Mum's the Word

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Is that the one?” Marjorie nudged me.

  “I’m not sure. All pigeons look alike to me.”

  Ben’s mirthful mocking gaze burned my skin. He knew I had lied, because he had made it his devilish business to really know me during our marriage. I smiled brightly at Bingo, looking well-scrubbed in a fresh shirt and jeans, he stood next to his mother.

  The pigeon slithered and slid, while retaining a toe hold on its dignity as Pepys set down the tray on the liquor table.

  “He’s one of a pair,” Lois Brown said to her husband. “Completely devoted to each other I understand. They are carrier birds, presented to Miss Theola Faith by a doting fan.” Pigeon, having hopped onto a chair, permitted her to stroke him, while ogling Valicia X with its beady eyes.

  “Careful, Lois!” Henderson raised his worry-worn face from the paperback he’d been pretending to read. “Pigeons breed disease.”

  Valicia X laughed musically. “I think he’s sweet!” She extended a finger. The bird turned his beak away. He must have just eaten.

  “He’s a she.” Pepys didn’t add the word “dummy!” But it was there in his voice. Not much deference for his fellow Mangé as far as I could see.

  As for Jeffries, I was sure she feared neither man nor bird. “Back up all of you!” She shooed back the crowd with a champagne bottle. “This ain’t no petting zoo.”

  “Did someone say her name is Joan?” I asked. Anything to keep my mind off Ben, heading my way with a glass in each hand.

  Pepys kept splashing out the bubbly. “Has her mate Derby henpecked something wicked.”

  “What I call wicked …” Ernestine was decidedly hot under the collar of her mustard frock. “What I call outrageous is allowing that fistful of feathers into this room after all my Bingo has been through.”

  Sullen glare from her pride and joy. “Oh, Mom! I do not have pigeon phobia.”

  She rounded on him. “Don’t you Oh, Mom! me. You may be smarter than your dad and me put together, but when it comes to knowing what’s best for you, I’m the one!” Her fist thumped her chest. Her frog green beads bounced once … twice. I didn’t like the ugly light in her eyes. For some reason, I thought of the mysteriously departed Mr. Grogg and his Divonne.

  “Think I don’t know what’s going on here! When I saw the awful room they put you in.” She clamped Bingo to her side. “You’re a threat to the other candidates. They’ve reached the top of their ladders and there’s no place for them to go but down. Maybe things would be different if you had a phoney baloney title or were the winner of a rinky-dink cookery contest, or better yet were tall, dark and handsome.”

  Ben’s breathing was ambiguous. He could have been furious or battling a laugh.

  “Mrs. Hoffman,” Valicia said, her face as silky smooth as the scarf at her throat, “I must caution you that should you continue to comment on Mangé business, your son will suffer. The Society encourages spousal and parental involvement as the best means of ascertaining drawbacks.” Behind her back Jeffries had produced a notebook and was scribbling grimly away. This celebration was going downhill fast.

  “See, Mother, see what you’ve done?” Arms folded, Bingo stood over Ernestine as she sank into a chair.

  “Phony titles!” Very much the comtesse, Solange headed toward them with a slash-slash of taffeta. “Madame will translate, s’il vous plâit.”

  A shattering silence, followed by a thunder clap as Henderson tossed his book on a table. In a mental aside I noticed the title: The Captive Bride. His expression wrenched from gloom to anger. “Rinky-dink cooking contests! I tell you every time my wife puts my meal on the table, she wins the one that rates.”

  From across the room I could see the shine of Lois Brown’s tears. “Henny, hon!”

  Whatever else might have been said wasn’t. The pigeon chose that moment to light on Valicia’s golden head. For one evil moment I hoped it would make a public statement. But it was not to be. Before Ben could brace for the rescue, she calmly reached up and chucked it under the chin. That woman had everything—my husband and savoir faire. Curses! The bird actually suited her. The chug-a-lug of voices could not drown out the words going around inside my head … Ellie, I have something to tell you … tell you …

  Without disrupting the give and take of ill will, Pepys and Jeffries proceeded on their merry way with the champagne. The comtesse declined, but Miss Rumpson availed herself of a glass. In the manner of a doggy mum rounding up her pups, she barked a toast. “To Sportsmanship, m’hearties.”

  A shriek of laughter from Jeffries—more startling than one of her primal screams. Several people slopped their drinks. Picking up his, Ben twirled the stem. “With respect to Ms. X,” he said, “I believe allowances should be made for Mrs. Hoffman. She has been through a rough time this afternoon, and as an expectant father, I …”

  He was drowned out by the pigeon taking to the air again, but all on its own my hand reached to touch his. I was reaching toward hope. Then Ms. X smiled at him and his generosity of spirit turned to dust. What did I care if he won Mr. Congeniality! The comte, who must have felt his Mangé chances slipping away, offered to pluck a trick or two from his repertoire in hopes that a little entertainment would restore good cheer.

  “I don’t see why not.” Valicia sat on the sofa arm, short skirt riding above her lovely knees. “No food involvement, please.”

  “Madame X”—the comte brushed a hand over his Grecian Formula hair and swept her a bow—“I do desire use of zee pigeon, but I swear on the honour of France I will not turn him into pâté.”

  “I should hope not!” Bingo scowled. “That’s my specialty.”

  The comte puffed up his cravat and flourished a hand toward his wife. “Solange, ma chérie! If you love me with half a heart, respond with zee assistance!”

  “Non, non! Mon angel!” She crossed to his side, more courtesan than wife, the beauty spots and décolletage much in evidence. “I am not in the costume, also I am rusted through.”

  “Hush, ma fleur! Get the damn bird!” The comte whipped a black handkerchief and a large penknife from his pocket and borrowed a lacquer box from the mantel. “Perceive! Nothing hides away inside.” Flapping open the lid, he flashed the box as the group closed in for the fun and games to begin.

  I sat down on the closest chair.

  The pigeon, certainly a quick study, preened upon Solange’s wrist like a royal falcon, while the comte with the requisite hoopla explained that he would put Madame Joan in the box, cover it with the black handkerchief and make the slice in two.

  “I don’t like this one bit, I don’t,” Pepys quavered. His face was grey.

  “For once I agree with the old gizzard!” Jeffries banged down her tray. “That bird is the property of Miss Theola Faith. Harm one feather on its head and we’ll all be pâté.”

  Serenely, Valicia X waved her down. “I take full responsibility.”

  The pigeon was duly in the box, the box was covered in black and the penknife clove the air. I closed my eyes. Bingo grumbled that this was kid stuff.

  “Voila! I remove the shroud, hand it to my trusty assistant, the lid it rises slowly … slowly …” The suspense was too much. I cracked open an eye, in time to see triumph fade from the comte’s face to be replaced by perplexity as he stared down at the lacquer box. “Mon Dieu!” he whispered. “What have I done? What went wrong?”

  Ben sat on the arm of my chair and pressed my face to his shoulder. “My pregnant wife must not see carnage.”

  “You mistake the seriousness!” The voice of Solange. “The bird it is in one piece, but so still! A petite matter of being dead of the fright.”

  Mandatory primal scream from Jeffries.

  Valicia stood up. “I suggest we stay calm!”

  Lois Brown began to cry. Ernestine was trying unsuccessfully to cover Bingo’s eyes.

  Pepys’ voice, along with his legs, turned tottery. “Derby and his Joan! They were everything to each other. One of the great love matche
s of all time.” A tear trickled down one of the cracks in his face. “Who will break it to her?”

  Sound of door opening. And Mary Faith entered. “Break what? Who will break what to me?”

  A silence almost as unpleasant as the moment of death. The copy of Monster Mommy on the coffee table suddenly dominated the room.

  “Madame”—The comte hid the lacquer box behind his back—“I throw myself on your mercy.”

  Mary stood, back hugging the door, her narrow mouth uncertain whether to smile or frown. “Has something been broken?”

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking.” Valicia X, her beauty undeniably ennobled by tragedy, led her to a chair. “No need for you to demand that Comte Vincent be dropped from the Mangé interrogatories. He is in violation of Code 3936, Section M. And is thus …”

  Mary resisted being eased into the chair.

  Jeffries stood like a feather duster with a talking head. “Ain’t no nice way to slice—sorry—say it, Ms. Faith. Pigeon Joan is dead.”

  So many expressions chased across Mary’s face, her features blurred. The communal voice elaborated on the tragedy, culminating in Bingo’s ghastly faux pas: “Do I get to make pâté?”

  “Honey!” admonished Ernestine.

  “If he were my kid …” Ben’s outburst was silenced by Mary—lashing out with hands and voice.

  Somehow Mary seemed the wilder because every hair was in place and she was defined by her wing-tipped glasses and prison grey dress as a woman of some restraint. “Oh, why in mercy’s name did I let you in my house? You are monsters, all of you! Feeding on the helpless. This is how it was at my mother’s orgies. No perversion too vile!”

  “Madame, please.” Handing the lacquer box to Solange, the comte knelt at Mary’s feet, clutching her ankles. “I would give my life, even my wife, to bring back the bird. I have tried the artificial respiration, the kiss of life! Ah, if I could but hear those words—she is not dead but sleeps!”

  “Get him out of here!” Mary’s voice ripped the air. Wrenching her skirt from the comte’s clutching hands, she backed into Henderson Brown.

  “Your servant, ma’am.” Pepys shuffled forward like some blood hungry henchman of the Tudors, ready to grab the comte by the hair and hurl him out the window. But so oft the hopes and dreams of man are foiled! A sound was heard from the lacquer box, a rustle, followed by an inquiring grunt. The comte’s prayers had been answered.

  “A miracle!” went up the communal cry. Ben was prying Pepys off the comte. I thought I had made good my escape. In the ensuing confusion I slipped from the room. I was within reach of the stairs when I heard the dreaded sound of footsteps.

  “Are you all right, hon?” Lois Brown asked.

  “Just a little tired,” I confessed.

  “Sure that’s all?”

  Her face was so comfy, her grey hair so pretty and sensible. Remembering last night’s dream visit to the flat in St. John’s Wood, I surged with ill usage. This woman looked like a mother. She would not be into deep-knee bends and arabesques. When she hugged her children, she would smell of gingerbread and crayons and fresh air. Why couldn’t I have had a mother like that? Why couldn’t Mary?

  “Know something, hon?” she said. “I sure do envy you.”

  “You do?”

  “Your first baby!” Her smile turned wistful. “And young enough to dream dreams and still believe in them. Henny wasn’t always a meat-and-potatoes husband. But time came when fixing the refrigerator pushed ahead of what was broke between the two of us. He’s a good man. But for romance, I read books.”

  I picked at the bumble bees on my pockets, not knowing what to say.

  “That’s a mighty handsome husband you’ve got,” Lois said. “How I remember when I was having my first. I couldn’t believe Henny wasn’t after every thin woman who came within a block of our house.” Still talking she put her hands on my shoulders and prodded me toward the stairs. “You go have your rest, hon.”

  “Your husband worships the ground you tread!” My feet dragged on the stairs. About halfway up, I heard a door open … and again footsteps. I peered through the bars in fearful hope that it was Ben … about to come racing two stairs at a time to sweep me into his arms and carry me off to our bedroom, to the tune of broken murmurings. He had made a consummate fool of himself. And frankly my dear, he no longer gave a damn for Valicia X.

  But Ben wasn’t one of the three people in the hall. Jeffries and Pepys stood cosying up to Mary Faith. A touching scene of devoted servants consoling the lady of the house after her ordeal, but those two had made plain to me they disliked her. My skin prickled a warning that I was glimpsing something sinister. But blame that on my emotional state. I slipped past them to the sanctuary of our room.

  Someone had been in my bedroom. Oh, I don’t mean that it had been ransacked—only that the bed had been made. In my haste that morning I had left it in a heap. And, looking around, I saw other signs of an intrusion. My overnight bag was now zipped and I was sure it hadn’t been. And had my copy of Pregnancy for Beginners been on the bedside table? Perhaps Pepys or Jeffries had come and done the room—or was Solange correct in her suspicions? Was Ernestine guilty of snooping? Was her belligerence today explained by her having made discoveries about Ben—and perhaps other of the candidates—which had invoked maternal fear as to Bingo’s chances? Or was I growing paranoid? Parenting for Pleasure didn’t conceal anything but words of wisdom and Primrose Tramwell’s letter. I have this habit of tucking correspondence in books …

  Time to lie down; never mind that I felt a trespasser in this caved-in cardboard box of a room. The silver lurex wallpaper hurt my eyes and an inadvertent glance in the mirror hurt more. My worst fears confirmed. Those were stretch marks on my face. No wonder Lois Brown had been so sympathetic. If only Mary had not disconnected the only phone in this house of horrors. Pouring out my tale of betrayal and deceit to Dorcas and Jonas would work wonders. If, that is, they believed me. Those two had been sadly taken in by Bentley T. Haskell, alias Mr. Letch. They thought him honourable, lovable, and only slightly cracked on the subject of haute cuisine.

  “Thinking about me, sweetheart?” He crept up on me and gently turned my face to his.

  “Yes.” I stretched out on our bed as Pepys had done on the window seat.

  “Nice thoughts?” He sat beside me and traced a finger from my brow to my chin.

  I addressed his nose. “When we were in the North Tower with Bingo you said that you had something important to tell me.”

  “Ellie, this isn’t going to be easy.” So spoke the stranger—this insidiously handsome man, his afternoon shadow of beard intensifying his ravaged appeal.

  “Just say it!” I huddled deep in the mattress.

  “Very well.” His eyes met mine without flinching. “I hate your hair this new way.”

  A few moments of numbness, before I managed, “You can’t blame your love affair with Ms. X on my hair!”

  He managed to look stunned. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Don’t deny it!” I slapped away his hand. “I heard you last night in cooing cahoots with that woman.” A laugh which chilled me, if not him. “Mary Faith showed me a viewing screen and listening device to the secret meeting room hidden in the medicine chest in the bathroom. I turned it on when looking for an antacid tablet. Just playing around with a gadget. I never expected anyone to be there at that time of night.”

  Ben stood, arms folded, looking coldly down at me. “Ellie, you should be ashamed.”

  “Me?” I squeaked. “You are the one who left our bed promising to return—presumably in the monogamous state you left it.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Hard as it may be for you to believe, I was not pleased when Ms. X collared me and insisted on a quick word. But I could not refuse on the grounds of the scream; she did explain that Jeffries …”

  “Yes, I know all about the primal yell. What I don’t wish to hear are your excuses. I saw the way you looked at Ms. X from the
start. Eyes burning with passion.”

  “You’re joking!” He did a commendable job of looking revolted. “Ellie, you sound like a character from that sleazy novel I was writing when we first met. I feel absolutely no passion for Valicia X. Through no fault of her own she reminds me of your cousin Vanessa. She’s hardly my type.” He glared at me ferociously. “And even if she were God’s gift to men, what would I need with her when I have you?”

  The room turned into one of those glass-domed ornaments. The kind that turn snowy when you shake them. “But, Ben”—I lay still—“I heard you. My ear was to the medicine chest when you said that the moment you saw her you knew. And Valicia X said—asked if your wife suspected.”

  He paced the few inches the room allowed. “The wages of eavesdropping,” he said, sounding like the Reverend Enoch, “are misery! And now I am placed in the invidious position of breaking a Mangé confidence.” Hand on the bedpost, he said, “You asked me when I paid the Mulberry Inn bill in cash, why I dislike credit cards. And I revealed how during my days and nights—at Eligibility Escorts I was hired to accompany a young woman to a grouse shoot.”

  “You don’t mean …?” I was on the edge of my bed.

  “Valicia X, as we will continue to call her, was in her rebel phase. She was thumbing her nose at the parents for dragging her over to Europe when she wanted to demonstrate her social consciousness by living in squalour. Refusing to accept Daddy’s choice of male companion for the grouse shoot, she hired me.”

  “Spirited.” What else could I say—having done much the same thing myself?

  “As things worked out, the other chap showed up. A case of love at first sight and Valicia bunked off with him without paying me.”

  I gripped my hands to stop them from applauding. “How embarrassing for her meeting up with you again here! I can understand her hoping I didn’t know! Are she and the other man married?”

  “Separated. We didn’t dwell on her personal life. The encounter had been a shock to both of us and I was anxious to get back to you. She did tell me—and again I violate the bonds of secrecy—that each candidate was selected because of his unorthodoxy. I—on the grounds of having worked for Eligibility while attempting to write a novel. Ms. X had seen my file but it didn’t ring a bell. She had forgotten both my name and that of the agency.”