The Widow's Club (36 page)

On the morning after The Death, Dr. Melrose had come out to Merlin’s Court and confirmed my diagnosis of a relapse. Ben was now suffering from a viral condition contracted while in a weakened condition and aggravated by gate-crashing his own party.

Generally speaking, I think Ben was pleased with his setback. Now he could call a halt to conversation simply by closing his eyes.

It had been a bleak moment when I had confessed to him about the fake chicken tarts. What I had done violated the fundamentals of his professional code. He was sorry about Charles, but it could not be said he felt his loss keenly. Momentarily hope had flickered in Ben’s eyes. If I were to keep quiet at the inquest and let it be thought that Charles had absentmindedly scoffed a tuna toastie … but Ben was pulled up short by his conscience and I by the memory that Bunty had been present when I made the tuna/chicken tarts.

The ruin of my husband’s dreams stared me in the face. His professional integrity was in question. No one would patronize Abigail’s; no one would buy the cookery book. Ben would become the butt of such jokes as, Chicken by any other name is not the same. Perhaps if we were to flee the country and start afresh under an assumed name, things might improve. But for the present, all I could do for Ben was not to burden him with my guilt and misery.

I insisted he obey Dr. Melrose’s orders not to attend the inquest. I even talked glibly about what I would wear to the funeral and whether we should send a wreath or a cross. On the plus side, I felt glad the pressure of having me as a daughter-in-law was bringing Magdalene and Eli closer together. They eyed each other sometimes over my head. Ben closed his eyes a lot. I was glad that he bought the notion that I was shrugging the matter aside. At the same time, I resented his not seeing through me.

But did he? Had we been deluding ourselves that ours was a grand passion because the circumstances under which we had met had been so romantic? To say nothing of all that romantic money. I kept remembering the wedding reception and those whispers in the hall.

“A shame she didn’t marry the vicar.” “This one is much too good-looking.” “She’s bound to get fat again. People do when they’re happy.”

“Poor Ellie.” Primrose leaned across the seersucker tablecloth and touched her papery hands to my face. “Indeed I know how you must feel. Every time I step on a beetle I anguish, but it is our duty as Christians to combat grief with work.”

“Which,” Hyacinth cut in briskly, “offers the additional advantage of being an excellent means of getting things done. Ellie, should you sincerely wish to redeem Ben’s reputation and your own self-esteem, I urge you to help Flowers Detection in the noble endeavour of uncovering the identity of the founder of this widows club. In so doing you may find that Charles Delacorte’s allergy to fishy food didn’t kill him per se; it was used to reduce him to a state of helplessness so that someone hidden in the study could step out and quickly and easily smother him without suspicions of foul play being aroused. Someone could have had a plastic bag in her pocket.”

Hyacinth stopped and her eyes snapped me to attention, but I went almost immediately back into a sag. I wanted to believe … and true, I needed a bit of nobility in my life right now, the sort of stuff that would bring Ben running to me on his knees. But was I fully convinced that this evil organisation existed? And supposing it did, what could I, the notorious bungler, do about it?

Tapping the green notebook on the table, Hyacinth fixed me with her dark eyes. “You want proof, don’t you? Well, for starters, Mrs. Daffy told you at the party that those black dickybirds on the brooches worn by the women are crows.”

“So?”

“Don’t you find it suggestive, Ellie, that she had scarce uttered the words when Mrs. Bottomly snatched her away?”

I placed my bag on the table to signify that I was about
to snatch myself away. “Presumably Mrs. Bottomly had someone she wished Mrs. Daffy to meet.”

Primrose shook her head of curls, tut-tutting gently. “I fear, Ellie, that you slept through some of your school days, as I did. The proper terminology for a line of crows is”—she paused theatrically—“a
murder
of crows.”

I stared at her in horror.

Primrose nodded at her sister. “We imagine that Mrs. Daffy, in a flash of self-importance at becoming a new member, forgot she wasn’t supposed to reveal the species of the bird. The brooches are so small that people on the outside are likely to think, as you did, my dear, that the birds are of the four-and-twenty kind that got baked in the royal pie.”

I looked from Primrose’s faded flower face to Hyacinth, with her hooded dark eyes and cone of black hair, then set my bag down on the floor. “Have you asked any of these women what the brooches represent?”

Primrose smiled at my curiosity. “Last Tuesday at the post office, I trod on the foot of a woman wearing one. Understand, Ellie, I did not press hard, only enough to enable me to apologise and start up a conversation. One does not wish one’s profession to make one ruthless. And she was really such a charming woman. She’d had an uncle who had gone out to India, I remember …” Hyacinth winced and Primrose collected herself. “To put it in a nutshell, she admitted quite freely that the brooch was an insignia of a widows group, the birds symbolic of women closing ranks in the struggle to rebuild the nest.”

“Sounds logical. Birds, crows, and the rest of the fowl of the air must go through the same struggle with the grief process as the rest of us.” I pushed back my chair. “This conversation has been extremely stimulating, but as you know, Ben is not fully recovered, and if I don’t get home soon, Magdalene will have slipcovered all the furniture and Poppa converted the dining room into a workshop.”

“Sit down, Ellie.” Hyacinth was firm.

I sat.

“Please do not think I am applying the thumbscrew, but do consider—if you do not help us, you may find yourself begging your in-laws never to leave because the thought of life alone with Ben is untenable.”

I wavered, but somehow managed to drag a rabbit out of the hat. “Dorcas and Jonas will be returning soon.”

Primrose nodded at me sadly. “Your dearest friends will immediately intuit that something is supremely wrong between you and your spouse. They will suffer with you. My dear, friends are never an escape.”

I twisted a corner of the tablecloth into a point. Tomorrow I would airmail a note to D. and J. telling them I was frightfully busy entertaining Ben’s parents and the house seemed unbelievably crowded. It was the kindest thing I could do.

Hyacinth pushed back her chair. “Ellie, the brooches are indicative, but they do not prove that this murderous organisation exists. However, I believe that Flowers Detection can convince you.”

“You needed me, madam?” Unnervingly Butler made no sound on entering.

“I did. And next time try to be a little more prompt. Did you fetch what I asked for?”

“Is rain wet, madam?” Expressionless, he handed Hyacinth a book in a white-and-red jacket.

“Splendid, Butler.” Primrose beamed up at him. “You also took care of that other small matter?”

Butler inclined his head. “I found the party at home and agreeable to visit at the time you suggested.”

As the door closed, I said, “Who, if I may ask, is the person he has invited to visit you? Or should I say us?”

“First things first.” Hyacinth held up the book Butler had handed her. The red splattering on the white background was an artist’s rendition of blood. The title was
The Merry Widows
. My bag slid off my lap, spilling its contents all around my chair. My voice cracked. “Edwin Digby, alias Mary Birdsong, wrote that book. I stumbled upon it in his study.”

Hyacinth’s orange lips curled in a smile. “You told us so in describing your visit to him.”

“While I was requesting Butler to fetch more toasted tea cakes”—Primrose adjusted the curls upon her forehead—“I whispered to him that it would be extremely helpful were he to admit himself to The Aviary and fetch the volume, which, needless to say, we will return in the condition we received it.”

“What if he had collided with Edwin Digby?”

Hyacinth waved a nonchalant hand. “Butler has his ways, which we never probe. I think he may have been somewhat concerned about colliding with Mother, but happily all went well.” She tapped on the book. “We knew about this through our research.” She held it out to me. “Do you wish, Ellie, to read the plot outline on the inside flap of the jacket?”

“Certainly.”

Primrose edged her chair closer. “I would appreciate your reading out loud, Ellie.”

I cleared my throat.

From the pen of Mary Birdsong drips another tale of icy terror. This time the locale is the picture postcard village of Nettleton Byways, where a group of ladies, wholesome as wholemeal bread, have formed a club. A club for would-be widows. Women who choose widowhood over divorce. This organisation has been operating successfully for many years and provides the following services:

1.
Elimination of adulterous husbands, with an emphasis on the death appearing to result from natural causes, an accident, or suicide
.

2.
Emotional support in dealing with subsequent guilt or remorse
.

3.
Social activities, which include a monthly luncheon meeting, bridge, whist, gardening groups, and charitable works. Board meetings are held in closed session
.

Deaths are prescribed by the club’s founder. Members of the board are encouraged to assist in implementation. The identity of The Founder is known only to charter members who are no longer active. His/her instructions are issued by telephone to the current president, who sees they are carried out. The heroine of this tantalising novel …”

My hands trembled so violently the book fell. “Are you saying that Mary Birdsong is our man?”

Primrose pursed her lips. “My dear, Ellie, don’t you think he’s a shade
too
obvious?”

I ran my fingers through my hair, causing it to slide down my neck. Speaking through a mouthful of pins I said:

“I think Mr. Digby’s background—which, from what Roxie said, has been marked by tragedy—should be checked. But drunk or sober, he isn’t a fool. The fact that everything points to him—this book, the brooches (he is an ornithological enthusiast)—suggests to me that The Founder has set the stage so that if the blade of the guillotine ever falls, it will land on Mr. Digby’s head.”

Hyacinth looked from me to Primrose and back again. “The possibility should be considered that he wishes to be caught. But let us remember that even if
The Merry Widows
is still in print, which I doubt—seeing that it was published twenty years ago and Mrs. Malloy said his early work is unattainable—no one would connect it with a real club. Except the widows themselves. And they can not be sure that Edwin Digby is involved in any way, other than an inspiration.”

Primrose drew her shawl tighter. The room was growing shadowy. “Ellie, I know you have been busy with such distractions as death and illness, but have you talked with Lady Theodora about why she went into Abigail’s office and discovered Charles Delacorte that fateful night?”

“I haven’t spoken with her. I saw her as I was coming in here this evening, but she pretended not to see me and crossed the road. My knowledge of what she told the police is reported in
The Daily Spokesman
.”

“She said that she entered the office, mistaking it for the bathroom.” Hyacinth tapped on the green notebook with a ruminative finger. “Not quite plausible, but so often the truth is not. By the way, Ellie, did Mr. Digby ever collect his pin-striped suit?”

“Yes, the morning after the death. You think his haste unseemly under the circumstances, that he was desperate to recover that photograph?” What was wrong with me? I wanted Abigail’s name cleared at all costs, didn’t I? And surely someone would take Mother in if Mr. Digby were sent to prison.

Primrose’s blue eyes met mine. She exchanged looks with Hyacinth and said, “Butler must begin a full-scale investigation of Mr. Digby, tomorrow at the latest.”

“Agreed.” Hyacinth lifted the teapot and poured a trickle into each of our cups. “He will also check out Lady Theodora; likewise Lionel Wiseman who, so says his wife, is especially sympathetic to his female clients! And Bunty
Wiseman—married (although gossip says otherwise) to a man old enough to be her father. Is the attraction love, money, or something more Freudian? And I mustn’t have Butler forget Mr. Sidney Fowler, whose father deserted him as a boy, had a reputation as a Casanova in his youth, and—”

“—And may have locked Bentley in the potato bin during a childhood game of hide-and-seek,” Primrose contributed.

Hyacinth moved our cups toward us. “I will conclude this summation, thank you, Prim. Roxie Malloy’s references must be rechecked. The Founder is a person with both ears to the ground and the opportunities inherent in Roxie’s work are boundless.” Hyacinth stopped and looked toward the door. “Am I hearing things or was that the doorbell?”

Standing, I pressed my hands on the table. The cups and saucers did a slow slide. “Isn’t it a strange coincidence that all of these suspects are known to me?” I took a steadying breath and the crockery came to a standstill. “We cannot assume simply because these people have cropped up during the course of this evening’s conversation that one of them is The Founder. He/she and I may never have crossed paths, let alone spoken to each other!”

Hyacinth’s black eyes burned into me. “My dear Ellie, I don’t assume. I
know
.”

The orange lips smiled complacently. “Did you receive a bouquet of roses the morning after Charles Delacorte’s death?”

“Yes.”

“Enclosed with them was a card, am I right? Inscribed with the words,
I am sorry
. There was no—”

“—signature.” That moment seeped back.

 … I am standing in the hall at Merlin’s Court, the yellow roses in my hands.… I feel such elation at the belief that Ben has sent them … then I see his stony face when I come running into the bedroom with them. “The gallant Rowland strikes again,” he said.…