Withering Heights (23 page)

“That’s the sensible view,” I agreed, wishing that I didn’t sound so stilted but not able to help myself. Had Ben swept me into his arms I would have felt he brought Val in tow. Perhaps sensing this, he put his hands in his trouser pockets and began talking about Betty.

“You can’t go by what she says, Ellie, she’s dealing with a lot of issues: the lottery win, her problems with Ariel, and . . . whatever else she’s got on her mind.”

“Such as?”

“Tom. You could see how he reacted to her behavior at that ridiculous séance.” This was the moment to tell him about the false Madam LaGrange, but I didn’t. Childishly, I decided that if he could have secrets so could I. Receiving no response, he
continued. “There’s always stuff going on in any marriage that outsiders aren’t tuned in to.”

“Are you speaking about them or about us?” It was out. I told myself I felt better. Nothing was worse than the distance growing between us. I saw the hesitation in his eyes, waited for him to say something—anything—but when he did I wished I’d left things alone.

“Ellie, I’m caught up in a situation that I would have given anything to avoid. But it was flung at me, and there it is. I want to talk to you about it, but that might complicate things even more. Also I gave my word to—”

“Val? Or, as you call her, Valeria?” I almost choked on the words.

A muscle tensed in his cheek, but he kept his hands in his pockets. “She feels so guilty. Ellie, you’ve probably come to your own conclusion and think I’m behaving like a cad.”

“Heaven forbid! You’re my knight in shining armor!”

The drawing room door opened, making an end to our tete-a-tete. All at once there was activity. By the time the body was removed and its entourage, including Mr. Hardcastle, had departed, I was not the only person looking less than cheery when we gathered in the drawing room. Ben and Tom stood in silence; Mrs. Malloy said her feet were killing her and sank into a chair. Only Betty displayed an interest in chatting about the death, and even she gave up on this idea when Ariel flung herself down on a sofa and began sobbing uncontrollably. Galvanized into unexpected speed, Tom knelt at her side, patting her heaving shoulders and looking around in accusatory alarm at his wife.

“Betty, what’s set her off?”

“How should I know?”

“You’re always getting at her.”

“That’s not true.” The green eyes flashed. “Most often it’s the other way round. Oh, move over, do!” Betty knelt down
beside him. For that moment they looked like a set of concerned parents, thinking only of their child.

“What’s the matter, Ariel love?” Mrs. Malloy asked from her chair, while Ben and I hovered in the background.

“It was so sad! His eyes were open and he was looking at me, like he was asking me to tell him he wasn’t really dead. He was such a tiny little old man, not big enough to look after himself properly.” Ariel raised a tear-drenched face. “It’s different talking about death when you’ve never seen it. I wish I’d never made cracks about wanting people out of the way.” She turned away from Betty and her father. “And I never again want to hear about murders. It’s like tempting fate to come up with another dead person.”

“You see, Betty!” Tom got to his feet. “What have I been saying for weeks about this nonsense of yours regarding Lady Fiona? It was bound to lead to trouble, and now it has! You’ve filled my daughter’s head with fear. If she doesn’t have a nervous breakdown, it won’t be your fault!”

It was time for Ben, Mrs. Malloy, and myself to clear out. Seeing that Mrs. M wanted to talk and not feeling up to a heart-to-heart, I said I had a headache that would only cure itself if I went for a lie-down in a darkened bedroom. Ben started to say something, but I waved a hand and headed upstairs.

I rarely get headaches, but I was not fibbing about this one. A couple of aspirins later, I crawled under the bedclothes and willed myself to sleep. It took some doing, but finally Val’s triumphant voice stopped telling me she was an Irish rose and I was a dandelion growing where it wasn’t wanted. Ben reduced his pleas for my forgiveness to an incoherent muddle. Blessed oblivion.

When I opened my eyes and looked groggily at the bedside clock, it was several hours later. I would still have benefited from taking off my head and putting it on a hat stand, but that was
mostly because doing so would have made thinking more difficult. The physical pain had eased considerably. For several minutes I contemplated the advisability of getting up. I was thinking that perhaps I had better do so when Ariel stuck her head around the door and asked if I would like something brought up on a tray, everyone else already having had dinner. Her eyelids were still puffy and she looked in need of a good night’s rest.

“Or perhaps you’d rather just go back to sleep, Ellie.”

“I think I’ll do that. Good night, Ariel.” Suddenly the best possible move seemed to be total inaction. No thanking anyone, especially Ben, for bringing me a heartening bowl of broth; no being drawn back into the Hopkinses’ emotional turmoil. Tomorrow would be better or worse. Either way it would be there. For now I would burrow back down and hope to be asleep when my husband came to bed . . . or didn’t.

When I awoke the next morning, the other side of the bed was still warm. Ben had come and gone, like a visitor showing up when no one was home. I was filled with a wild longing to run and find him, to tell him the business with Val was madness and when we got back to Merlin’s Court he would realize it had been no more than a midsummer night’s dream. But I realized, as I set one foot on the floor, that I couldn’t bring myself to grovel. Pride balked at the idea, and fear raised the ugly possibility that he had no wish to be saved from his folly.

After taking a hot shower that did nothing to warm me, I went downstairs in the wake of Mrs. Malloy, who had just come out of her bedroom.

“How’s the head, Mrs. H?”

“I’m still wearing it.”

“Now, don’t go getting snappy with me.” She eyed me severely.

“Sorry.” I folded my arms.

“You should see yourself, standing there all defensive. Come on, what’s the bother?” She can always get to me when that kindly light beams from her eyes, like the last hope for a drowning sailor. “Trouble with Mr. H over that Val woman?”

“However did you guess, Mrs. Private Detective?”

“From the soppy way she was looking at him at tea. If you ask me, he looked downright embarrassed.”

“An awkward situation for both of them.”

“Yes. Well, don’t go thinking yourself into trouble, like Tom accused Betty of doing. Just you cling to the thought that it’s always darkest before dawn.”

“It
is
dawn.” I looked at the long case clock. “In fact, it’s nearly ten.”

“You’re right.” She followed my gaze. “Unless it’s telling wicked falsehoods, as wouldn’t surprise me in this house, where—present company excluded—taking what anyone says for fact could be a big mistake.”

“Does that include Mrs. Cake?”

“Why?”

“Breakfast doesn’t have its usual appeal. Ben and I aside, Tom and Betty could benefit from some time with Ariel without our looming presence. Why don’t you grab a slice of toast and come with me to talk to Mrs. Cake?”

“I’ve already had several chats with her. That’s what I wanted to bring you up to speed on, Mrs. H, when you went and got your headache. Have a word with her on your own, and afterward you and me can decide if anything she has to say about Mr. Gallagher’s disappearance is important. As for now, I’m off to ring Milk Jugg and ask him to find out whether her ladyship forgot to untie the first knot, so to speak.”

“You brave soul! I’ll keep my fingers crossed that he doesn’t bang down the phone.”

“Look for Mrs. Cake in the room next to the butler’s pantry. That’s where she sits most of the time, resting her foot and doing a bit of mending.”

“Should she be hobbling downstairs each morning?”

“I suppose she feels she’d better. The things some women do for fear of losing their jobs!” Mrs. Malloy sighed heavily. I assured her that under similar circumstances I would hire an around-the-clock nurse for her who looked like Cary Grant and sang like Elvis, and we went our separate ways: she to the library, where she could telephone in privacy, and I down the passageway to the left of the kitchen. No sign of anyone else about. No footsteps hurrying to catch up with me. No anguished male voice begging me to turn around and fall into his arms. It was a relief, I told myself staunchly. Ben could at least have left a note on the pillow. No, scrap that thought! Pillows, like mantelpieces, are rarely the deposits for good news. They are for missives that begin:
Forgive me for leaving you destitute, pregnant, and with the pox
. . . .

It was pleasant to remind myself that I was none of those things as I entered a cozy parlor. Maybe it was the quarry-tiled floor and deep windowsill that made me feel more at home than I had yet done since coming to Cragstone. There was a feeling here that reminded me of my kitchen. Instead of copper pots and pans hanging from a rack above the cooker, there were equally well-polished kettles and platters on shelves around the walls. I stood in the doorway drinking in the atmosphere as if it were a life-restoring elixir. The most comforting sight of all was the woman seated in a worn easy chair with her feet on a hassock, the left one was bandaged to the ankle. She was stout and cheerful-looking, with a rough red face and gray hair permed to last.

“Good morning,” she said. “I expect you’re that nice young gentleman’s wife. Such a relief, him taking over the cooking,
especially with the caterers letting Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins down for Thursday.”

“Yes, I’m Ellie Haskell. I do hope your ankle is better.”

“On the mend. You sound a bit choked up. Coming down with a cold?”

“I don’t think so.” But was it something to consider? It could be my excuse for holing up in my bedroom. I could claim that the headache had been the precursor. Thank goodness I had gone straight to bed! How wretched I would feel if anyone, especially Ben—with the Hopkinses so dependent upon his help—were to catch what might even turn out to be the flu! And—I didn’t grind my teeth because it might have frightened Mrs. Cake—what anguish for my once-devoted husband if I should pass from this world without ever telling him I forgave him and that venomous woman. . . . I returned to what senses I had left. Death was out. Ariel had said she couldn’t take any more of it. And, most important of all, there were my own children to consider.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you, Mrs. Cake.”

“Sit yourself down in that chair opposite mine. It’s right pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Haskell.”

“Thank you.” I did as directed. “Ariel speaks of you fondly.”

“The little lost lass is what I call her.” The voice was kindness itself. “She doesn’t know what she wants and takes it out on Mrs. Hopkins; then around they go with the dad in the middle. And now they’ve had that poor old vicar drop dead in the conservatory, adding fuel to the fire.” She picked up a pillow slip from the table next to her chair and began stitching up a seam.

I didn’t pretend not to know what she was getting at. “You’re talking about Mrs. Hopkins’s idea that Lady Fiona murdered her husband.”

“I wouldn’t have brought it up if your friend Mrs. Malloy hadn’t broached the matter in our talks. It’s upsetting, and not
just for Ariel and her dad. Mavis has got wind of Mrs. Hopkins’s suspicions. She’s not usually a gabber, but she hasn’t taken to Mrs. Hopkins, and if there was to be a real blowup she might do some repeating of what she’s heard in this house. I’d hate for Lady Fiona to be upset.”

“You like her?”

“Yes, I do. She’s odd, there’s no getting round that. She and Mr. Gallagher made quite a pair that way. Eccentric wouldn’t be putting it too strongly. I suppose that’s why they got along.”

“They were happy?”

“Very, I would say. And I’ve worked for them these twenty years or more.” Mrs. Cake rethreaded her needle and started on another seam. “They weren’t the sort to show their feelings, not in a public way. But it was clear they meant the world to each other. Surprising, you might say, because from what I’ve heard theirs didn’t start off as a great romance. But they each knew how the other thought, and in my book that’s a good foundation for the sort of love that grows and lasts.”

“Mrs. Malloy and I have been told this wasn’t the first time that Mr. Gallagher left home on the spur of the moment.”

“She said you got that from her sister, Miss Tabby. There’s a woman you can tell has had her heart broken.” Mrs. Cake shook her head sadly. “Same old story—married man—but new every time it hits home. A pity if she lets the past stop her from making things permanent with the good man she’s now found.”

I didn’t advance the information that the previous love interest had been Mr. Rochester from
Jane Eyre
. That would have been gossiping. Besides which, I was too surprised. “Melody Tabby has a gentleman friend?”

“There!” Mrs. Cake slapped herself on the wrist. “What a one I am for spilling the beans! But at least I haven’t said his name. I’m a talker right enough, but that doesn’t mean I can’t
keep the occasional secret. As I’ve said to Ariel, my lips are always sealed when I’m told straight out to keep mum.”

I wanted to say she had that in common with my husband; instead, I brought her back to Mr. Gallagher by asking how frequent had been his disappearances.

“I’d say he’s taken off half a dozen times since I’ve been here,” responded Mrs. Cake. “Some bee would land on his bonnet and away he’d flit to a place in the back of beyond with a name only the native inhabitants can pronounce. Even Lady Fiona wouldn’t know where he’d gone until a letter or postcard would arrive.”

“Didn’t she get upset?”

“You’ve met her, Mrs. Haskell. She floats through life; most things slide right off her shoulders.”

“She never got angry with him for not bothering to let her know he was going away?”

“It does seem odd to the likes of you and me.” Mrs. Cake smiled comfortably. “But we’re talking about two people living on a totally different plane from the rest of us. All her ladyship ever said to me was that Mr. Gallagher couldn’t bear goodbyes. And my guess is that came from being brought up by Nanny Pierce. I wouldn’t be surprised if every time he said he was going out, either by himself or with friends, she got upset and he ended up staying home. Far too possessive, that woman! I’m not surprised her great nephew has stayed clear of her over the years. She explains that by saying he married a woman that’s not up to snuff, but who knows? Anything less than him being Lord Mayor of London wouldn’t count for much. Having her great-niece come to live with her should make her happy. But Nanny blows hot and cold with her too.”