Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  “Yes, on my ticket. Come into the drawing-room, and we’ll take a look.”

  Moments later, Henry was sitting beside Margaret on the sofa, studying the list of addresses on the back of the card. He said, “What exactly happens? Does everybody assemble at a certain time—?”

  “Oh, no. The gardens are open from half-past eleven to half-past five, and you can visit them at any time, in any order.”

  “So anybody could be in any garden at any time?”

  “Well. . . yes. But the gardens are listed in topographical order, as it were. To do the tour with the minimum of walking, you start either at the beginning or the end, and visit the addresses in order. Our group planned to start at the top of the list and work down.”

  “The top being—?”

  “Dumbarton Oaks. That’s the most famous house in Georgetown . . . where the Dumbarton Oaks Conference was held. The gardens are world-famous. It all belongs to Harvard University now, but the previous owners spent years landscaping the gardens, all the way down from Dumbarton Rock to Rock Creek. You simply must see them.”

  “Some other time. What time did Mrs. Barrington’s group plan to meet, do you know?”

  “Yes. Dumbarton Oaks, main gateway, twelve noon—having eaten an early snack to keep up their strength. They plan to take the other gardens in turn, ending up at the Georgetown Children’s Home—that’s what it’s all in aid of—for a supper tea at half-past four.”

  Henry glanced at his watch. “Then we haven’t much time. Tell me about the other gardens.”

  Margaret adjusted her reading glasses. “I haven’t really studied the program,” she said. “Let’s see. 3320 Dent Place—oh, I know the people who live there. It’s a beautiful garden, quite small. And then a house on 34th Street . . . I only know it from outside, but the garden can’t be very big . . . P Street . . . 32nd Street . . . those must be small, too . . . ah, here’s a big one—Maycroft House, on Exeter Place. That’s one of the biggest estates that’s still privately owned—it runs to about four acres. Actually, it belongs to old Schipmaker—Otis’s father—and Ginny took me there once. It’s beautiful. They even have a waterfall and a maze and all sorts of things.” Her eye ran down the other addresses. “All these must be little ones. I expect there are just the two . . . oh!” She stopped, in obvious surprise.

  “What is it?” Henry asked.

  “The very last on the list. You’ll never guess.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “3119 Oxford Gardens. By gracious permission of His Excellency the Tampican Ambassador. That should be a big attraction. I wonder why Sir Edward ever agreed to include it.”

  “I doubt if he even knew about it,” said Henry. He was immensely intrigued. “You see, if everything had gone according to plan, the Ambassador and his senior staff would still be in Tampica for the naval base talks. As it is, the conference broke up and everybody is back—which may well have put a spanner into somebody’s works. The Embassy is out—so my money is on Maycroft House.”

  “For what?”

  “For murder—or attempted murder, if we can get there soon enough. What time do you reckon the Barrington group will get to Maycroft?”

  Margaret considered. “They’ll spend at least an hour at Dumbarton Oaks—probably more. And since half of them won’t have been punctual anyhow, my guess is that they’re leaving the Oaks about now. It’ll take them ten minutes or so to walk to Dent Place . . . give them a quarter of an hour there . . . five minutes’ walk to 34th Street . . . ten minutes to see that garden . . . half an hour for the other small gardens nearby . . . ten minutes’ walk to Exeter Place—longer if they want to window-shop in Wisconsin Avenue on the way—I’d say they’ll get to Maycroft at about a quarter to three, something over an hour from now.”

  “Then we’re not too late,” Henry said. “In fact, I can make a couple of phone calls. Can you find me the number of the M Street Police Station?”

  A minute later. “Officer Stanton? Tibbett here . . . yes, I’m back in Washington for a few days . . . look, can you tell me how I can contact Franklin D. Martin? . . . Yes, I do mean him . . . You don’t have him in custody at the moment? . . . Pity . . . well, if you could possibly get me a phone number on him . . . yes, I’ll hold on . . . ah, thank you very much.” Henry scribbled on the phone-side pad. “Yes, it is urgent. . . no, I wouldn’t say all Englishmen are crazy, Officer—just most of us. . . thanks a lot. . .by the way, if I do contact him, he may pay you a visit later on . . . no, you don’t have to talk to him, he’ll simply be dropping in an envelope for you . . .”

  Henry was lucky. Franklin D. Martin was at home—actually, he was painting placards which he intended to parade outside selected supermarkets, urging the public to “Boycott Beetroot,” for a reason which was not entirely clear. He sounded surprised at Henry’s questions, but answered them without hesitation.

  “Yeah, man, sure I remember . . . yeah, just before we got busted, man . . . oh, yeah, before that. . . sure I’m sure . . . write it down and take it to M Street. . . Officer Stanton . . . hey, man, you think I’m about to do the fuzz’s work for them? . . .”

  “Look at it this way,” said Henry. “Officer Stanton would be very grateful . . .”

  “Yeah, man, sure. Yeah, that’s neat. Know something? Don’t ask me why, but I kinda dig you . . .”

  “It’s mutual,” said Henry. “Thanks a lot, Franklin.” He rang off, and turned to Emmy. “Come on, then. We’re off on the garden tour.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Margaret at once.

  “I’m so sorry, Margaret,” Henry said, “but I must ask you to stay here. Inspector Bartholomew should be calling about half-past two from the airport. Please tell him to go straight to the Tampican Embassy as soon as he possibly can, and not to be surprised by anything he finds there. Tell him I’ll be along as soon as I can. By the way, how do we get tickets for this thing?”

  “You can buy them at the gate of any of the gardens. But one of you had better use mine—pity to waste it.”

  “I’m really sorry, Margaret—but this is serious and can be dangerous. Please stay here—you can go on the tour tomorrow.”

  “It’s not the same gardens,” said Margaret wistfully. “I may not get to see the Tampican Embassy.”

  “That may be very lucky for you,” said Henry.

  It came as no surprise to realize that Maycroft House was the vast establishment referred to laconically by Belinda Drayton as “3018, over the way.” Exeter Place was full of garden enthusiasts, mostly feminine, mostly middle-aged. Some were in couples or threesomes, but others wore little identity tags and roamed in herds of fifteen or twenty, shepherded by a harassed leader who was continually demanding to know if everybody was there.

  This surging crowd had a common goal—the big wrought-iron gateway which led into the grounds of Maycroft House. The gates stood open, and immediately inside them was a trestle table at which sat two elegantly dressed ladies, each wearing a silk emblem, like a small pennant, on which the words “Hostess” was woven in gold on a white background. On the table were piles of tickets, a brochure outlining the history of Maycroft and the geography of its garden, and several cups of coffee.

  Emmy produced Margaret’s ticket. One of the hostesses (blue-rinsed hair and a floral hat) scored through the name “Maycroft House” with a firm pencil, and remarked, “So you’ve come to us first. A good choice—I’m sure you will enjoy us.” Henry, mean while, was buying his ticket from the other hostess—a slim, grayhaired woman in a Chanel suit.

  “I was wondering,” he said, “if the Chevy Chase Episcopal Ladies have arrived here yet?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. We have a lot of groups, you know. Caroline, have the Chevy Chase Episcopal Ladies been here?”

  “Prudence Barrington’s party?” The behatted lady beamed at Henry. “Yes, indeed. They got here just a few minutes ago. Mary is new to this job, or she’d know Mrs. Barrington. Such delightful enthusiasm. I hope y
ou’ll buy the map of the garden. Just one dollar, all proceeds to the Day Care Center. Thank you so much.”

  Henry said, “How do we get out of here?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean—everybody seems to be coming in by this gate, but nobody’s going out. I suppose there’s an exit somewhere.”

  “Right. If you follow the plan of the garden, you’ll see that it goes downhill in a series of terraces until you reach the maze. Beyond the maze, there’s an exit into the alley, which runs between 31st and 30th Streets. Don’t get lost now!” The Hostess gave Henry a brief smile of dismissal. Behind him, the Horticultural Society of Southern Alexandria was assembling in chattering impatience, tickets held high. Henry and Emmy moved away from the table and into the gardens of Maycroft House.

  It has been mentioned before that Georgetown is built on a hill, which slopes down to the River Potomac on the south, and more steeply into Rock Creek on the east. Consequently, all Georgetown gardens present interesting problems in landscaping, for there is always a sharp slope to consider. The obvious answer is terracing—which means that every garden is in fact a series of smaller gardens on different levels, giving plenty of scope for diversity, privacy and a sense of enhanced space. In a garden the size of Maycroft’s, four acres dropping steeply towards the river had been made to appear like a never-ending series of enclosed and secluded enchantments.

  At the back of the big red-brick house, a paved terrace opened onto a clipped lawn, bordered by a hedge of boxwood carved into traditional topiary shapes of pyramids, globes and peacocks. Apart from a drift of pink-and-white dogwood blossom glimpsed above this hedge, nothing more could be seen from the terraces; but a flight of steps led down through a cutting in the hedge to reveal, on a lower level, a big goldfish pool in which two rearing stone dolphins spat eternally at each other, and eternally missed. The pool was surrounded by a rose garden, and at its eastern end an archway festooned with rambler roses led to a tennis court, with a small pavilion and a fountain in the shape of a mer-horse straddled by an impudent Cupid. Each of these gardens was complete, separate and secluded. Looking at the sketch plan, Henry saw that there were no less than three succeeding levels, each lower than the last. Below the tennis court came the swimming pool, the azalea garden and the Dutch formal garden; next, the orchard, grotto and waterfall; and finally, under the shade of huge magnolia trees where few flowers would bloom, the curiosity of the boxwood maze.

  They caught up with the Chevy Chase Episcopal Ladies in the azalea garden. There were about a dozen of them, ranging from young-middle-age to sprightly senile, all neatly labeled, sensibly shod, and simmering with enthusiasm. Several of them had cornered a woman wearing a Hostess tag, and were plying her with horticultural questions which she was patently unable to answer (she was a second cousin of Mrs. Schipmaker’s, a staunch New Yorker who had needed coaching to be able to say, “These are the azaleas”). Prudence Barrington, in a khaki-colored linen suit and a big straw hat, was acting as sheepdog.

  “Come along now! Are we all here? Where’s Mrs. Merriwether . . . ? Ah, there you are, dear . . . yes, aren’t they pretty . . . Come now, Mrs. Merriwether, you mustn’t flatter me . . . well, mine may be larger, but these have more interesting colors . . . Now, ladies, please!” Prudence clapped her hands and raised her voice. “We are moving on to the orchard . . . just follow me . . . oh, fancy, Mr. Tibbett and Emmy . . . I thought you were in Tampica . . . are you enjoying yourselves? . . . This way, ladies . . . down the steps . . . forgive me if I don’t go very fast. . . touch of arthritis. . . yes, Mrs. Merriwether, I have tried it, but you can’t believe everything you see on television . . . come along, now, everybody . . .”

  Prudence maneuvered her flock through a trellis archway festooned with delicate-flowered clematis, and down a winding flight of stone steps towards the sea of blossom that was the orchard.

  Henry said to Emmy, urgently, “Join the party. Keep your eye on Prudence and make sure she stays with the others. I’m going on to the maze.”

  Before Emmy could answer, Henry was off. He had noticed another opening in the boxwood hedge, another flight of steps down, which was considerably less populated than the route which Prudence had taken. He vanished, like a rabbit down its burrow, as Emmy hurried to catch up with the Episcopal Ladies.

  The cherry blossom was past its best, but the apple and almond trees were bursting into fat pink and white buds, and the burgeoning dogwoods, interspersed with the fruit trees, made a breathtaking sight. The ladies exclaimed with delight, and showed a disposition to linger in the welcome shade—for the temperature was in the eighties. The neat phalanx dispersed, and Emmy went over to Prudence Barrington, who was explaining the finer points of fruit-tree pruning to an interested group.

  “May I join your party, Mrs. Barrington?”

  Prudence looked surprised. “Of course, dear—but where’s your good husband?”

  “He . . . he had to leave. He suggested I might finish the tour with you.”

  “Well, of course, we’ll be delighted.” Prudence clapped her hands. “Ladies, this is Mrs. Tibbett, who is joining our group.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t got a badge,” said Emmy, “but I can tell you by yours. We . . . we all keep together, don’t we?” Emmy was doing her best.

  “Nobody is compelled to keep together,” said Prudence, “but as some of our members don’t know Georgetown well, I think it’s best if we remain a single party. In a place as big as this, a newcomer can easily get lost. And since, fortunately, I know it well . . .”

  “Especially in the maze,” said Emmy, with what was intended to be a light laugh, but came out more like an hysterical giggle.

  “The maze is no problem,” said Prudence. “The way through it is clearly marked. Now, as I was saying, in the spring you should never attempt to . . .” She was off into a spate of technicalities.

  Prudence allowed her group ten minutes of relaxation under the shadow of the trees, and then summoned them to the grotto. This, on the same level as the orchard, was a triumph of man’s ability to imitate nature. A small granite cliff had been built, over which gushed a waterfall—apparently natural, but actually pumped electrically. The water fell in a rainbow-glinting cascade into a miniature lake, whence it descended in a series of terraced pools, becoming progressively tamer until at the lowest level water lilies floated and goldfish swam about their business. Finally, the water was sucked underground and pumped to the top of the cliff to begin its descent all over again.

  The whole thing was liberally scattered with stonework—pineapples and griffins, nymphs and satyrs, and a delightful pair of harpies—the heads of elegantly-coiffed eighteenth-century beauties set on crouching animal bodies with fierce claws and swishing tails.

  Prudence was not impressed by the harpies. “You will see,” she admonished her Ladies, “that they are an inferior copy of the pair we saw in the orangery at Dumbarton Oaks. Now, if you have all seen enough, we can move on to the maze. Are we all here . . . ? Mrs. Merriwether, please, we are ready to move on . . . eight, nine, ten . . . that seems to be everybody . . . if you would be kind enough to bring up the rear, Mrs. Tibbett. . . ?”

  Emmy did as she was asked. In such a compact group, and with the maze clearly signposted, it seemed unlikely that Prudence would come to any harm. If an ambush had been planned, Emmy thought, it would surely be at the Tampican Embassy. She waited until the main body of the group had disappeared through the boxwood archway and down the steps, scooped up a couple of Episcopal Ladies who had become fascinated by a rather lewd satyr, and propelled them down to the level of the maze, where she stopped dead, in surprise and alarm.

  Not that the scene was alarming. The entrance to the maze was clearly marked by a large sign, and policed by a bevy of hostesses. A bright red cord at waist level disappeared between the hedges, and a plethora of signs warned visitors Follow the red cord. DO NOT take any side turning, or you may lose yourself. None of this was surprisin
g. What alarmed Emmy was that there was no sign of Prudence. A woman whom she recognized as one of the group— an imposing figure in a magenta trouser suit—was assembling the Episcopal Ladies at the maze entrance. Emmy caught the tail end of her remarks.

  “. . . as efficient a guide as Mrs. Barrington, but I shall do my best. The maze seems to be the one place where it is impossible to get lost—but please keep to the official route, and all stay together. Then we will assemble at the rear entrance, and go on to . . .”

  Emmy pulled the sleeve of the woman standing next to her.

  “Where’s Mrs. Barrington?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know? She told us earlier that she’d be leaving us here—she has an important appointment. She’s hoping to rejoin us, either at the Tampican Embassy or at the Children’s Home for tea, but she said she couldn’t be sure. Ah, we seem to be moving off. I’ve not been in a maze before. It’s rather exciting, isn’t it?”

  Emmy hesitated in an agony of indecision. Henry had specifically told her to make sure Prudence remained with the group—but Prudence had had other ideas. There seemed little point in wandering around the maze now—the important thing was to trail Prudence. Henry had said he was going to the maze: where was he? Then Emmy realized another fact. The maze, dark and mysterious under the overshadowing magnolia trees, occupied the whole width of the garden. There was no way of getting to the back gate except through the intricate network of boxwood lanes.

  So Prudence had not evaded the maze. She had merely gone ahead on her own to keep her appointment, leaving a deputy to shepherd the slow-moving group. If Emmy wanted to follow Prudence, the red cord through the labyrinth was the only guide. Emmy made up her mind, and plunged into the maze, plowing through the mass of Episcopal Ladies blocking the narrow alleys.

  “Excuse me . . . in rather a hurry . . . so sorry . . . if you don’t mind . . .”

  Once clear of the Chevy Chase ladies, Emmy found the going easier, although still impeded by strolling visitors. She was thankful for the red cord, because she soon lost all sense of direction, and numerous alleys were opening up on either side, apparently promising to lead much more quickly and directly to the bottom of the garden.