How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Makes a home, doesn’t it?” Tricks beamed.

  “It’s my being here.” I thrust myself into the fore. “I barged in just when Mrs. Tom Taffer” (sounded like something out of a nursery rhyme) “was getting going vacuuming up the toys … I mean the floor.”

  Lady Kitty favoured me with a crisp smile. “I gather you’re here, Ellie, in your official capacity as chairwoman of St. Anselm’s Summer Fête. Time’s marching on, and it doesn’t do to get behind with our responsibilities, does it? How much money have you collected so far for the tents and other equipment?”

  “Fifty pence.” I addressed her lace-up shoes.

  “Not doing too well, are we?” She tightened the knot of her headscarf. “It strikes me, Ellie, that if I can offer the manor grounds year in year out for this event, you could put your best foot forward.”

  “My cousin Freddy has promised to go out collecting.”

  “Very kind of him. But call it delegating—call it what you will—it doesn’t do to shift our responsibilities. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing ourselves.” Lady Kitty’s expression softened. “What you have to realize, dear, is that charity work is not for the faint-hearted. If we are ever to make this a better world, we have to learn to turn the screws. Speaking of which”—she pointed a finger—“I see a screw is missing from the Hoover.”

  “Perhaps the baby ate it,” Tricks said brightly.

  “Very possibly, but I had hoped better care would be taken with my property.”

  “But I thought”—Frizzy flushed a deep orange—“I thought you gave me that vacuum.”

  “Lent, dear. Not gave.” The smallest of frowns creased her ladyship’s brow. “I’m always willing to help out in a fix, but we all have to assume some personal responsibility, don’t we, dear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s right. And to show I’m not disappointed in you, I’m going to send my Mrs. Pickle over to give this place a good turnout.”

  “That’s awfully good of you, but—”

  “No buts, Frizzy, I’m well aware that Edna Pickle is slow as treacle, but she’s prepared to stay till the work is done, and as she’ll tell you quite proudly, she can’t read, so you never have to worry about her snooping. I’m sure if you start watching your pennies, you’ll be able to afford her a couple of days a week until the house gets squared away.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s my mission! Picking up the pieces of other people’s lives. Ellie”—the grande dame of the western world turned to me—“you must come for lunch tomorrow—no, better make it the following day. Be at Pomeroy Manor at noon sharp, and we’ll get you organized. We want this to be the best fête ever, don’t we?”

  What I wanted was to get home, but someone knocked at the front door before I could make my getaway. Frizzy opened up to admit a tall young woman with stooped posture and her hair hanging in schoolgirl ponytails on either side of her face.

  “Pamela.” Her ladyship’s fur coat bristled as she turned to face the intruder. “I thought I told you to stay and watch the bikes.”

  “I know you did, Mumsie Kitty.” The girl’s hands were tangled into knots that would never come undone. “But when I looked at my watch I got worried that you would be late for your doctor’s appointment and I didn’t want your blood pressure to go up.”

  “I have a watch of my own, dear!”

  “I’m sorry! I thought you gave it to Mrs. Pickle so that she could time herself when doing the stove.”

  “Lent, dear! Not gave. Too good-natured for my own good, that’s my trouble.” Lady Kitty gave a sigh that rippled the tail ends of her headscarf. “People take advantage.”

  “You must take the Hoover back,” Frizzy made haste to say.

  “Certainly, dear! Pamela can tie it on her handlebars. My goal is always to encourage people like you to better yourselves, not to crush initiative. But first things first. Let me introduce my daughter-in-law, the Honourable Mrs. Allan Pomeroy. She and my only son live with me and Bobsie Cat—as we call Sir Robert. They have their own room and get one night out a week. Isn’t that right, Pamela?”

  “Yes, Mumsie Kitty.”

  “There isn’t a happier family anywhere. May God strike me dead if I tell a lie,” Lady Kitty told us.

  My father-in-law was a disgrace to the honoured Haskell name. Duty dictated that I seek him out at the Dark Horse and demand that he return with me to Merlin’s Court and beg Mum’s forgiveness for last night’s indiscretions. But before I reached the corner where Kitty Crescent turned onto Robert Road, I knew I wasn’t up to another round as peacemaker. The morning had been one big fat waste of time, and I longed to see my children again before they were grown up and ready to leave home.

  I was standing at the bus stop in the drizzling rain, looking at my watch, when there came a roar of thunder so low to the ground I feared the sky had fallen. A hurricane whipped my skirts between my legs as my cousin Freddy pulled up against the curb. His lean, mean legs straddled his motorbike, and the arms of his leather jacket were pushed up to display metal bracelets that looked like handcuffs. The pavement was still vibrating when he turned off the engine and flashed me a fond smile.

  “Want a lift, coz?”

  “Shouldn’t you be at Abigail’s?”

  “Lunch hour.” He shook his head sadly. “The curse of the workingman. Come on”—he patted the seat of the bike—“hop aboard.”

  His skull-and-crossbones earring, coupled with the ponytail that looked as if it had been used to wipe up an oil spill, did not suggest someone who would hum along, up hill and down dale, at a chaste thirty miles an hour. But as I have said, I was eager to get home now, if not sooner. For all I knew, Mum was sunk in depression, Jonas was on the brink of proposing marriage just to cheer her up, and the twins were hungry enough to eat each other.

  We were off in a blast worthy of Cape Canaveral. The car ahead of us took the ditch and a lorry backed around the nearest corner, leaving the road ours for the seizing. A dozen lampposts came charging at us like a troop of Gilbert and Sullivan policemen. Shops and windows gaped at us with wide window eyes, but even the traffic lights determined it was futile to try to stop us. Each one for a mile stretch turned green at our approach until the town itself took the hint and scarpered into the mist.

  “Comfy?” Freddy shouted over his shoulder.

  For the moment the Constable landscape hovered quietly behind its hedgerows, but who knew when a big furry cow might loom up and go “Moo!” or even “BOO!” If Mum had been here, she could have occupied herself with crocheting, but all I could do was make conversation.

  “I say,” I yelled, “do you know Allan Pomeroy?”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Robert and Lady Kitty’s son.”

  “Oh, him!” Freddy’s damp ponytail slapped my cheek. “Met him once at the Dark Horse. One of those fair, rosy-cheeked blokes who look as though they should still be in short trousers. Talked proper posh, mostly about his mother.”

  “Devoted to her, I suppose.”

  “Terrified, is more like. He was telling me and the other blokes at the bar how Mumsie arranged his marriage.”

  “Did what?” I almost bounced off my seat.

  “You mean you haven’t heard about it from your source?”

  “Mrs. Malloy? She must have assumed I already knew.”

  “I guess! Picking your son’s wife is going a bit overboard these days, wouldn’t you say? The woman has to be bonkers. Get this, Ellie: She arranged a cooking contest and awarded the bridegroom to the winner.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “As true as I’m sitting here.”

  “And women entered this contest?”

  “By the score. They came out of the woodwork. And who can wonder? With his father’s pedigree and Mumsie’s money, Allan Pomeroy had to be the most eligible bachelor for miles around. I tell you, coz, it makes me grateful to be a common slob.”

  I was speechless. The r
oad rose up like a drawbridge as we headed for the clifftop. My hands un-snapped from around Freddy’s middle, I was leaning backwards, my shoulders resting on a cushion of the air. The sky was inches from my face. Just when I thought I was to be thrown to the four winds, the world abruptly righted itself and we were buzzing down the straightaway within view of St. Anselm’s Church.

  “Amazing!” I said.

  “What is?”

  “Pamela. Have you ever met her, Freddy?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “She’s like a frightened puppy! I can’t picture her getting up the nerve to enter that contest.”

  “Still waters run deep.”

  “You can say that again,” I replied. We had Mum, the all-time altar girl, living in sin for thirty-eight years. Dad going skinny-dipping. Reverend Eudora Spike looking ready to commit murder. The list went on.… But Merlin’s Court had come racing into view, its gates flung wide in welcome. Consumed with impatience, I was halfway off the bike before Freddy brought it to a sputtering halt outside his cottage.

  “We must do this again sometime.” I gave my cousin a hug to help steady myself. “You’d better get going if you want to fix yourself a decent lunch.”

  “What did you say?” Freddy tends to feign deafness when told to grub for himself. He was staring at the house. And, raising my hand to part the misting rain like an organdy curtain, I saw what had attracted his attention. Someone was standing on the corner balcony.

  “Help! Somebody help me!” The wind batted the cry to us.

  “Hold tight, old sport!” Freddy shouted through cupped hands as he raced down the drive, his ponytail in full flight.

  Unfortunately I have never been able to accomplish two things at one time, such as run and see straight. Even when I closed in on the house I couldn’t put a face to the person on the balcony. Mum? Jonas? Mrs. Malloy? Oh, God! What was wrong?

  Another shout from on high brought me into collision with Freddy, who had leaped the mini-moat to reach the courtyard a good half dozen steps ahead of me. Such is my faith in the male sex, I expected my cousin to claw his way up the brick face without the aid of so much as a toothpick. But all the slowpoke did was place his hands on his hips and sing out, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel! Let down your hair!”

  A shaky laugh drifted down and I looked up to see Mr. Watkins. His rain-darkened beret was tipped over one eye, his cheeks were deflated, and he gripped the balcony railing as if he were the captain of a ship about to go down. Stupid me! His van was parked smack in the middle of the courtyard, but I hadn’t put the window cleaner on my list of suicidal possibilities. Even allowing for two or three lunch breaks, he should have been long gone.

  “Whatever’s wrong?” I quavered.

  Mr. Watkins managed a brave smile that stretched his thin moustache to the limit. “I can’t get down. The windows are locked and I cannot reach my rungs.”

  Freddy and I did an about-face, and lo and behold there was the ladder, propped up against the wall six feet away. A mere skip and a jump for Superman but an impossible stretch for Mr. Watkins, who was not known to exert himself.

  “Took a hike, did it?” My cousin gave his infamous smirk.

  The prisoner spread his hands in a flourish. “I went round the corner of the balcony to do the windows on the other side, and when I got back someone had moved the ladder.”

  “Cheer up, old cock,” Freddy said. “It’s a beautiful view.”

  “That it is, sir! I’m not one to complain, but I’ve been up here for hours.” Mr. Watkins hacked a consumptive cough. “I shouted for help till my voice gave out.”

  “This house is built like a fortress. Sound bounces off the walls.” Freddy flung a damp arm around my shoulders and whispered chummily in my ear, “That blighter’s going to sue you for everything you’re worth, coz.”

  “Rubbish!” I elbowed him towards the ladder. “We’ll have you on the ground in a jiff, Mr. Watkins.”

  “Much obliged!” Pressing a trembling hand to his beret, he swayed against the railing. “There were moments when my life flashed before my eyes.”

  “Freddy will get you down while I go inside and make a pot of tea.” So saying, I did a bunk towards the back door and let myself into the kitchen.

  No scene could have been easier on the eyes. The Aga cooker shone, the copper bowls gleamed, Tobias Cat was taking a siesta in the rocking chair, and Mum and Jonas were seated at the table, she crocheting away for dear life while he looked on in admiration.

  “There’s magic in your hands, Magdalene.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, Jonas.”

  So this is what they had been up to while my back was turned! Getting on a first-name basis while leaving the window cleaner playing the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet!

  “Are you two having a nice chat?” I asked brightly.

  “It were time for a bit of a sit down, after the morning we’ve had”—Jonas scuffed back his chair and stood—“isn’t that right, Magdalene?”

  “Are the twins all right?” My eyes went from one elderly face to the other.

  “Would I neglect them?” Mum rolled up her crocheting. “They’ve been fed and are down for their naps.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  “For starters, Sweetie refused to come out of her room. Poor little mite! She still feels in the way. Then we couldn’t find St. Francis. Too much clutter everywhere you look, but if it doesn’t bother you, Ellie, and my son has adapted himself, far be it from me to criticize. We all have different standards.” Mum paused for breath. “About half an hour ago I did have a very unpleasant experience, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about that right now; I’m still far too upset.”

  Had Dad telephoned? It was hard not to pry; but I focussed on the moment at hand. “Do either of you know how the window cleaner came to be marooned on one of the balconies?”

  “What’s that?” Jonas’s wintry eyebrows shot up.

  “Someone moved his ladder.”

  “He’d stuck its legs in the flower bed.” Mum sniffed “In this rain! Maybe you wouldn’t have minded the horrid holes that would have been left, Ellie, but I brought up Ben to be particular. It took some doing, let me tell you, to drag that heavy ladder onto the courtyard. Not that I’m asking for sympathy. No, that must all be saved for another.”

  “Serves Watkins right!” Jonas put in his twopenny worth. “Always expecting to get paid for doing nowt. It do tickle me pink, as how this time he got his wish.”

  Mum favoured him with a compression of the lips that was as close as she ever got to a smile.

  “Born doing nothing and done nothing ever since, that’s him!” Jonas ranted on. “Parading around the place in that daft beret and silk cravat like he just got out of France in a cartload of cabbages. I do be telling you there’s people as what get locked up for a lot less.”

  At this opportune moment Mr. Watkins entered the kitchen. And if he couldn’t be counted upon to seize the moment and make it worse, Freddy came in behind him.

  “Feeling better?” I asked the walking wounded.

  “He’s in a bad way,” Freddy said with a gloat.

  “I’ll say three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers, seeing I’m the one to blame.” Mum stood, arms straight at her sides, ready and willing to be pierced through with the arrows of reproach. The look Mr. Watkins gave her was not sweet as honey, but he was clearly not up to a showdown. Pressing a hand to his beret, he swayed in the breeze stirred up by all the heavy breathing in the room.

  “If I could just sit down for a moment, Mrs. Haskell.…”

  “Of course!” I hurried over to the rocking chair, and when Tobias Cat refused to budge fluffed him up like a cushion. “How’s that?”

  “Thanks ever so.”

  Freddy, every inch the thwarted thespian, helped lower Mr. Watkins to his seat. “Don’t you have a footstool for him, Ellie? The man fainted three times getting here.”

  Life had its moments. I managed to ge
t rid of Jonas, who was rolling his eyes and making rude grunts, by asking him to go and fetch a hassock. Confident that he wouldn’t hurry himself, I focussed on the next order of business: sending Freddy on his merry way. When he didn’t take the hint that his lunch break had to be well and truly over, I held the garden door open and told him to scram.

  “But Ben would want me to stay.” My cousin gave me his most winsome smile. “My boss—alias your adoring husband—instructed me to buzz by the old homestead and see how things were going.”

  Mum had tears in her eyes, but I managed to restrain my emotion. “Then you had best hurry back and report.” Before I finished counting to ten, Freddy ambled off down the steps to my amazement, and when I turned back into the kitchen, Mum, every inch the martyr, was making Mr. Watkins a cup of tea.

  “Feeling any better?” I asked him.

  “They say time’s a great healer, Mrs. Haskell, but I doubt I’ll ever be able to climb that ladder again.” He gripped the arms of the rocker as it swayed backwards, his eyes brimming with terror. “You see how it is! I don’t feel safe this far off the ground. So what’s to become of me? That’s the question going around and around in my head. I’d been thinking of late that it might be nice to be married. But what woman in her right mind would take on a wretched invalid?”

  “I’m sure you’re painting too bleak a picture.” I couldn’t look at Mum for fear she was bracing herself to make the ultimate sacrifice. Then again, that might be just what was needed to return Dad to his senses.

  “Between you and me and the kitchen sink”—Mr. Watkins burrowed back in the chair to the vocal displeasure of Tobias—“I’ve always hoped that me and Roxie Malloy could make a match of it.”

  “That might be a way out for her,” Mum said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked without fear or trembling. My mother-in-law looked so harmless standing there by the stove. She didn’t drop the kettle, which in her hands acquired the magnitude of a ten-gallon watering can; instead, she dropped her bombshell. “I gave the woman the sack.”

  “I don’t believe it!” After all the horrors of the past twenty-four hours, I was still a babe in the woods, but I did not give way to the childish impulse to flood the floor with my tears. For starters, I had no idea what Mrs. Malloy had done with the mop, unless she had cracked it over my mother-in-law’s head before marching upstairs to regale the twins with the dreadful news that she was lost to them.