How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law

by Dorothy Cannell

“You’re right.” The cruel words slipped past my lips. “It is absolutely none of your business.”

  An appalled silence descended, but I refused to drop dead even though Mum stood there looking as small and lost as the statue of St. Francis. The situation could not be solved by the simple expedient of dusting her off and putting her back on the shelf. More’s the pity. “I’ve known this was coming,” Mum said in a tired little voice. “It was only a matter of time before I was driven out into the streets.…”

  “Now then, lass”—Jonas placed a gentle hand on her shoulder—“b’aint no call to go upsetting yourself. Ellie here is a mite impetuous like most young’uns. She don’t mean the half of what she says.”

  “Is that so?” I met Ben’s stony expression unflinchingly before turning on my heel, and, without missing more than a few beats when my foot skidded out from under me on Tam’s miniature fire engine, swept out into the hall and up the stairs. No sound of the cavalry headed by Rin Tin Tin in hot pursuit assailed my ears. Not that I cared. One minute to the second later I returned to the kitchen wearing my outdoor togs and carrying a brown suitcase. Unfortunately I was not possessed of a pair of arm-length black satin gloves to pull on with awful finality. But, then again, I don’t claim to have Mrs. Malloy’s style.

  “I checked on the twins and they’re sound asleep,” I informed the assembled faces. “There’s mediocre cottage pie and some salad in the fridge, so if you will kindly excuse me, I’m off.”

  Jonas’s eyebrows went up and didn’t come down; as for Mum’s reaction or that of her son, what’s-his-name, I did not waste time taking inventory.

  “Wait!” Ben followed me out into the grey gauze of rain. We faced each other across twenty paces of courtyard like participants in a duel that must inevitably end in one of us being carried away on a stretcher and the other being bundled into a coach and driven hell-for-leather to the coast, where a boat would be waiting to set sail for France. We were lacking only our seconds. But doubtless Mum and Jonas would momentarily appear to stand beside Ben and hand him the requisite brace of pistols, along with informing him when to duck.

  “I hope this isn’t about your misplaced cuff links or something equally inconsequential.” Staring coldly into my husband’s fierce blue-green eyes, I stoically refused to be distracted by the wistful tendril of raven hair clinging to his damp brow.

  “I can’t let you go like this, Ellie.”

  Now we were talking.

  “Just try and stop me!” Suitcase firmly in hand, I headed for the square of courtyard in front of the stables, where his car, old Heinz, was parked—courtesy of my cousin Freddy. A wry, bitter smile touched my lips in anticipation of Ben’s next move. He would catch up with me in one masterful stride, spin me around to face him, and when he crushed me to his worsted wool chest, I would feel the anguished pounding of his heart and the hot rush of his breath upon my eyes … my face … my creamy neck, before his lips seized mine in a kiss that would bring both of us to our knees.

  My steps slowed. But the earth didn’t move and neither did my husband. His voice caught up with me as I reached the moat bridge. “As I was saying, my dear, I can’t let you go without satisfying my curiosity on one subject.”

  “Which is?” I kept my back to him.

  “Who is the chap camping out in the stable loft?”

  “Do you mean the one who looks like a schoolteacher?”

  “Is there more than one?”

  “Not when I last looked.” I turned wearily to face him. “But what with one thing and another, it has been one of those days. Anyway, there’s no need to hide your straight razor. Mr. Savage is quite harmless.”

  “He told me he was a rock-and-roll singer, when I collided with him on my way to the house.”

  “So he will be when he learns to carry a tune.”

  “And just where did you dig him up?”

  “He’s a friend of Freddy’s.”

  The former love of my life did not ask why my philanthropic cousin had not offered Mr. Savage a room at the cottage. He knew the answer to that one. What he said was “Ellie, this is madness. We cannot turn our home into a hotel.”

  We were now eyeing each other with the venom that only two people deeply in love can display.

  “You don’t say!” Standing with a hand on my hip à la Joan Crawford, I feigned a smile. “Excuse me, but I thought that was exactly what we’re doing.” I was a viper. And the best part is I felt not a whit of remorse. I even gave the knife a twist when adding, “On Mr. Savage’s behalf, let me say he isn’t living in the house, turning it upside down and everyone against me.” Head down, I pawed the flagstones with my hoof, and when I looked up it was to see the garden door close behind the dark shadow of my husband’s back. How could he let me go without a backwards glance?

  Having successfully put myself out in the cold, I immediately wished there was some way out of the situation other than returning to the house, suitcase in hand, or heading for the open road. Reminding myself without much enthusiasm that blessed are the persecuted, I took a couple of steps back towards the garden door, but could not bring myself to mount the steps. All things considered, I would have preferred to drink weed killer rather than swallow the required dose of humiliation.

  My decision to take Ben’s car instead of my own wasn’t entirely due to its being conveniently parked outside the stables. The Heinz was a temperamental beast liable to break down if another vehicle looked at it cross-eyed. With a bit of luck I wouldn’t get beyond our gates before it began sending up smoke signals in an attempt at summoning assistance, thus forcing my husband to come charging to the rescue, remorse flowing from every pore as he prayed he would reach me while I still had my eyebrows.

  Serve him right! The rain had let up, meaning it wouldn’t put a damper on things, and there was still enough of a breeze to fan the would-be flames nicely. Somewhat cheered, I tossed the suitcase in the backseat and climbed behind the wheel. With the wind breathing down my neck through the open window I turned the key in the ignition. My reward was an ominous grunt and grind, and when I pressed the pedal to the floor, all hell broke loose under the bonnet—everything from pings and thumps to what sounded like an official explosion. So far no smoke, but you can’t have everything—including, it would seem, a husband hot-hoofing it to save his beloved car, if not his wife, from extinction.

  Who would have believed it? Ben had been known to wake up in a cold sweat if he thought the Heinz in danger of catching a chill from being left in the stable with the door open a crack. He would race outside to tuck a couple of woolly blankets over the torn seats when the temperature dipped to dangerous lows. I even suspected he had made provisions for the car in his will. So where was Sir Galahad? Twisting my head almost off my neck, I looked back to the house. Not a curtain twitched. Not a door peeked open. Nothing but the blank-eyed stare of the tall windows and a glimpse of Mr. Watkins’s ladder propped up against the balcony on which he had been stranded.

  Sadly, he had not had the stamina in his depleted state to move it to his van, but I was made of sterner stuff. There had to be a way for me to remove myself from the home turf, even if I could not take my own car because the Heinz blocked its exit from the stable.…

  “Having a spot of bother, Mrs. Haskell?” The kindly voice nearly did me in. Mr. Savage stood beside my open window, having appeared out of nowhere like a genie bent on granting me three wishes. It had been several hours since we last met, but time had been kind to him. His grey pinstripe suit had not picked up any wrinkles, his hair was neatly plastered down, and his smile was that of a true troubadour. It banished the clouds that had descended upon my soul, causing me to do the unthinkable—confide my troubles to a man who owed me nothing but the roof over his head.

  “Nothing’s wrong of any major importance.” I blinked to ward off tears in the duly ascribed manner of the damsel in distress. “I was about to run away from home, but the wretched car won’t start.”

  His bespectacle
d eyes begged me to say it wasn’t so; then they spotted the suitcase in the backseat and hope fled like a wayward dove.

  “Has there been trouble”—his chin quivered—“over my being here?”

  “Of course not.” I smiled bravely up at him.

  “Did I eat you out of house and home at breakfast?”

  “Now, stop that! My husband”—nobly giving the devil his due—“my husband is not one to count the eggs.”

  “Then … if I may be so bold”—Mr. Savage cupped a hand around his mouth to prevent his words being transported by the wind back to the house—“is the problem your mother-in-low?”

  “She’s going through a difficult time,” I hedged.

  “But that’s no excuse for her to make your life a living hell.” Mr. Savage blushed at the profanity. “You don’t deserve such treatment, Mrs. Haskell. One has to know you for only a few hours … minutes … seconds even, to know that you are deserving of the utmost ador—respect.”

  “That’s life!” Bending my head over the steering wheel, I willed him to pour more balm over my wounded spirit, and he came through like a trooper.

  “Were I ever to be blessed with a wife such as you”—his hand touched mine with gentlemanly restraint—“I would wash my mother’s mouth out with soap if she said one cross word to you. To me you’re a goddess, Mrs. Haskell.”

  “You mustn’t exaggerate.”

  “You took me in out of the storm.”

  “It wasn’t raining that hard.” I mustered a smile.

  “For you, I would slay dragons!”

  A mother-in-law by any other name! My spirits were rising by the second.

  “I’d move mountains for you.” His spectacles had misted up.

  “That’s awfully kind,” I said, “but what would really help would be for you to help me get this car running.”

  “More than happy!” Mr. Savage positively beamed as I moved over for him to climb aboard. Life was certainly looking up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the garden door crack open a full half inch. Good! Let the nosy parker wonder what was going on in the front seat of his car. Mr. Savage clearly had a way with motor vehicles. And when Heinz gave the soft-throated purr of a pussycat being nudged awake by its owner’s foot, I could think of only one way to reward my knight in a pinstripe suit.

  “Mr. Savage?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Haskell?”

  “Would you care to chauffeur me into the village?”

  “I … I … regret I must decline the privilege.” His pale face flushed.

  Properly snubbed, I told him I quite understood.

  “No, you don’t.” He caught himself in time to eliminate any suggestion of a rebuke. “A woman of your incomparable gifts would be unlikely to suspect the brutal truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I can’t drive. Mother would never let me learn.”

  “What a dreadful waste,” I said with absolute sincerity. “You are a natural if ever I saw one, Mr. Savage.”

  “Do you really think so?” With a smile like his, who needed headlights?

  Feeling happier than I had in minutes, I impulsively asked if he would like to embark on his first lesson.

  “That would be super.”

  “Only one small caveat.” I wagged a warning finger. “Do not, if you value your life, touch any of those knobs.”

  “Whatever you say.” He jerked his hand from the danger zone and fixed his bewildered spectacles upon my face. “Would the wheels fall off?”

  “That innocuous-looking panel is the radio, and my husband does not look kindly upon anyone who changes the station.”

  “Entirely his prerogative,” Mr. Savage replied sanguinely. “Not a word of criticism shall pass my lips.” Heaving up in his seat, he leaned out the window, his head straining on his neck as he looked first right, then left. “Your mentioning the wireless, Mrs. Haskell, was a timely reminder that I had my little tape recorder with me when I came from the stables and that I set it down on the ground before speaking to you. Oh, super-duper! Here it is!” Up he came for air, holding the small plastic box with its hundred and one buttons, for all the world, as it were, our last hope of sending out a distress signal to the mainland. “I was hoping I would see you”—head bent, Mr. Savage buffed away at fingerprints, imagined or otherwise, on the shiny black surface—“I wanted to tell you that I wrote my first song this afternoon.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “It’s titled ‘The Fair Maid of Chitterton Fells.’ ”

  “How catchy!” Trying not to look as though I harboured any suspicion that I might be the inspiration behind his little ditty, I smoothed back my tousled tresses and looked at him through rain-darkened lashes. The shadows painted pinstripes on his face to match his suit as he hugged the tape recorder to his sunken chest.

  “It is a paean to love at first sight.”

  “Lovely!”

  Was I guilty of a grave error in judgment? The pre-cariousness of my situation hit home when Mr. Savage, with an exuberant “Toot! Toot!” set the car in motion with a backwards lurch and a forward thrust. Away we went in leaps and bounds. The iron gates came rushing at us as if this were the local gymkhana and they were the first obstacle to be sailed over before our horses took the water jump.

  “Brake! Brake!” I shouted.

  “No problem!” That ticking sound wasn’t a bomb; he had inadvertently yanked on the signal indicator.

  “Hit the pedal!”

  “Right!”

  “No! The one on the left!” When I pried my hands away from my eyes, it was to discover that Mr. Savage had brought the Heinz to a standstill three quarters of an inch from the cliff edge. From below came the disappointed sigh of the turbulent sea.

  He beamed at me. “How’s that?”

  “Wonderful! But don’t even think about trying to cross the finish line.” While he was making his eight-point turn, I clung to the edge of my seat, along with the hope that Ben would put in an eleventh-hour appearance.

  He did not do the husbandly thing, but the remainder of the drive into the village was reasonably sedate. No more playing vehicular hopscotch. A single foray up the embankment, and only once rearing up on our hind wheels to chase a squirrel up a tree.

  “Think I’m getting the hang of it?” Mr, Savage’s smile penetrated my closed lids like strong sunlight.

  “You should take up driving professionally.”

  “I may look into it if my career in rock and roll doesn’t take off.” We were going the wrong way down a one-way street. But why be a spoilsport! The lampposts had the good sense to dodge out of the way, and Barclays Bank and the town clock could give as good as they got. Besides which, we were within swinging distance of the sign heralding the Dark Horse.

  “This is it, Mr. Savage.”

  “You mean …” He peeled his hands off the wheel to stare at the pub with its ye old oak timbers and leaded windows.

  “We have arrived at my destination.” I had to raise my voice over the crunch of metal on metal as the Heinz nosed onto the pavement to collide with a disposal bin, rocking it on its cement socks. “Do you want to wait while I go inside, or …?” I left the question ajar, along with my door, as I climbed out.

  “I would be honoured to join you in a lemonade.” He turned off the engine as if he had been in the habit for years.

  “That’s awfully kind of you.” I closed the car door on his hopes of thumbing a metaphoric finger at his mother. “However, I came here only to deliver the suitcase in the backseat. It belongs to my father-in-law, who is putting up here.”

  “You aren’t really running away from home?” Spectacles agog, Mr. Savage followed me onto the sidewalk.

  A sigh feathered the hair back from my brow. “Only for half an hour or so.” I was about to suggest that we could take the longcut home in the interest of putting the wind up my loving family, but I was not a complete jade. The poor, susceptible man must not be subjected to prolonged proximity with my charming
self. The scent of Pine-Scrub emanating from my skin might lead him to do something foolish, such as offer to buy me a bag of potato chips. I would see the prodigal father, give him a quick talking-to, and tell Mr. Savage that I would drive home.

  What he lacked in brute strength he more than made up for in gallantry as he proceeded towards the etched glass door of the Dark Horse, practically on all fours, dragging the carcass—I mean the suitcase—along the ground. When we were blocking the path of a couple of decidedly merry blokes who appeared uncertain whether they were coming or going, he remembered he had left the tape recorder in the car, where anyone could steal it.

  Rather than watch him hobble back to the curb like Caliban, I did the honours this time. Then without much more ado we entered the saloon bar to be blinded by the dazzling array of copper warming pans and ornamental horseshoes. Elbowing our way through the crush of local yokels, we crossed in front of the gas log fire to reach the bar with its two-inch coat of varnish and enough brass handles to steer a rocket ship.

  “Out on a date, madam?” The woman at the helm paused in mopping up spills to look from me to Mr. Savage and back again.

  Taking a deep breath of malt-liquor air, I hugged the tape recorder to my chest. “Whatever are you doing here, Mrs. Malloy?”

  “Earning a living.” Pride inflated her considerable bosom. “I’m the new barmaid. It’s me life’s calling.” She picked up a glass, blew on it, gave it a buff with her cloth, and set it down with exaggerated care. “Sad to say, I didn’t get to answer the summons until this evening, after I was given the heave-ho from me job at Merlin’s Court. But as they say, Mrs. H., when one door closes, another one opens. I had a word with me old chum Edna Pickle after I took Mr. Watkins home. She suggested this might be a good career move.”

  “How is Mr. Watkins?” I flustered.

  “Not long for this world, from the sound of him.” Shooing my hand off the counter with her cloth, Mrs. Malloy buffed fiercely away at the unsightly fingerprints. “But we have to bear in mind that only the good die young.” A sigh ruffled her purple eyelashes. “What goes to explain why your mother-in-law is still numbered among the living. As for you, my lad”—she pointed a finger that made Peter Savage jump—“the least you could’ve done to earn your keep was make the old girl a cup of tea and stir in a couple of spoons of arsenic.”