The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  Never mind. She’d go through the motions for the time being. Have a word with Bram in private when Maureen was showing Miss Ruttle to her room. Then, when the situation had been clarified and Bram fully understood the kind of person he was dealing with, promptly send her on her way again.

  After all, there were B & Bs aplenty in the area.

  “Yes, now let me see,” she said, register open before her. She saw that by a happy coincidence number 5 was free. It was the room that Miss Walsh had occupied last time. Perhaps being again in the same room might jog her memory.

  “Number five all right?” she called over Bram’s shoulder, irritated that “Miss Ruttle” was hanging back, letting her landlord conduct the checking-in. “It’s on the second floor.”

  But Miss Ruttle continued to gaze through the window, seemingly unaware that Mrs Millman had even addressed her.

  “Should be fine,” Bram said, a little flustered.

  “Is her hearing defective?” Gladys shot back, miffed that she was being ignored. Either that or she’s most likely suffering a hangover, she felt like adding.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Bram confided in hushed tones, leaning in. “It’s just that she’s come through a lot lately and is feeling . . . how shall I say . . . a little under the weather I’m afraid. That’s why I thought the sea air might do her good.”

  “I see,” Gladys said just as quietly. “Best in that case to get her settled in, Bram. I’ll get Maureen to show her up.”

  “Splendid, Gladys. I knew I could depend on you!”

  She was surprised to see him immediately reach into his pocket and draw out a bundle of notes. “I’ll pay you in advance of course.”

  Gladys smiled, still playing the game. Never mind, very soon she’d be putting the naive fellow right on a thing or two.

  “And I hope you’ll join me for an Irish coffee in private while your tenant is settling in, Bram. We’ve such a lot to talk about. Not least being the arrangements for your delightful mother’s next stay.”

  “That would be a pleasure, Gladys.”

  Maureen was summoned and mounted the stairs ahead of the new guest.

  “I’ll see you before I go, Rita!” Bram called after her.

  “Thank you, Bram,” she said, turning. “And, thank you, Mrs Millman . . . it was very nice to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Ruttle,” Gladys said, banging shut the register. “Now, Bram, let’s go through to my drawing-room for that fortifying coffee I promised.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “Here you are, ma’am,” Maureen said, turning the key in the door of number 5 and leading the way into the room.

  Rita was pleasantly surprised. It was bright and airy with pale walls and powder-blue furnishings. The plump bed with a lacy eiderdown looked very comfortable and there were fluffy blue towels on the bedside table the exact match of the carpet and drapes.

  The word “luxury” sprang to mind. It must be very expensive, she thought, and wondered how the humble month’s rent would cover a couple of nights, let alone a whole week in the grand Ocean Spray.

  “Do you like it, ma’am?” the maid asked.

  “Oh, it’s so very lovely. Yes . . . lovely.” She read her nametag. “Thank you very much, Maureen.”

  “You’ve got a nice view of the sea too,” Maureen said, eager to show off the room’s finer points. She crossed to the window and drew back the curtains a little more, to reveal a vista of blue ocean, which echoed the room’s colour scheme beautifully.

  “How very lovely!” Rita-Mae said again.

  “Do you like the sea, ma’am?”

  “Er . . . erm, yes, but only to look at. I . . . I can’t swim, unfortunately.”

  The maid simpered. “I can’t either, but it’s lovely to look at, as you say.”

  Maureen stood gazing at her with interest, seemingly in no hurry to leave. Rita wondered what was detaining her.

  “Well . . . thank you again, Maureen.”

  Then a thought struck her. She’s obviously waiting for a tip.

  “Where’s my manners, Maureen?” she said, reaching into her handbag.

  “No, ma’am, Miss Gladys doesn’t allow the staff to take tips from guests. She says it’s too American.”

  “Well, I won’t tell her if you won’t, Maureen.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Maureen said, blushing and pocketing the fifty-pence piece.

  Finally she moved towards the door.

  “We serve supper at six. Do you want me to put your name down?”

  “No . . . no, that’s all right. I’m not really hungry. Thank you all the same.”

  “And breakfast’s from seven to ten.”

  She wouldn’t be having that either, but nodded just to please the pleasant young woman.

  “Miss Ruttle?” Maureen’s expression was unreadable.

  “Yes.”

  “Haven’t you stayed with us before?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just that . . . well, about three months ago there was a woman who stayed here that looked just like you.”

  “Wasn’t me. This is my very first time in this lovely place. Hope it won’t be my last.”

  “Righto,” Maureen said, looking a little puzzled. “Must have been somebody else then.”

  “Yes . . . bye, now, Maureen, and thanks again.”

  The maid bowed timidly and finally withdrew.

  “I must say this is absolutely delicious, Gladys,” Bram enthused, taking a sip of the mightily strong Irish coffee she’d set down before him.

  The proprietor had tipped a rather healthy measure of whiskey into his glass – a double in fact – in the hope that the alcohol might help him become more expansive about his odd companion.

  She could see straightaway that he was overly protective of her and wondered why that might be. Well, he’d be hearing her blunt appraisal of this Ruttle/Walsh person very soon. And she was sure he wouldn’t be at all impressed. That double shot of whiskey would, no doubt, help to cushion the blow.

  “You always make them perfectly,” Bram continued. “How on earth do you manage that flawless separation of coffee and cream?”

  “Why, thank you, Bram,” Gladys smiled, savouring the compliment. “One pours the cream very slowly over the back of a spoon. It’s really not so complicated.”

  “Extraordinary!” He took another sip, an unappealing moustache of cream appearing on his upper lip. “I take it business is booming as usual.”

  “Yes, indeed . . . I’m happy to have Easter out of the way. It was rather hectic. The good weather brings them out in force, but who am I to complain? I trust Octavia is keeping well?”

  She’d really no interest in Mrs Hilditch’s well-being. The woman looked as healthy as a trout every time she turned up at the Ocean Spray. A demanding old biddy at the best of times, but her presence raised the tone somewhat and her yearly stays, in the most expensive suite with gin and Dubonnet on tap, more than covered Mrs Millman’s spa treatments at a health farm in Shropshire, where she went each October for a fortnight of refreshment and rejuvenation.

  “Had a little fall, but is recovering well,” Bram was saying. “Would take a lot to hobble Her Grace I fear.”

  “And you’re now a landlord?” She was steering the conversation away from idle chit-chat and in the direction of tenants and the object of her present interest, now ensconced behind the door of room number 5. “How many properties do you have now?”

  “Four in all.”

  “My word, Bram! That’s marvellous. I’m sure it’s less onerous than undertaking.”

  He considered the remark. A doubtful little pause ensuing. Then: “Well, each occupation has its ups and downs, Gladys, I suppose. Less onerous, yes, but some tenants can be tricky. Sometimes hard to tell what you’re letting in.”

  She couldn’t but agree with him there. Time to go in for the kill.

  “And your tenant, Miss Ruttle, how long has she be
en renting from you?”

  “Oh . . . since the beginning of February. Why d’you ask?”

  Gladys set down her coffee. Opened her cigarette case and offered him one. A smoke might help him come to terms with what she was about to reveal, unpleasant as it was going to be.

  He shook his head.

  She lit up, wondering how to phrase the next bit.

  “Well, it’s just that I believe I’ve seen her before, but she didn’t go by the name of Ruttle. She called herself Walsh . . . Dorinda Walsh.”

  Bram frowned. “Oh . . . and where . . . where did you see her?”

  “She was here at the end of January.”

  “Are you sure, Gladys?”

  She could see he was quite discomfited. He obviously had feelings for her.

  “Well, if it wasn’t her I’d find it very odd. Was her spitting image.”

  “But she’s never been to Portaluce. She said so.”

  “That’s what she’s telling you, Bram.” She swallowed a lungful of smoke. Saw him redden.

  He got up and stood by the window.

  “I’m sorry, but you have to know,” Gladys went on. “She caused us no end of bother here. She’s an alcoholic; did you know that? We had to send her over there to the convent to dry out. Made an absolute mess of the room. I had to renew the carpet and bedding. She was sick all over the place.”

  “Now look here, Gladys, that’s where you’re totally wrong. She’s teetotal. Never touches the stuff. Neither does she smoke I might add.”

  Gladys didn’t much care for that last little jibe. She sat up more erectly. Tapped the cigarette in an ashtray. “Really? Well, I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “Did she sign the register?”

  “Why, of course. I’ll fetch it.”

  In seconds Gladys was back. She found the page and showed it to him.

  Bram sighed with relief. “I knew you were mistaken, Gladys. That’s definitely not Miss Ruttle’s handwriting. Hers is very neat and precise, not like that at all.”

  She was about to say, “It doesn’t take an Einstein to change their writing style,” but decided not to cause him further upset. It was clear that Bram was quite fond of Miss Ruttle, whoever she might be.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Yes,” he said, taking his seat again. “I can assure you, Gladys, Miss Ruttle is a lady of the utmost probity. I can vouch for that.”

  Gladys shut the register and sat down also, crossing her fine legs elegantly at the knee.

  “A case of mistaken identity then. I am sorry to have brought it up, Bram,” she added, thinking that it would be a shame if Octavia Hilditch were to withdraw her patronage of the Ocean Spray on the advice of her son, and the precious fortnight at Ragdale Hall spa was to disappear.

  She raised her Irish coffee. “Well, here’s to friendship, Bram, and the arrival of another summer.”

  “Yes, indeed.” He smiled and raised his glass.

  Then: “My goodness!” he said suddenly. “My goodness gracious me!”

  “What is it, Bram?”

  “I’ve just remembered. Miss Ruttle once told me that she had a twin sister who died at birth.”

  “Oh . . . and what exactly are you saying?”

  He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Well, what I’m saying is: what if she didn’t die? What if the mother gave her up for adoption because she couldn’t afford to keep two children and . . . and . . . my God, sh-she’s living here in Ireland and . . . and neither she nor Rita even knows of the other’s existence.”

  “Well, it is possible,” Gladys conceded grudgingly. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Did Miss Walsh leave an address?”

  “No. But I know who’ll have more information about her.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, the convent over there. It doubles as a drying-out clinic. She stayed with them for a few days until she was well enough to drive herself home.”

  “I’ll go over there immediately,” Bram said, more animated than ever.

  “But won’t you finish your coffee first?”

  “Of course.” He lifted the glass and downed it in one gulp.

  “I’ll call back again, Gladys, to say cheerio to Rita.”

  “Are you going to tell her?”

  He shook his head. “Best not for the time being. I’ll do my investigations first. Wouldn’t like to get her hopes up, for it all to come to nothing.”

  Gladys smiled. “Yes, perhaps that’s wisest, Bram. We wouldn’t want that. It’s quite a lot to take in after all.”

  Hand on the doorknob, he turned. “Oh, it would be so amazing for Rita you know, to find she has a sister. She’s such a very fine person, but lonely on her own. You won’t breathe a word of this, will you? I mean . . . not even to Maureen?”

  “Your secret is mine, Bram. Scout’s honour.”

  She gave a mock salute and both chuckled.

  “See you when you get back,” she said. “I’m dying to hear what the nuns tell you. Over supper of course.”

  “That would be a pleasure, Gladys. An absolute pleasure.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Bram hastened along the promenade towards the convent of the Daughters of Divine Healing in a state of high excitement.

  After all poor Rita had come through, something incredible was taking shape. The fates had conspired to bring her to Killoran and into his life so that he, Bram Hilditch, could be the agent who’d locate her long-lost sister and reunite them.

  He’d always believed in destiny. Today he was experiencing it at first hand and it was an amazing feeling. “Actions are the seed of fate; deeds grow into destiny.” He’d always liked the maxim. Now he was doing just that: taking action to secure a better future for Rita. He’d find her sister. And the good deed would see the flowering of a destiny that he hoped would include him as well.

  He mounted the steps to the large front door of the convent – so high and towering it appeared to be nearly twice his height – and raised the weighty brass knocker. Struck the metal plate three times and waited.

  The convent’s elevated position on the promontory gave an imposing view over the Atlantic and to bide his time he stood in contemplation of it, conscious of the fact that he’d never before been granted such a prospect.

  The remote white convent, which he’d gazed up at so often on his many visits to the little seaside town, had until now been nothing more than a splendid architectural feat lending a mysterious beauty to the coastline. He’d never thought of it as being an actual place where people lived. Perhaps that word “convent” dampened any curiosity he might have had. Until now he’d been totally ignorant of the fact it was a drying-out shelter for alcoholics.

  It was a quiet, windless afternoon with just a hint of sunshine burning through the cloud. The briny smell of the ocean filled his nostrils and he took a few deep breaths of the clean, crisp air to steady himself before turning back to the door.

  Nothing seemed to be stirring within, so he raised the knocker again, striking more heavily this time.

  Without warning, a hatch at head height, which he hadn’t noticed, was swiftly drawn back and he saw the upper half of a nun’s face.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “May I help you?”

  Bram removed his hat. “Yes, indeed. Good day, Sister. I wish to make inquiries about a certain Dorinda Walsh, who stayed with you for a few days in January. Would it be all right if I came in?”

  The nun nodded and slid the hatch home again. He heard several bolts being drawn back then the jangle of keys. Finally, a small door in the structure opened and she stood back to admit him.

  “Your name is . . . ?”

  “Abraham . . . Abraham Hilditch.” He held out his hand, but she simply nodded, smiled demurely and directed him to a seat – a wooden bench of the penitential kind – in the cavernous hallway.

  “I’m Sister Magdalena. Wait here, please.” She set off down a long corridor, her feet makin
g barely a sound on the polished tiles.

  He heard a door opening and shutting, but apart from that the place was like the grave. No other sounds could be heard from within and nothing from outside could penetrate the thick, ancient walls. He wondered where all the recovering addicts might be. It was quite a sprawling building, so they were perhaps housed in a separate wing, well away from the visiting public.

  He sat uneasily, wondering what he was going to learn about Miss Ruttle’s twin sister.

  What an amazing coincidence! His heart leaped at the very thought.

  “Mr Hilditch?” The suddenness of the voice made him jump. Sister Magdalena appeared like an apparition, hands folded in front of her.

  “Mother Clare will see you now, Mr Hilditch. Follow me, please.”

  She led him down a series of corridors and showed him into a spartan office, whose only nod to trendiness was a large palm in one corner, set in a garish ceramic pot.

  Seated behind a desk was an elderly nun robed in the blue habit of her order. Late seventies, he supposed, with the pallid complexion and grim air of the dedicated ascetic.

  “Mr Hilditch,” Sister Magdalena announced and withdrew, pulling the door to, but not quite shutting it.

  Mother Clare gave him a thin smile, but did not get up. “Please take a seat, Mr Hilditch.”

  There was something peculiar about her eyes.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me, Mother Clare,” Bram began. “I’m interested in the whereabouts of Dorinda Walsh.”

  “In here we don’t use names. To us she was patient F-32.”

  “R-Right . . . I see. Well, any information you have would be greatly appreciated.”

  He saw now why her eyes were so unsettling. They were each of a different hue, the one much darker than the other.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t tell you a whole lot about her. Apart from the fact that she has a periodic problem with alcohol and sometimes ends up with us. Are you a relative of hers?”

  “No, just a friend,” Bram said, deciding to hold back on the real reason for wanting to seek her out, for he had the feeling he wasn’t going to get very far with this strange old woman who didn’t seem the least bit accommodating. “An address, perhaps, anything at all that would help me find her.”