The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  With great reluctance, and trying to keep her hand from trembling, she took the picture from him. It was a close-up of an elderly gentleman with a cadaverous face, a rictus grin, eyes just two black slits and hair awry. In short: an image from your worst nightmare.

  “I took that not long after he’d passed. Not very pleasant to look at, is it? Now . . . have a look at this one.”

  He handed her a second picture.

  She was deeply regretting having asked him about his former profession. But it would’ve been rude to show just how revolted she really was. Her duty was to feign interest and be respectful.

  She forced herself to look at the second picture. Was surprised to see an altogether more acceptable image. The same visage now sported a pair of ruddy cheeks, eyes and mouth thankfully shut. Hair slicked across the forehead, much in the manner of the man who sat across from her.

  “Oh . . . I see. This is your father but . . . ”

  Bram nodded. “Yes, indeed. Nathaniel Emanuel Hilditch after I’d brought him back to life – in a manner of speaking.”

  “So how did you manage that?” She felt moved to pose the question, not at all wanting to hear the answer.

  “Well, firstly some judicious padding of the cheeks with cotton wool to achieve that fuller look. Then stitching the mouth shut . . . from the inside of course. I stitch the eyelids too, but not before inserting plastic half-moons under the lids to help them hold their shape. The eyeballs fall to the back, you see, so we have to be creative in that area. In essence, bring the face back to how it was in life. That’s the difficult part, retaining the likeness. After that it’s just a matter of washing the hair and applying make-up. I found Max Factor Ivory Beige gave the most realistic hue, and a little blusher, most especially for the ladies, just to bring back that nice bloom to the cheeks.”

  She was relieved to see him returning the snapshots to the wallet.

  “Y-You make it sound all so . . . all so matter of fact.”

  He smiled. Lifted his teacup. “Well, I grew up surrounded by dead bodies. Never knew anything else. So death doesn’t frighten me like it would the average person.” He leaned back in the chair, glanced briefly at the ceiling. “It’s the living we should fear more than the dead.”

  He was more perceptive than she was allowing for. She saw the name Vivian-Bernadette O’Meara written neatly on a brown envelope. Was that last statement connected with her? Had they been lovers? Had he spurned her? Was that why she’d concealed the envelope inside one of his prized possessions? Was it her suicide note, written before she’d taken her own life in the bedroom above? Was that why he’d glanced towards the ceiling? Was that why he’d opened the door and stood on the threshold gazing in?

  He sat staring at the butter dish, seemingly lost in thought.

  “Your mother bakes a lovely scone,” she said, pulling him out of his reverie.

  He smiled, his face lighting up with the compliment. She was almost prepared to ignore his eccentricities.

  Almost.

  “It’s kind of you to say so,” he said. “I shall tell her that. She’ll be pleased.” He pushed back his chair, checked his watch. “Now that you mention her, I really must be going. Time and tide wait for no man. Thank you for the tea, Miss Ruttle. We’ll meet soon again no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  “And remember: anything you need, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Oh . . . y-yes, there’s . . . ”

  He paused. “Yes, Miss Ruttle?”

  “Now that you say it, there is just one thing. The drains.”

  “Drains?” He looked at her quizzically, causing her to avert her eyes. Her gaze shifted to the floor above – by chance rather than design. He followed her gaze.

  “Yes,” she said. “The, eh . . . the smell. It’s strongest in the box-room. I was wondering . . . didn’t you say you’d try and get on to the council again?”

  He flushed visibly. “Oh, hasn’t anyone been?”

  “No . . . no one called.”

  Then: “But you don’t need to use that room much, do you?” He got up and crossed to the door. “I’ll get on to them right away. Sorry about that. You can’t depend on people these days.”

  “Thank you, Mr Hilditch. Well, bye now.”

  Having shown him out, she went at once to the kitchen bin and disposed of the rest of the scones. She felt bad about doing it, but it was the only way to be safe.

  Back in the lounge, she heard voices coming from next door. Mrs Gilhooley had a visitor, and that visitor sounded as though she was taking her leave.

  Odd.

  In Rita-Mae’s brief experience her neighbour rarely had callers. Intrigued now, she took up position behind the curtain.

  Into view came an elderly lady wearing a bright red hat and a garish, ankle-skimming kaftan. As the woman moved down the path, Rita-Mae was surprised to see Bram Hilditch escorting her. Mrs Gilhooley tottered in their wake, chatting all the while.

  So “Her Grace” had been right next door all the time. Funny he hadn’t been more specific.

  The trio halted at a car – a flashy red Daimler – and turned as one to look towards her window.

  They were discussing her, obviously.

  She ducked further behind the curtain and waited until the car moved off.

  So there was more to Bram Hilditch and his mother than met the eye. And there was more to this house than he was disclosing. How come the rent was so low? Mrs Gilhooley was in on the wheeze also. What was going on?

  She thought again of the mysterious envelope. Now more than ever she needed to open it.

  She climbed the stairs, conscious of the butterfly case and the box-room, and the faint odour seeping out from under its shut door.

  She shivered slightly. Promised herself she would not go into that room. There was something not right about it, with its ominous trunk and the weird ferret that seemed so real it looked poised to attack her.

  Maybe that’s why the landlord had placed it there on the window-sill: to frighten her, to repel her.

  I’ll find another place to store the vacuum cleaner, she told herself, as she entered the bedroom and crossed to the bureau.

  She slid open the drawer.

  And was immediately pulled up short.

  Vivian-Bernadette’s letter was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Lord in heaven, that Maud Gilhooley can be insufferably tedious! Why on earth did you leave me in her company so long?”

  Her Grace, seated in the back of the speeding Daimler – the Queen Mother never sat up front, after all – was holding forth as Bram drove home.

  “Well, it was your suggestion to visit Maud, not mine,” he said, slowing for a stop sign.

  “That’s hardly the point. You should have rescued me earlier. Fixing a tap takes ten minutes at most, not three-quarters of an hour. What on earth were you doing in there?”

  Bram sighed. Waited for a car to pass. “Miss Ruttle very kindly offered me tea. It would have been rude to refuse. And you were the one who gave me the scones for her, remember? So naturally such a gift prompted the offer of a collation.”

  “Collation indeed! You simply wanted to be in her company. Don’t think I can’t read between the lines. You didn’t want me to meet her either. Why was that?”

  “There is no need to be querulous, Mother. You might have scared her off. She’s quite reserved, from what I’ve seen. You really aren’t aware of how you come across sometimes.”

  The passenger headrest received an almighty slap. “How dare you talk to me like that, Abraham Hilditch? Querulous, indeed! If it wasn’t for my training you’d still have the manners of a Congolese pygmy. I was the one who instilled good breeding in you and your brother, and don’t you forget it. Dear Nat never knew proper etiquette until we met, God rest his soul.”

  Bram knew he’d gone too far. He slowed for a sharp bend. “Oh, fair enough, I spoke out of turn. I apologize, but we want Miss Ruttle to remain in the ho
use, don’t we? So we mustn’t impose ourselves on her too much. Better that she stays put and helps pay off the mortgage than have it come out of your own pocket, is it not?”

  He eyed her in the rear-view mirror. She sat with head turned away, hat feather aquiver, staring out of the window. From experience he knew that this petulant fit could last well into the evening. There was one sure way to leaven things though. Instead of making his usual left turn at the upcoming junction he turned right. The familiar sign for the Royal Hotel hove into view.

  “Fancy luncheon at the Royal?”

  “Now, that’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all morning!” She patted his shoulder. “Luncheon would be splendid. I’ll redo my lipstick just in case I run into someone important. Major Holloway usually dines in the Oak Room. Such a gentleman, the Major.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were installed at their favourite table in the hotel’s restaurant. Lunch had been ordered, and Octavia, sipping from a large glass of Chablis, was in much better form. Bram was relieved to see that there was only a scattering of customers, it being early in the lunch slot. His mother could become quite loud the more she imbibed and he hoped they’d be finished and long gone before the rush started.

  “You did impress upon Maud the importance of remaining tight-lipped?” he said now, picking up on their conversation in the car. He reached for his glass of Evian.

  “Well of course I did. That was the object of the exercise after all. I certainly would not go seeking out Maud Gilhooley’s company through choice. She insisted I take tea from a ghastly Pyrex mug and talked non-stop about her bladder complications. A singularly distasteful topic at the best of times. The Lord only knows why she felt such a subject would interest me.”

  “Well, maybe she thought you might have similar experiences, being around the same age.”

  “There’s no need to be coarse.”

  “I’m not being coarse. So, how does she find her new neighbour?”

  “Isn’t that Mr Barclay-Brown over there? The solicitor.” Octavia rearranged her silk scarf, adjusted her hat.

  Bram, irked, did not bother to look round. “Hardly, Mother. We buried him last year. You really should wear your glasses. Now, you were saying . . . ”

  “Did we?”

  “We did. Coffin: solid oak with Last Supper decoration, brass fittings, crêpe lining and three-tier raised lid. Most expensive we stocked: fifteen hundred pounds. You got a Tiffany necklace and matching ear-studs out of the profits, so you’re either seeing a ghost, a relative of his, or that wine is going to your head already. Most likely the latter.”

  Octavia pulled a face and took another defiant swig of Chablis.

  “Now, what else did Maud say about Miss Ruttle?”

  “Keeps herself to herself, which in my book is code for someone who either has no social skills or has something to hide.”

  He let out a laugh.

  The food arrived. Chicken Kiev for Her Grace, a filet mignon for Bram.

  Octavia leaned across the table, the outsized feather from the bucket hat nearly brushing his eye. He ducked out of its way, making pointing motions with his fork.

  “Do you have to wear that thing while we’re eating, Mother?”

  “It’s not a thing,” she said a little too loudly. He saw the waitress look their way. She was making a spectacle of herself again. “It’s a Christian Dior classic with a rare Astrapia feather. Not that you would recognize quality, even if it stood on its hind legs and sang ‘God Save the Queen’. And of course I must wear it, most especially since I haven’t had my hair done. Now, where was I before you so rudely interrupted me?”

  “You were accusing Miss Ruttle of having no social skills or—”

  “Hiding something, yes. Well, how would you know she wasn’t? She could be an IRA bomber, given the times we live in. One of those sleepers, I believe they’re called. Sent in to reconnoitre the locale. Killoran is a mixed community after all.”

  “You have a very vivid imagination,” Bram said, his attention on his filet mignon. “Those novels of yours are giving you a specious view of society, if not reality itself.”

  “Nonsense!” Octavia dropped her voice. “Who in their wildest dreams would have thought that O’Meara woman could’ve behaved as she did, bringing the house into disrepute?”

  If only Her Grace knew the real story behind Miss O’Meara, thought Bram. But he would not be telling her that. Not ever.

  “She looked like she belonged in a convent,” the mother continued. “And that aunt who delivered her to us . . . just a ruff and cloak away from Mary Maker Ready, or whatever on earth she was called—”

  “Mary Baker Eddy.”

  “Yes, that one . . . Straight out of the eighteen fifties—”

  “Well, Miss Ruttle is not a religious freak, if that’s what you’re implying. I didn’t see a crucifix or statuette about the place. There’s nothing sinister about her. And she is certainly not in the IRA. I’ve spoken with her twice, so have more to go on than either you or Maud Gilhooley.”

  Octavia set her cutlery down and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. She leaned across again, holding the feather out of harm’s way.

  “If that’s the case, why did she leave the house last Saturday night around ten and not return until seven the next morning? Out the entire night.”

  Bram glanced quickly about him and frowned. “Maud said that?”

  “Yes, she was quite adamant with regard to the time. Like your father – God rest him – she’s not the best sleeper and so hears a lot through that dividing wall. Always opening and closing doors at all hours . . . what’s that all about, one wonders.”

  Well, he knew Maud Gilhooley was correct on that score. He recalled all doors on the landing being shut when he went upstairs.

  “So she’s up to something,” Octavia declared, a bit too loudly. “She wouldn’t be a prostitute, would she?”

  A woman at a nearby table wearing too much make-up and a low-cut top stopped eating and glared at her. The gentleman sitting across from her turned in his chair with an audible creak and said rather loudly, “Honestly, some people!”

  Bram grimaced. “Don’t be preposterous, Mother! And keep your voice down, for pity’s sake. That lady over there thought you were referring to her!”

  “You’re eating too fast,” she shot back, reaching for the wine again. “You’ll get indigestion.”

  “And you’re drinking too fast. We don’t have a train to catch. Accusing a woman you’ve never met of being a . . . a . . . ” – he couldn’t bring himself to say the word – “is simply ludicrous.”

  “But how would you know? What could possibly take her out on a Saturday night, all night? Maud Gilhooley thought as much herself.”

  “Oh, she would. Gossips like her always think the worst! She could have a boyfriend. Haven’t you thought of that?”

  “That’s a disgusting idea . . . spending the night with a man, and her a spinster.”

  “Less disgusting than your . . . your ‘lady of the night’ idea? I don’t think so.”

  “If that’s the case, why does Maud not see this boyfriend visiting her? Wouldn’t that be more in keeping with proper behaviour?”

  Bram couldn’t answer that one. He barely knew the young woman, yet here he was championing her cause. He saw her now: that lovely elfin face, a face so perfect it needed no adornment. In his mind’s eye he’d already framed it in the square viewfinder of his Hasselblad, had decided on a telephoto lens, the 200 mm perhaps, and a wide aperture, in order to render her fittingly serene and detached from the background. He knew that even in death that face would still retain its beauty.

  Was that why he was so quick to defend her – because of her appealing face? This mysterious woman he scarcely knew. He thought back to his visit, recalling the way she’d stolen quietly up the stairs, believing that he’d entered her bedroom. He’d simply been standing on the threshold, remembering Vivian O’Meara and all the sleepless nights
she must have passed in that very room. Something had compelled him to halt and take stock. He’d have to be careful of that kind of thing on any future visits though. What was past was past.

  There was also the way Miss Ruttle had pretended to eat the scone. He’d noticed that too. And the curious manner in which she’d sat at the table: bolt upright, as if ready to make a dash for the door at any moment. He sensed she harboured a sadness locked deep within her, and wondered if he’d ever discover the reason.

  Octavia pushed her plate aside, dusted off the bib of her kaftan, bracelets clacking. “It’s worrying all the same. What if Willow Close was brought into disrepute for a second time? How would it look for us? More to the point, what would it say about your judgement, Bram?”

  He could not but agree with her there. He’d been very quick to rent the house to Miss Ruttle. So quick, in fact, that he hadn’t bothered asking for references. That was rather remiss of him he saw now. All he’d gleaned so far was the fact that she was single, came from Larne and worked as a hairdresser. That was about the extent of it.

  The waitress pushed past the table, trundling the dessert trolley. At the sight of it, Bram’s sweet tooth kicked in and his musings on the new tenant came to an abrupt halt. “Now for pudding. What would you like? And don’t say another glass of Chablis.”

  “I’d love another glass and you won’t stop me—”

  Without warning, the wailing of an infant had filled the room. Octavia’s face took on a grave expression. Bram ignored the interruption.

  “Another Chablis is out of the question, Mother,” he said firmly. “Just so you know.” Bitter experience had taught him that a quarter of a litre of wine in the middle of the day was quite sufficient for Octavia. He signalled to the waitress.

  When he turned his attention back to Her Grace, however, he grew concerned. She looked sombre and put out.

  “Mother, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”

  “I’ve just remembered something . . . ” She studied her discarded napkin. “Something else Maud said. Something rather odd.”

  “Really? What was that?”

  “You rang the doorbell and I couldn’t wait to get away, so it slipped my mind.” She glanced across the room at the screaming infant, now being carried out in the arms of an embarrassed young mother. “The crying of that child brought it back to me.”