The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  “Sorry, Mrs Baldwin-Piggott, we really are pushed for time.”

  “Oh . . . remind Octavia she’s coming for cocktails. My chauffeur will collect her at six.”

  “Yes, indeed. Good day to you, ladies.”

  The new tenant was conscious of surprised looks and a spirited murmuring in her wake. She caught a snatch. “. . . wonder does Octavia know what he’s up to.”

  “. . . wonder does she know what she’s in for.”

  He halted at a table with a RESERVED sign – she wondered about that too – and pulled out a chair. Had he booked the table in advance, knowing he was going to meet her outside the salon? Had he engineered this whole meeting?

  “Everyone seems to know you, Mr Hilditch.”

  “Yes, that’s what comes from living in the same place all one’s life.” He placed his shoulder-bag on the floor, removed his coat. “That of course, and having officiated at most of their husbands’ funerals.”

  A waitress placed a teapot on the table.

  “Thank you, Pauline . . . One builds a special rapport with the bereaved.”

  Rita-Mae was more unsettled than ever, not only by the threatening note in her pocket, but that RESERVED sign on the table. She clutched her hands tightly in her lap to stop them shaking. She could not trust herself with the teapot, even though it was proper etiquette for the lady to pour.

  “Would you mind pouring, Mr Hilditch?” she said, a sudden brainwave coming to her. “My hands are a little numb from the cold . . . I forgot my gloves you see.”

  “Why, of course.” Bram lifted the lid of the pot and peeked in. “A woman is like a teabag,” he said, perfecting an American drawl. “You can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.”

  What on earth was he saying? And why was he using that odd voice? “Sorry . . . I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. It’s one of Her Grace’s little maxims. I believe Eleanor Roosevelt said it but Mother pretends it’s hers. Yes, a nice cup of tea is a fine restorative. You’ll be right as rain in a minute or two. Would you like a drop of milk?”

  She nodded.

  “Always the milk in first, to protect the china. I like this little cafe because they know the value of good china in the tea-making process.”

  He smiled, showing those lovely even teeth.

  She envied the deftness of this little performance. His steady hands, the fluid movements, the easy talk. There was no awkwardness. None of the discomfort that was such a feature of her own life. It seemed as though he’d had tea with countless women just like her.

  Strangers just like her.

  “Do you know how tea was discovered?”

  She shook her head, grateful that he wasn’t picking up on her distress, allowed herself to be carried along on the tide of words flowing so easily from him.

  “Shen Nung, the ancient Chinese emperor, was having his morning drink of hot water when a leaf from the tree Camellia sinensis, which he was sitting under, fortuitously fell into his bowl. Instead of discarding the leaf he decided to taste the infusion. And so, Miss Ruttle, that is why you and I can enjoy this wonderful beverage so many millennia later. Fascinating, is it not?”

  He passed her the cup and saucer.

  “You know so many things.” She glanced at the cup, still unable to trust her hands. Instead, she drew a hanky from her pocket and dabbed at her nose.

  “Oh, I read a lot. Undertaking could be a slow business, especially in the summer – winters were our busiest period. The bleak weather leading to depression, and so more suicides. The elderly dears succumbing more readily to the cold – so one filled one’s time constructively. Her Grace has an extensive library, courtesy of her father . . . a professor of History at Trinity in his day—”

  Pauline interrupted his gush of reminiscence and set down a stand of dainty cakes. The sugary confections, so beautifully arranged, looked like a work of art.

  “Thank you, Pauline. Almost looks too good to eat, Miss Ruttle,” he enthused, seemingly reading her thoughts. “Do you bake cakes yourself? Well, I expect you do.” He picked up the silver cake fork and set about cutting up a cherry slice with the utmost care.

  “I do from time to time, yes,” she said, wondering how she was going to forgo the cakes without causing offence. “They look delicious, but I’m . . . I’m sorry to say on this occasion I can’t partake.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Yes . . . my stomach . . . part of this cold I think.”

  “That’s too bad . . . but I understand completely. You won’t mind if I take your portion home to Her Grace then, will you?”

  “No, no, not at all. They’re all yours.”

  He smiled again, this time more broadly. The pleasure he took in her assent regarding the cakes was thawing her a little. Perhaps, she thought, he’s just lonely and in need of company. Female company. Perhaps the mother is the only woman he’s ever been close to. Because from what she’d gathered so far, Octavia Hilditch was quite the domineering sort. And Rita-Mae knew only too well what that felt like. She’d lived under the thumb of a controlling bully long enough. At least they had that in common.

  For some reason the name Vivian-Bernadette O’Meara came unbidden – the secret letter, the stricken box-room. Should she ask him about his former tenant? She hesitated. Then thought of the perfect pretext.

  “By the way, I was just wondering . . . who lived at Willow Close before me?”

  He was in the process of lifting his teacup. Decided not to. Placed it back on the saucer. Looked straight at her, all cordiality seemingly gone.

  “A young lady. Why is it important?”

  “It’s just that if post arrived for her I’d like to know where to forward it.”

  “That won’t be an issue,” he said crisply. “There’ll be no post arriving for her. As landlord, it’s my job to take care of such formalities. You need not concern yourself with that, Miss Ruttle.” He lifted his cup and smiled. “Now tell me about your family . . . your brothers and sisters.”

  She did not recall mentioning anything about brothers and sisters. She could tell that her question had hit a nerve.

  “Don’t have any I’m afraid.”

  “None at all?”

  “Well, I had a twin sister, but she died as a baby, alas.” No sooner had she said it than she wondered why she’d shared such an intimacy with him.

  “Oh, how awful for you, Miss Ruttle!” He set the teacup back down, voice deepening with concern. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you . . . Yes, well, it’s in the past . . . And you?”

  “One brother . . . younger . . . Zac. Considers himself a poet of sorts. He’s in Canada so I don’t see much of him.” He scanned the room. “We really must do this more often, you know.”

  “How interesting!”

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “Your brother being a poet.” She raised the teacup to her lips with just the slightest tremble.

  “Oh, that . . . well, yes, I suppose. It’s good to get away from Mother. She can be quite a handful at times.” He saw her sniff the tea. She took a sip.

  “It tastes of flowers,” she said, not a little surprised.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it? Smoky lapsang souchong with just a hint of jasmine. I thought you’d like it.”

  “But how did you know I’d be coming here with you?” She had the words out before she could stop herself. She felt her whole body tense again.

  “Oh, you misunderstand, Miss Ruttle. Lapsang is what Her Grace and I always have when we visit the Heavenly Realms. It’s just so lovely that I can introduce another lady – and may I say a lady of such refinement as your good self – to the glories of this wonderful brew.”

  He was either guileless or a very good actor. She couldn’t decide which.

  Get a grip, she told herself. Bram Hilditch is about the only person you know in this town. If the faceless stalker were to strike, he’s the only one you could turn
to for help.

  She allowed herself a brief smile. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  “Oh, but it’s true.” He reached for another cake.

  His next question, however, had alarm coursing through her like a riptide.

  “I was wondering, Miss Ruttle, have you ever had children?”

  She paused.

  Set the cup down. Boldly met his piercingly focused eyes.

  “No. Being a spinster, how could I?” she reminded him.

  “Sorry if I offended you,” he said, but she knew he wasn’t. He was searching for information because he didn’t believe her.

  “It’s just that you’re very pretty and I thought perhaps you might have been married in the past . . . that’s all.”

  She wanted to say, “It’s none of your damned business!” But “a lady of such refinement,” and a pretty one to boot, needed to act the part he’d cast her in.

  “Nice of you to say so, Mr Hilditch, but looks can be deceptive you know.” She lifted the teapot without a quiver. “More tea?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rita-Mae drove back home from her unexpected tea date with Bram Hilditch in a state of high agitation. So much had happened in the two hours or so she’d been in Killoran that she now wondered if – all things considered – it might be safer simply to stay put behind the walls of 8 Willow Close and not go out at all. There was a little grocer’s shop on the edge of town where she could buy the basics. She baked her own bread and could live quite well on canned food if she had to. But as soon as she had this thought another more urgent one came rushing in. Was she even safe in that house? She saw again the shocked faces of those in the Get Ahead salon at mention of her address. Something terrible had happened at number 8. And it appeared that everybody but her was in on the secret.

  Arriving in the driveway, she instinctively steered the car round the back and parked it. The alarmed face of Susan Mulvey had been supplanted in her mind’s eye by a clear and present danger: that of a faceless man called Lenny. Given the sinister message, which could only be from him, it was best to keep the vehicle out of sight.

  She got out of the car, berating herself for not having taken such a precaution earlier. Her number-plate had been there in full view, right out front, for nearly a month. Who was to say this Lenny character wasn’t living on the same road? Hadn’t been watching her every move and following her back and forth?

  She found the house keys—

  “Hello, there!” A male voice behind her.

  The keys clanked on the ground. She spun round to see a man hunkered down near the garden shed.

  Her knees went weak.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean tae give yeh a shock,” he said, getting up. “Bram sent me to check the drains. Said yeh were complainin’ about a bad smell.”

  “Oh, I . . . h-he . . . he never said you’d be coming today.”

  “Aye, that’s Bram . . . a bit forgetful sometimes.” He cleaned his hands on his coveralls and came forward.

  Was he dragging his left leg? Suddenly, in her head, a voice down the Samaritan helpline: Crashed the car on a skinful last year and the oul’ leg isn’t what it used to be.

  She had the urge to dash into the house and bolt the door. Get out of danger as quickly as possible.

  “That oul’ leg of mine’s went to sleep. Been on me knees for a while.” He slapped his thigh several times. “You’ll be Miss Ruffle, I s’ppose. I’ll not shake hands ’cos they’re a bit durty, so they are.”

  She could barely speak.

  He bent down and retrieved her keys. Handed them to her.

  “Th-Thank you. Y-Yes . . . I’m R-Ruttle,” she managed to say. “Miss Ruttle, yes, with two t’s.”

  “Och, aye, Ruttle . . . pardon me. I’m Dan Madden.” He was tall with a cadaverous face and wore a cap pulled low over his forehead. Well into his forties she guessed, even though most of his face was in shadow.

  “Do odd jobs about the place,” he continued, rubbing a hand over his stubble. “Do a bitta mechanic work too.” He eyed her car. “So if that wee car gives yeh any bother I’m yer man. Nice wee motor she is too. Aisey on the juice, is she?”

  There was that word “aisey”. It was a mispronunciation of “easy”. The Lenny character had used it too: They’d be aisier to take off you.

  She nodded. “Thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll remember that . . . well, I’ll let you . . . let you get on, Mr Madden.”

  “Right yeh be. I’ll give yeh a knock when I’m finished up, so I will.”

  Once inside, she swiftly locked the door. Went to the kitchen sink and gulped down a glass of water.

  From her viewpoint she could see him hunkered down again by the garden shed. He had a long stick and was ramming it down the drain hole.

  There was only one way to make sure that this Dan Madden was genuine. She’d call Bram Hilditch immediately.

  The phone rang out several times and she was on the verge of hanging up when it was finally lifted.

  “Good afternoon, the Hilditch residence,” came a brusque female voice.

  Rita-Mae was immediately on edge, for she realized that the formidable Octavia Hilditch, aka Her Grace, whom she’d glimpsed briefly and heard so much about, was addressing her.

  She coughed politely and, adopting her most assuaging Samaritan tone, said, “Might I speak to Mr Bram Hilditch, please?”

  “No, you might not!” came the abrupt reply. “And his name is Abraham, not Bram.”

  “Er . . . em . . . ”

  “And the reason you may not speak to him is because he is not here. Heaven knows where he’s got to. Catering to the needs of that new tenant of his no doubt. She seems to be taking up all his time these days, more’s the pity. And who might you be?”

  “I . . . I’m Rita Ruttle . . . his new tenant.”

  There was a pause on the line, which Rita-Mae took to be an embarrassed lull, during which Mrs Hilditch would be preparing the requisite apology.

  The reply, however, when finally it came, was anything but apologetic.

  “Well, good day to you, Miss Ruttle. At last we get to at least speak, if not meet. Isn’t he with you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Isn’t Abraham with you?”

  “No, but—”

  “He said he was seeing to your drains or some fatuous pursuit or other! So when he turns up send him right back home. I wish to speak to him before my engagement with the Baldwin-Piggotts at six.”

  “Well, I just—”

  “Good day to you, Miss Ruttle.”

  With that, the line went dead and Rita-Mae was left holding a loudly purring receiver.

  So much for that!

  She dropped it back on to the cradle, irked, returned to the kitchen and peered out of the window.

  Madden had disappeared. Come to think of it, where was his van? If he were a maintenance man he should surely have one. She hadn’t noticed it on her way in.

  She went back to the lounge and checked the front window.

  No van.

  A sudden scraping sound had her pressing her face against the glass.

  She saw him bent down by the drainpipe at the front of the house.

  There was no way she was opening the door to him. She simply could not risk it.

  She pushed open the window.

  “Mr Madden!”

  “Aye.” He turned round, a length of piping in hand.

  “Where’s your van . . . just wondering?”

  “Didn’t bother wi’ it, ’cos I live just down the road.”

  “You do?”

  She held tight to the window-handle. Reminded herself that both front and back doors were locked. She was in the dominant position.

  “Aye, just down the road.” He pointed with the piping. “Madden Motor Repairs . . . me garage’s about half a mile down that way. That’s why I’m very near yeh, if that wee car of yours gives yeh any bother.”

  He saw her eyeing the drain hole. Its grating had been removed
and a lump of black stuff was lying beside it.

  “Aye, that’s what was givin’ yeh the bad smell.” He went over and prodded it with his boot. “Hard tae say with all that durt on it, but I’d say a chaffinch or buntin’.”

  “A bird?”

  “Been lyin’ there this while by the looks of it . . . got stuck in the gratin’ and rotted. If you’ve got a plastic bag I’ll take it away with me.”

  She went through to the kitchen, found one.

  “Well, thanks for that, Mr Madden,” she said, handing him the bag through the window.

  “No bother. As I say, if yeh have any other wee jobs that need doin’ just give me a call.” He proffered a grubby piece of notepaper. “Save yeh the bother of ringin’ Bram. ’Cos, as I say, I’m just down the road, like. Me name and number’s on that, so it is.”

  Gingerly she took the paper from him and placed it on the sill. “Thanks, Mr Madden. I’ll remember that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Right yeh be.” He touched the peak of his cap and went to deal with the bird.

  She waited behind the curtain, watched him bag the bird, put the grating back in place.

  Would he drag his leg as he went down the garden path?

  Didn’t seem to. But he did have an odd, shambling step.

  He fastened the gate, looked towards the window, raised a hand and went on his way.

  It was safe to breathe again.

  The folded note lay on the sill.

  The scrunched-up note from “Lenny” was still in her pocket.

  She smoothed it out on the table. Unfolded Madden’s and laid it alongside.

  MADDEN MOTOR REPAIRS was written in a surprisingly neat, right-slanting hand, as was his telephone number underneath. The sets of writing could not have been more different.

  So maybe he was on the level after all.

  She consigned both notes to the table drawer, and was about to remove her coat when a thought struck her. That explanation about a dead bird didn’t quite ring true somehow. After all, the smell was inside the house and mostly in the box-room.

  There was a distinct chill in the air as she stepped out.

  She pulled her coat around her and bent down to inspect the drain.