The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  How on earth had she come by that? She felt tears pricking her eyes. That familiar feeling of shame and helplessness was enveloping her again. Had she stolen it?

  From reception came a jaunty “Bye now!” followed by the receiver being clunked back down. The staccato clacking of heels across hardwood meant the proprietor was returning.

  Dorrie stuffed the wallet back in her handbag. At least she’d be able to pay her way, but . . . but who would actually be footing the bill?

  That question, as with the mystery of the bloodstained raincoat, needed answering, but she wasn’t sure whether she really wanted to know.

  Don’t you be brooding, Dorrie, came her mother’s voice again. I’ll see to everything. You just smile and go with the flow, my dear.

  “Yes, Mama, I will . . . pretend everything’s, yes . . . all right. Yes, I’ll go with the flow.”

  “Excuse me?” A polite cough. “Are you sure you’re all right? You appeared to be talking to yourself just now.”

  Dorrie reddened and stood up. How come she hadn’t heard her approach?

  “Sorry, I . . . Yes . . . no, I think I’ve a headache coming on.”

  “Would you like a painkiller?”

  “N-No, thank you . . . I just need the bathroom.”

  “You poor thing,” she heard the proprietor say as she hurried from the breakfast-room, clutching tight the handbag that would surely get her out of this mess and away.

  But away where? She did not know where she’d come from; she did not know where she was bound.

  Face it, Dorrie, she told herself, you barely even know who you are.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The butterfly display case looked perfect again. No one could have guessed it had been dismantled and put back together over the course of an hour of painstaking labour.

  Rita-Mae had delayed assembling it, unable to trust her fingers with the delicate operation. What if the tiny wings fell apart? That would be a disaster. But in the early hours she hit upon an idea. She’d use tweezers to affix it.

  It proved to be the perfect solution.

  Paying excessive attention to detail was one of many disciplines she imposed upon herself. Living under Harry’s cruel reign had heightened such quirks to an insane degree. Everything in the house in Larne – his house – had to be absolutely the way he decreed: curtains drawn back precisely eighteen inches either side of each window, stairs climbed and descended left and right, never in the middle (to save wear on the carpet), his tea mug set down exactly six inches from his food plate. Even in her new circumstances Rita-Mae still clung to these same ritualistic habits. They’d become ingrained. Fifteen years of servitude and conditioning were hard to shift. In fact she could not remember it having been any other way. She’d learned early on that it was safer to comply than rebel.

  She stood now on the bottom tread of the stairs, gazing up at the butterflies, back on the wall in their proper place. Then, with eyes steady on the target, she mounted the stairs slowly, magnifying glass in hand. This, she told herself, is exactly what Bram Hilditch will be doing in a couple of hours’ time: climbing the stairs to the bathroom to mend that dripping tap. There was every chance he’d halt on this very spot and check on his “lovelies”, just as he’d done on that first day when showing her around.

  She peered closely at the painted lady, its lovely speckled wings of orange and red shimmering like silk under the magnifying glass. Its reattachment to the board had demanded the most delicate touch. The slightest damage to the wings would have been a disaster. He would not have failed to notice. It had not taken her long to decide that her new landlord shared the obsession that had soured her marriage to Harry: an almost fanatical attention to detail.

  She’d had to call upon quite a bit of courage to push that tiny pin through the thorax again. But the poor creature was long dead, which was of some consolation. She did not want to think about how it had met its death or why the landlord chose to use butterflies as wall art. The item had been repaired and that was the important thing.

  Yes, she was pleased. He’d never know his trophy case had been tampered with.

  But the accident had revealed something that had lain hidden, and Rita-Mae had been saving that something until she’d righted the wrong.

  She went into the bedroom and took the letter from the top drawer of the bureau where she’d stowed it the night before.

  It measured about six inches by four and its thickness suggested there were several pages inside. She gazed again at the mysterious declaration.

  The Truth I Could Not Tell.

  Vivian-Bernadette O’meara

  She’d given it no more than a cursory look before putting it away. A mystery was for delving into with proper care and attention. Mystery-solving should never be rushed. She turned the envelope over to study more carefully the image of the Celtic cross. It took up most of the back. At first she assumed it to be an illustration cut from a magazine, but scrutinizing it through the glass she saw that it was actually hand-painted. Each twist and turn of the intricate design lovingly executed. The mysterious Vivian-Bernadette was quite the artist.

  And there was something else, something she hadn’t noticed before.

  On either side of the upright, in tiny lettering, were the words:

  I must follow in the footsteps of Catherine of Siena.

  Catherine of Siena? Who might she be? A saint perhaps? Well, she’d soon find out if she opened it.

  But . . .

  What to do? She sat down. Should she give it to the landlord? It was his house after all, so by rights it was his property. But she could hardly tell him where she’d found it, now could she?

  Perhaps she could lie; say she’d found it behind a drawer in the bureau. No, the bureau was new, like everything else in the house. She had to be careful. Bram Hilditch was no fool. His exacting eye and diligent hand had seen to every last facet and feature of the house.

  No, she could not risk telling him the truth. But maybe . . . just maybe I was meant to find it, she thought. Words from an old schoolteacher came back to her: Nothing in this life happens by accident, Rita. Everything is meant to be. So, looking at it that way, she was meant to bump into the butterfly case, it was meant to fall, she was meant to open it and make this discovery.

  She studied the neat handwriting once more: Vivian-Bernadette O’Meara. What secrets are in here, Vivian? And do you want me to know them?

  No sooner were the words out than the doorbell rang.

  Flustered, she stuffed the mysterious envelope back in the drawer and went downstairs.

  Bram Hilditch stood on the doorstep in a boiler suit, a large hold-all in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Ruttle. I know I said two o’clock—”

  “N-No, that’s all right . . . ” she lied, trying to hide her agitation. “Come in. Come in, won’t you.”

  “It’s Her Grace, I’m afraid. Her hairdresser in town has taken poorly.” He flushed slightly. “So she thought she’d visit a friend in the vicinity rather than have the outing wasted altogether. She’s not especially fond of car journeys I’m afraid. Not even short ones. So we’re killing two birds with one stone, you might say.”

  She could see he was genuinely discomfited.

  “Oh, that’s all right!” she said breezily. “Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea before you start?”

  Bram smiled and inclined his head in the manner of a flunkey before his mistress. “That’s very gracious of you, Miss Ruttle, but I will save that lovely treat for after this little operation. Best to get the work out of the way first.” He held out the paper bag. “Some date-and-almond scones . . . Her Grace made them. She’s an excellent cook.”

  “Th-That’s very kind. Thank you.”

  “Never visit anyone without bringing an offering. It’s one of her little dictums. Mine too, I might add.”

  “R-Right . . . but you really shouldn’t have. I’ll put the kettle on.”

 
“Excellent! I won’t be long.”

  He mounted the stairs and she remained standing on the same spot, keeping a tally of his treads until he reached the top: twelve in total. Sure enough, on the landing he halted to examine his “lovelies”.

  She held her breath, her eye on the wall clock registering the seconds. At the count of seven he moved again.

  All was well. Had he noticed anything amiss, he’d have lingered longer. She waited to hear him open the bathroom door, but to her consternation he did not. His footsteps carried on down the corridor and halted.

  He was outside her bedroom. She was certain of it.

  Sure enough, she heard the door of the bedroom click open. She knew that sound by now.

  What on earth was he doing?

  She thought of the envelope in the top drawer.

  Perturbed, she climbed the stairs as quietly as she could. Found him in the corridor, staring into the bedroom.

  “Do you take sugar?”

  He turned, startled, hand on chest.

  “Oh, dear me! You gave me a fright there, Miss Ruttle. Didn’t hear you. Yes . . . yes, indeed. Just noticed the carpet a bit puckered here.” He indicated a spot outside the door. “I’ll see to that too . . . now that I’m here.”

  Was he lying? Was it merely a ruse to enter her room? And if so, why? She gripped the banister hard, holding herself in check.

  There was an awkward pause.

  “I’m sorry, I had to open your door to take a better look,” he said, reading her mind. “That was remiss of me. I should have asked your permission first.”

  “Th-That’s all right.” She was taken aback by his show of courtesy. “The carpet you say? I . . . I didn’t notice anything amiss.”

  “No, it’s a bit dim in this corridor when all the doors are shut . . . that’s, er . . . why I needed to open your bedroom door. Do you always do that?”

  “Eh, sorry . . . do what?”

  “Shut all the doors up here.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d keep them open if I were you. All the better to see where you’re going. We wouldn’t want you to have a nasty fall, now would we?”

  The words “nasty fall” and “we” made her feel queasy.

  He’s playing games with me, she thought. Just like Harry. He’s challenging me because he knows I don’t believe him. If I go and check this pucker he’ll know I don’t trust him. And what if there is one and he’s right? How will I look then? How will I feel?

  All the questions she needed to ask hitting her at once, goading her on to take a stand but then, as ever, backing down, slipping from her, leaving her voiceless. Leaving her powerless.

  “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps. I’ll try to keep that in mind in future.”

  “Good. Better safe than sorry I always say.”

  “Indeed.”

  Reluctantly she left him to it. Going back downstairs again she dwelt on the words Better safe than sorry.

  Harry used to say that too. Somehow it had just taken on a new shade of meaning.

  It took the landlord thirteen minutes and eight seconds to complete the work. She timed him as she quietly laid the table, ears alert for any trespassing in the bedroom. It lay directly above the lounge so she would have known immediately; the creaking ceiling would have betrayed him.

  When he finally came downstairs she felt certain that he hadn’t been in there.

  “Splendid!” he enthused, casting an eye over the beautifully laid table. He’d removed his boiler suit to reveal a white shirt and green trousers. He’d even changed his shoes. “May I?” He pulled out a chair and settled himself. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble on my account.”

  She took the chair opposite and proceeded to pour.

  “It’s no trouble at all, Mr Hilditch. I always make tea around eleven.”

  She sensed that he was about to insist on “Bram” but kept her eyes fixed on the stream of tea filling the cup. The formal “Mister” was safer all round, creating a divide between them that kept her out of his reach. No man would ever be allowed to bridge that divide. It would never happen again. Not if she had any say in the matter.

  The tactic worked. He backed off. “Yes . . . well, how lovely all this is!” He stirred in one sugar but didn’t touch the milk jug, selected a scone and placed it daintily on his side plate. “Nothing too serious, only a loose washer. The carpet outside your bedroom just required a couple of tacks to make it more secure. The sloppy work of the carpet-fitter I fear. It was remiss of me not to have noticed it sooner.”

  “I hadn’t noticed a thing.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t with all those doors shut up there.”

  She wanted to say: I feel safer with all the doors shut. You don’t know how many times a shut door saved my life, Mr Hilditch. But how could you know that?

  “And how are you finding things generally in Willow Close? Settling in all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m very comfortable here.”

  “I’m so pleased! Doesn’t do to have a house vacant for too long . . . dampness and burglars always being a cause for concern.” He applied himself to buttering the scone.

  She watched him with interest. He’d surprisingly elegant hands for his stature, the fingers tapered and conical like those of a praying saint. She thought briefly of Harry’s – square and rough, the spatula-like fingers all the better to squeeze the life out of her. Saw him take her roughly by the chin, thrust her head back against the wall. She flinched. Raised a hand to her throat. Hastily withdrew it again.

  “. . . and that’s good to know,” Bram was saying. “Change is difficult for a lot of people . . . and I’m no exception.” He reached for the dish of preserves. “Well, given the family business, I had little choice in the matter other than to stay put. You have family still in Larne, Miss Ruttle?”

  He’d caught her off guard.

  “Er . . . hmm, yes. Some.”

  “No doubt they’ll be coming to visit you?”

  “Perhaps . . . Did you find it difficult to rent this house then?” She had the question out before she could stop herself.

  He stopped chewing, his expression quizzical. There was the tiniest of pauses. “Difficult to rent? No, why do you say that?”

  “It’s just that you mentioned having to redo it from scratch. I was thinking the tenants before me weren’t very . . . well, tidy . . . didn’t perhaps take care of things as they should have.”

  He gazed out of the window. “Ah . . . yes, well you know how it is. Appearances can be deceptive. Aren’t you having a scone? Her Grace will want to know your opinion.”

  Why was he changing the subject? No, she did not want a scone, but it would be rude to refuse. She took one and broke it into tiny pieces. She never ate anything she hadn’t prepared herself. Yet another rule she dared not break.

  “And what do you do for a living, Miss Ruttle? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I’m a . . . ” She very nearly said housewife. “. . . a hairdresser.”

  “Really!” He paused, reflecting on something. “That’s very interesting. Yes, indeed. You see, if you’re looking for a job I’m sure Susan would be glad of you to fill in.”

  “Susan?”

  “Yes, she runs the Get Ahead hairdresser’s in Killoran. The one my mother goes to. One of her employees has fallen ill, I believe.”

  She’d never thought about getting a job. She’d rented the house for three months and had just enough money, if she were prudent, to carry her through that period. She couldn’t bear to think what would happen after that. But now the landlord was proposing something that would ease her financial situation a little. She had to be careful though. The less the locals knew about her, the better.

  “If she’s in need then I’d be only too willing to help her out,” she said, placing a morsel of scone in her mouth to appear mannerly.

  “Excellent! Susan will be pleased.” He reached into a pocket and drew out a small notepad. “I’ll give y
ou the telephone number. I know it by heart since I make Mother’s appointments. She loathes the telephone too I’m afraid. Disembodied voices upset her.”

  She saw him eye her diced scone and felt the need to distract him immediately. Her Samaritan skills came to the fore. Ask open-ended questions that require more thought and explanation than the simple “yes” or “no” of the closed type.

  “Which part of the funeral business did you consider the most important, Mr Hilditch?”

  She could see that the question took him aback. “Oh dear, let me think . . . ” He slid the phone number across the table, recapped his fountain-pen and returned it to his pocket. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. I’ve never had tea with someone in your profession before.”

  “Well, for a start I’ve always had an interest in photography. Portraiture mostly. So the faces of the dead held – and indeed still hold – a certain fascination for me . . . ”

  She tried to hide her shock, took another sip of tea, sat more rigidly in the chair.

  “That fascination came into its own when I was preparing the deceased’s faces. Given our tradition of having an open coffin at the wake, you see, the last image of a loved one is the one they’ll take away, so the job is a rather delicate one.” He smiled. “Plus the fact that I rather pride myself on my memorial photography.”

  “Memori . . . ?”

  “Memorial portraiture. Sometimes called post-mortem portraiture. In short: portraits of the dead.”

  He saw her look of horror. His face took on an earnestness. He leaned forward.

  “Yes, I know, Miss Ruttle. You’re reacting the way most people react when I tell them that. But there’s really nothing to be frightened of. Nothing at all.”

  She had difficulty preventing herself choking on the piece of scone. Without a word he reached into a pocket of his green trousers and took out a wallet. She saw him thumb its compartments. He passed across a photograph.

  “As they say in the film business, show don’t tell. Meet my late father, Miss Ruttle.”