for being so nasty about the D’Ellie Delight. Never would I get to tell him how much I loved him and that Rowland was only a fleeting thought.

“The gentleman won’t give his name, Mrs. Haskell. But I do not believe he is a gate-crasher. We’ve h’already
dealt efficiently with a few of those, one in particular not being at all the sort to add tone to the proceedings.”

The waiter and I were jostled together, then thrust apart, as we headed for the archway. A new thought wedged in my throat. The person waiting for me could be Poppa. Voices flowed over and through me.

“I’m sure he will be fine. Millie Parsnip and Mrs. Hanover did the right thing getting him out of this crush to a place where he can breathe better. Millie was a nurse, you know.”

“That’s a comfort; and look—Amelia Bottomly is chatting with his wife. No need for her to know and get concerned.”

At any other time I would have stopped and asked questions. Had the man come over the worse for drink or smoke? I would have wanted to know what I could do to help. As it was, I said nothing. Emerging from the alcove, Teddy Peerless and I collided. I did register that she looked odd and that her apologies were as disjointed as mine, but my heart was hammering its way out through my ribs and my very next step sent me into a second collision—with Mr. Edwin Digby.

“Mrs. Haskell,” said the waiter, “this is the gentleman who wishes to see you.”

The waiter turned tail and I blinked at Mr. Digby, my relief so violent I felt sick. He was wearing a top hat, a velvet-collared coat, and was royally, imperiously, drunk.

“How good of you to come.”

He stroked the goatee, then held up a purple-veined hand. “Don’t flatter yourself that you are irresistible as a hostess, Mrs. Haskell.” Every word was a blast of boozy breath. “I happened to be passing and elected to stop inside to alert you that I have changed my mind. I wish my pin-striped suit returned.”

“Mr. Digby, I had planned to return it.” I wanted to laugh madly, joyously. The evening was almost over. No disaster had befallen. My fears for Ben were absurd. Abigail’s premiere was a triumph!

“You haven’t done something officious, such as sending the suit to the cleaner?” Something in Mr. Digby’s manner sobered me.

“Of course not,” I said primly.

He pressed his hands together but was unable to stop their tremor.

“Spare me your womanly sympathy, Mrs. Haskell. It is merely that the suit is … of sentimental value.”

He must be very drunk to be this honest. I wondered when he remembered the photo in the pocket.

“Mother gave you the suit, I suppose.”

It was the right thing to say. The beard parted in a smile.

“Ah, Mother! I left her outside this front door—I trust t’was this one. I must needs now”—he stumbled over the words—“go hence and explain that this visit was extended through no fault of mine. If you will graciously place that suit in a paper bag, I will call for it tomorrow.”

He swayed toward the stairs and I started to ask him to stay, at least for a cup of coffee. But then, with terrifying suddenness, the bottom plummeted out of everything. I heard a gasp and saw Teddy Peerless leaning against the office door, her face ashen. My mind took a leap to the man who had been led from the room a few minutes ago in search of fresh air. And then another leap: Should I have put the chicken tarts in the refrigerator instead of the pantry?

I took a step toward Teddy and almost went sprawling. Sweetie bundled over my feet and streaked into the reception room. Shouts. Shrieks. Laughter. A lone cry of “How unsanitary!” Teddy was feeling her way along the wall and Magdalene was wrenching at my arm.

“I brought her in the punch bowl for a little company. Oh, Blessed Mother, what will Ben say?”

She was about to find out. The front door opened wide—Mr. Digby exited; Ben and Poppa entered.

“Your foolish husband got up when my back was turned,” shouted Poppa. “He skulked down to that cottage, helped himself to your cousin’s clothes, and phoned for a taxi, which broke down coming up the hill. So we waited and waited for another. Your husband is worn out. What about me?”

I didn’t have enough arms, enough feet. I tried to reach Teddy with my free hand while watching in horror as Ben staggered, white-faced, up the stairs. He collapsed at the exact moment that Teddy’s cry rang out: “Charles Delacorte is in the office! Dead!”

From the Files of
The Widows Club

Monday, 3rd May

Memorandum to President:

I am pleased to report that on the evening of Friday, 1st May, all went according to plan. At 7:36
P.M
. I engaged the Subject To Be Retired in conversation and under cover of asking him to sign the Lighthouse Petition (it is an ill wind, etc.), made the prearranged substitution. Whereupon I did feel concern that he might not eat what was put before him. Happily he did and began wheezing almost immediately. Mrs. Hanover stepped forward and assisted in propelling the S.T.B.R from the room, offering assurances that all he needed was a little fresh air. We then took him to the office two doors down from the reception room and sat him in the desk chair. After assuring him there was no need to summon his wife—the less fuss the better—I went to fetch his inhaler from his coat. Ten seconds later Mrs. Hanover left to telephone for medical assistance, after which she proceeded to inform subject’s wife, he had been taken ill.

I deliberately failed to find inhaler until I had searched twenty-four pockets, as suggested on my receiving this assignment. When I came out of the cloakroom, with aforementioned in hand, the news was sweeping the building that S.T.B.R. was dead.

I wish to commend Mrs. Hanover for her splendid cooperation. Also, many thanks to the other members of The Widows Club for their moral support during the evening. The speed and efficiency of The Founder speaks for itself.

In response to the request that I voice any feelings of distress I may have experienced since the retirement, let me state that distress is too strong a word for the vague unease I have felt, since the night of 1st May. This is not associated with subject’s death but with the admission of his widow (upon my nomination) to our membership. I now feel (without being able to define) that she does not fulfill the lofty standards that are the rock upon which The Widows Club is built.

Respectfully submitted,

Millicent E. Parsnip

At last my story was over. I had told these strange women my macabre tale and now must go home to my husband.

“The important thing is that Ben is going to be all right.” Hyacinth interrupted my thoughts.

“The important thing,” I contradicted, “is that Charles Delacorte is dead. And by my hand. He was allergic to seafood as well as other things such as cats. That was why he was always picking through the sandwiches and occasionally sniffing them for good measure. But I outfoxed him. I made some of my chicken tarts with tuna, remember?”

“My dear, dear Ellie.” Primrose proffered the smelly salts. “Of course we remember. And you should remember that although these club women may not be our sort in some ways, they are not stupid. They would never have banked on your running out of chicken. No, indeed! One of them will have brought along something fishy in disguise—possibly a look-alike tart—and fed it to Mr. Delacorte when he wasn’t looking. You had received many requests for them.”

My shoulders sagged. “Even so, Charles Delacorte may well have eaten one of my tuna tarts before he got to theirs. I can never be certain I didn’t cause his death.”

Hyacinth snapped the green book closed. “Stop wallowing, Ellie. If we all went around worrying about who
we might have accidentally killed, we would never get any work done. And set to work we must.”

That was, I trusted, the royal we. Shifting in my chair, I stared at the clock on the wall. Nine o’clock. We had sat in the rose and green coffee room at Abigail’s for hours. We had drunk innumerable cups of tea and dispatched William Butler to the kitchen so many times he was undoubtedly dizzy or asleep. I wanted to go home to Ben.