Nathaniel Emanuel Hilditch had died on his feet on the sabbath day, as would befit a mortician. He’d found him in the preparation room, collapsed over old Mrs Dobbins from Cedar Haven Mews. He’d been dressing her remains at the time, and Bram was gratified to see that his father had just completed the disagreeable task of embalming her, thus saving him the trouble.
The day he laid out the old man was the happiest of his life. To celebrate, he’d slapped him hard across the face. My, did it feel good to finally do what he’d longed to do when his bullying dad was alive!
“Nat savoured everything,” Octavia was saying, a misty look in her eyes. She sipped the drink tearfully. “That’s what attracted me to him, you know. His equable temperament. I think it came from working with the dead. Pity some of it didn’t rub off on you, Abraham. That impatience of yours is more marked since dear Nat passed away.” She took another grateful gulp. “It’s not good for your heart – not to speak of the stress you cause me. I need peace in my life.”
Bram sighed inwardly. Every evening ended more or less on the same note. Two glasses down the line, Her Grace would play the sympathy card, make a lachrymose declaration, and round off by throwing in a little barb or two, just to remind him who was in charge.
“I’m perfectly equable, Mother. Father did his best to ruffle me. You were too busy shopping and having lunch with your friends to notice how he treated me. But that’s all in the past now. You enquired about the new tenant . . . ”
Octavia was barely listening, the effects of the gin and Dubonnet giving her a vision of her twenty-year-old self, waltzing about the Lido ballroom in the arms of the handsome Nat. The band playing “Moonlight Serenade” as they twirled around the floor beneath the glittering chandeliers. Oh, what days! Carefree and pain-free, dancing through the first few pages of the story that would become their married life together.
“. . . yes, Ruttle. She seems nice enough,” Bram was saying.
He thought Rita-Mae very nice indeed, but could not share such a view with his mother. Octavia, ever the matriarch, was very censorious when it came to other women. “Mother, are you listening to me?”
“Y-Yes, sorry. Ruffle, you say.”
“Hmm . . . Ruttle . . . with two t’s. Rita Ruttle.”
“Curious name. Is she pretty?”
“Yes, I suppose . . . in her own way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? She either is pretty or she isn’t.” Octavia, eyes shooting out rays of suspicion, was sensing a threat to her domain. She had her son down as a confirmed bachelor, had mapped out a path for him from cradle to grave. There’d be no adventuring down byroads so long as she was around. That’s the way it had always been and that’s the way it would stay.
Bram knew what she was thinking, saw the conflict play across her face, her fingers tighten on the glass. He enjoyed the tiny surge of power such a display afforded him. With his father gone, at last he had some control over his own life.
“It shouldn’t matter to you what she looks like, Mother. That’s not the important thing here. The important thing is that she’s from Larne, on the east coast. So, far enough away not to know what happened with that other—”
“Woman!”
“Exactly.”
Octavia searched her son’s face, a look of panic taking hold. “She’s not . . . she’s not the nervous type, is she? We wouldn’t want her to just disappear.”
Bram shook his head resolutely, leaned forward and fixed her with a steady look.
“No, absolutely not! She seems quite the opposite of Miss O’Meara. Very level-headed, has her feet planted firmly on the ground. Besides, she didn’t hesitate over paying the deposit, and not one but two full months in advance. And in cash. So even if she did change her mind, which I think is highly unlikely, she’d forfeit over sixty pounds . . . quite a lot, in anyone’s money. So really, Mother, there is nothing at all to worry about.”
He saw her relax a little at this news.
“You’ve told Maud not to say anything?”
“Well of course I have. Mrs Gilhooley won’t say a word. She was only too pleased that I’d rented to a respectable single lady as opposed to her biggest nightmare: a noisy young family. No, Maud would be the last one to want to scare Miss Ruttle off. You mark my words, Mother: I have everything under control. Trust me.”
Octavia sank back gratefully on the pillows and shut her eyes. “Thank heavens for that, son. Thank heavvv . . . ”
Bram was pleased to see her drift off without another word. He rose quietly, eased the glass from her fingers and studied it. Laid a gentle hand on her brow.
“There, there . . . ” he soothed, “now you have a good night’s sleep. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve got everything under control. E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g . . . ”
By the time he exited the bedroom, glass in hand, Her Grace was sound asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
Portaluce, Antrim Coast
Feeling somewhat calmer, Dorinda Walsh made her way – carefully – downstairs, and entered the dining-room of the Ocean Spray: a substantial, light-filled space, gifted with a bay window which gave on to a spectacular view of the ocean. The sky was overcast with just the faintest hint of blue seeping up from the horizon.
To the west, she saw a stately white castle jutting out on a headland of rock overlooking with lofty grace the sweep of sand and sea below. She wondered briefly about the residents of such a spectacular edifice. What good fortune to occupy such an exalted position!
The scene was soothing and a feeling of relief swept over her when she realized she was alone with this view. There were no other guests in the room. Perhaps she was the only resident? At that time of year it was likely the case. Encouraged, she relaxed a bit more and made her way to a small table by the window. It had been set for one.
Images of that bloodstained raincoat kept pushing into her thoughts. Whose blood? And how had it got there? Images of her mother, one gloved hand raised in greeting. Or was it a farewell? Was she saying a final goodbye because of some treacherous act her daughter had committed? Dear Lord! Dorrie’s heart sank.
Maybe she should just run out of the Ocean Spray. Right this minute. Not wait for explanations from whoever owned this lovely place. The urge to flee was strong. But leaving without paying her bill would mean ending up in a police cell, or worse. She wanted to weep. But breaking down in a public place must be fought against at all costs.
Concentrate on this, she urged herself. The present. The here and now. It’s the only way to stop the bad thoughts intruding.
She placed her handbag on the floor, folded her hands in her lap and looked about her.
The room’s interior had an aquatic theme: muted greens and blues with pictures of shells and marine life on the walls. Potted palms stood in corners. Along the rear wall: a large aquarium glinting with tropical fish probing for their freedom through the glass. Whoever owned the Ocean Spray had good taste, and the money to exploit it with enthusiasm. Her mother would have approved.
She switched her focus to beyond the window: waves pulling their lacy borders over the sand, gulls wheeling like scrunched paper on the breeze, people in their Sunday best making their way to church. The bells a beautiful refrain now, far from the clamorous tumult that had forced her awake.
There were cars parked end to end beside the promenade and, as she watched, a black saloon pulled into a vacant spot and a man emerged. He was rail-thin, dressed in a dark suit and an elegant trilby hat. He carried an air of restiveness, as if to say: I have more important things to be doing than wasting time going through this church-business charade every week.
He opened the rear door briskly and a little girl of about six clambered out. He didn’t bother to help her, just stood staring down as she negotiated the challenging step from car to kerb, her tiny legs tested by the steep descent.
Dorrie’s heart went out to the little one. She was dressed in a bright green coat and clutching a prayer book. She could sen
se the child’s fear under the lash of the father’s impatience. She blinked away a tear, hoping the girl had a more caring mother, but there was no mother to be seen.
The father locked the car and strode ahead, forcing the daughter to run after him. He’s always been a bully, Dorrie thought. Has always had women running after him. Always had his own way.
In that moment she hated him – a man she’d probably never get to meet.
Her breathing quickened at the injustice. She wanted to run out and snatch the little girl away from him. Save her. Set her on another life path, where dour men posing as fathers did not exist. She dug her nails into her palms under the protective fall of the tablecloth. Felt powerless that she couldn’t give life to the fantasy.
Then: “What is it you’ll be wantin’, ma’am?”
She flinched. The vision broke, and turning she saw that a young woman was standing close by. How long she’d been there, she’d no idea. She looked like a throwback to Edwardian times, dressed as she was in a black frock and white apron. Dorrie recognized the voice. At last, a familiar link in this strange place. It was the voice that had spoken through her bedroom door earlier.
“Sorry, I . . . ?”
“Breakfast, ma’am. Do you want the full fry?”
The word “fry” made her stomach lurch. She shook her head. “No . . . no, thank you.”
“Tea and toast then, ma’am?”
“Yes, tea . . . strong . . . th-that would be lovely. Thank you.”
The waitress smiled nervously. Turned to go.
“Sorry . . . ”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“What’s your name?”
“Maureen, ma’am.”
“Maureen. Last night when I . . . when I checked in, were you—”
“Maureen, stop dawdling!” A voice from nowhere. “You’ve got work to do.”
Without another word, the waitress scurried off obediently. An elegant, statuesque woman was advancing across the room. Mid-seventies, Dorrie guessed. Expensively attired in a tailored suit and patent courts, she exuded an air of entitlement founded on serendipitous groundwork and canny decisions made.
The reluctant guest was at once afraid. Her stomach clenched like a fist. This must be the “proprietress”. This woman would have witnessed her derangement. Would have removed her clothes. Put her to bed. She could barely meet her eye. How was she going to explain herself?
“Millman . . . Mrs Gladys Millman,” the woman announced, a cloud of scent preceding her, strong and cloying. She held out a hand. “We met last night. I trust you had a comfortable night?”
Dorrie, on the verge of tears, felt humiliated. She made an effort to rise.
“Oh please, sit.”
“Yes . . . I’m sorry, I . . . ” She struggled to explain herself. But the words died. There was no explanation. Her mind was a blank. In her distress she reached into her handbag, found a handkerchief and broke down. There was very little else she could do.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” she heard Mrs Millman say. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Dorrie gazed down at the table, the starched white napkin in its silver ring, the cutlery and delicate china fogging and blurring through her tears. How had she come to this? With no memory of who she was except for her name and the dreamlike vision of a woman she knew to be her dead mother. And this lady, this stranger, now drawing up a chair, would she fill in the blanks of her story? A story that had started God-knows-where and brought her to this seaside town, into a room with the number 5 on a brass plate on the door.
“It’s just that, I . . . ”
“Never mind, dear. Here’s Maureen with the tea. We’ll get you a nice strong cup and you can tell me all about it.”
Dorrie dabbed at her eyes. Tell her all about what? She focused on Gladys Millman’s hands as they fluttered over the tea things. Nails perfectly manicured, diamond rings aglitter, a gate bracelet clinking on the left wrist.
“Maureen dear, my cigarettes. And we’ll need a cosy for the pot. I’m sure Miss . . . or is it Mrs? Sorry, I . . . ”
The waitress scuttled off again.
Dorrie was forced to look up. She met eyes of vivid blue. Mrs Millman had once been beautiful and was still winning the war on ageing with the help of expertly applied make-up. Her bronze hair, swept into a chignon and held in place by a diamanté clip, lent her a regal air; a dowager came to mind. Dorrie at once felt intimidated and small.
“Miss,” she said weakly, sensing that the admission was a black mark against her. “Miss Dorinda Walsh.”
“Of course, Miss Walsh . . . Dorinda. Sugar?” A set of tiny tongs hovered over the sugar bowl; pencilled eyebrows were raised.
Dorrie shook her head. Guided the cup to her lips with both hands, willing them to remain steady.
Gladys Millman watched her keenly. “A little toast perhaps?”
She shook her head.
“Are you quite sure? Toast settles the stomach, don’t you know.”
Why was she referring to her stomach? Oh God, the implication was clear. Miss Walsh, you were pathetically drunk last night, therefore you must have an upset stomach.
“N-N-No, thank you. I’m sorry, Mrs Millman . . . about last night. I—”
“Oh, there’s no need to apologize. Cars break down all the time.”
What was she saying? She’d come by car? Well, of course she must have done. She felt a real need to tread carefully. Perhaps if she said very little, Gladys Millman would help untangle the events of the previous night by dropping enough clues to explain the drama.
“My car?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember?”
Dorrie looked away. The bloodstained raincoat was blocking out the vision of the beautiful view beyond the window. She was facing into the horror of things unknown. Could easily have been standing in the dock waiting for a judge to pass sentence.
“But of course you were distressed at having broken down,” Mrs Millman continued, “so I’m not surprised your recall is hazy. It was fortunate it happened so close to the Ocean Spray. Also fortunate that I had not already retired when you rang the bell. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” She drew a cigarette as long as a pencil from a silver case and lit up. “Sorry, do you want one?”
“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“Now, where was I?”
“My car. I—”
“Yes, cars. Such tedious things. Even when new they’re not dependable. Rather like men, don’t you think?” She gave a little laugh, tapped the cigarette in a tiny crystal ashtray. “Teddy Sinclair is a very dependable mechanic. I can vouch for that. Not that my Mercedes gives much trouble, mind you.” She shifted her gaze out of the window, raised the cup to her lips.
“Mrs Millman?”
“Yes?”
“When will it be ready d’you think . . . the car?”
“Well, that’s the thing, Miss Walsh. Teddy doesn’t work on the Lord’s Day.” She drew leisurely on the cigarette and eyed her victim through a plume of smoke. “A dedicated Methodist. You know what they’re like.”
The guest tried to hide her disappointment at this news. She’d be stuck here another night, and, given the look of the place, how on earth would she pay for the privilege?
“Not to worry. Another night in my little palace is not so bad now, is it?”
“Oh, no, not at all. It’s . . . it’s . . . beautiful here. Really nice! It’s just that I’ve no overnight bag and—”
The proprietor waved a hand. “That’s easily remedied. In the drawer of your bureau there is a toilet bag with all the necessary effects. I make sure that each guest has one. We do things differently here at the Ocean Spray. I keep night-attire as well, just in case a guest might have forgotten to pack theirs. Often people” – she wrinkled her nose derisively – “most especially rural folk, fail to bring the most basic items with them. One would think they were raised in fields as opposed to houses.”
“Thank you for the nightdress
,” Dorrie said, feeling she had to make some kind of contribution to Mrs Millman’s monologue. “It’s very kind of you to think of such things.”
Gladys flashed a pearly smile. “Oh, think nothing of it, my dear. I’m sorry it was a bit on the big side, you being such a slender little thing. But I’m sure it served its purpose. More tea?”
“Very well. Thank you, yes.”
Dorrie allowed herself to relax a little. From the way Gladys Millman was acting it seemed nothing untoward had really happened. She’d had a mishap with the car. Booked herself into the nearest guesthouse, which happened to be the Ocean Spray. Mrs Millman had checked her in and provided her with a nightdress, because, quite naturally, she didn’t have an overnight bag. Once in the room, she’d drunk some whiskey to calm herself. Too tired to remove her underwear, she’d simply pulled on the ghastly yellow garment and collapsed into bed.
The phone rang. Mrs Millman crushed out the cigarette and stood up.
“Excuse me, dear. Back in a mo. Help yourself to more tea, won’t you.”
Dorrie watched her scissor across the room, head held high, and breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly she dived into the handbag, hoping she’d have enough money to pay for this unexpected seaside break.
She found her purse. But there were only a few pieces of change. What would she do now? Oh, the embarrassment of not being able to pay the lovely Mrs Millman, who’d been so kind! In desperation she dug deeper into the bag. She saw to her delight that there was another purse: a black leather one. But wait, it wasn’t exactly a purse. It was a wallet.
A man’s wallet.
Fear gripped her again. What was she doing with a man’s wallet? There were no men in her life.
She looked up nervously to check that the coast was clear. Mrs Millman, out in reception now, could still be heard, all tinkling laughter and exclamatory asides. Maureen was nowhere to be seen.
Under cover of the tablecloth, she cautiously opened the wallet. It was worn and shabby with some stitching undone. To her utter surprise she found it to be stuffed with cash; a thick wad of ten-pound notes fanned under her fingertips. Easily £100 in total, although she’d no desire to count it at that moment.
The Spinster Wife Page 4
