“I’m surprised she wasn’t made to turn it off earlier, with her grandmother so ill.” Mum gave one of her signature sniffs.
“The family’s so used to the racket, they don’t even hear it. And if the doctor told the kid to lower the music, I doubt as how she would have listened to him. She’s a willful one, that Dawn, and no mistake. Surprises me she even bothered going to the hospital; she wasn’t much of a one for her gran. I kept out of the way when they was leaving so as not to intrude, and I can tell you I wasn’t sorry to miss one of her tantrums.”
Mrs. Pickle plowed a path across the box-size room that barely offered a place to stand despite the table being pushed flush against the French windows and stacked high with the dining chairs, a couple of ottomans, and a television set.
“I was thinking of giving this place a good top and tailing, when Mrs. Taffer took bad.” She lifted a couple of light bulbs, one at a time, and a box of crayons from one of the two easy chairs, while Mum removed her damp raincoat and laid it cautiously over the empty clotheshorse in front of the fireplace. “One good thing about Frizzy Taffer, she don’t never rush you. She says if she gets the place halfway shipshape by the time the kiddies is all grown, that’s soon enough for her.”
“Frizzy’s a gem.” Trembling, I sat and inadvertently put my hand on the little table between Mum’s chair and mine. I watched it topple over, catching Sweetie on the tail before she could streak for safety.
“One of the legs is wobbly.” Mrs. Pickle came forward at what for her was a rush. “Here, I know as how I can fix it.” She reached into her coat pocket and brought out a piece of paper already folded in two, and proceeded to wad it up until it was a couple of inches square. “There!” She righted the table and stuck the paper under the peg leg. “That should help keep it steady. Now, how would it be if I poured both you ladies a glass of me rhubarb wine. I brought it over this afternoon as me way of showing I wasn’t upset about Dawn accusing me of pinching her dolls.”
This not seeming the time to point out that Mrs. Pickle was indeed guilty as charged, I smiled politely as she poured a couple of glasses from the bottle on the sideboard.
“I’m not much of a drinker.” Mum watched Sweetie take a charge at the clotheshorse, sending it and her raincoat flying. “But if you think it will do my nerves good, I’ll take a couple of sips.…”
“There’s nothing better, and everyone that’s tried it says they don’t mind the iron taste none.”
Upon this glowing recommendation, Mrs. Pickle handed us our glasses and said she would go out to the kitchen and make up a plate of sandwiches.
“Don’t go to all that bother,” Mum told her.
“It’ll give me something to do to keep me mind off poor Mrs. Taffer. Now, just you sit tight and I’ll be back in a tick.”
“That means half an hour,” I said when the door closed behind her.
“The woman means well, Ellie.”
“That’s true.” I took a sniff of my wine and wasn’t very keen on the bouquet, possibly because it smelled like very old rhubarb.
“You’re on edge, and no wonder, with poor Beatrix in the hospital and that music blaring upstairs.” Mum went to set her glass on the table, but before she even made contact, over it went again. “Obviously Mrs. Pickle didn’t fold that piece of paper properly. Not that I’m criticizing.” She gave me her wine to hold before bending down to remove the wad and smooth it out for geometrically correct restructuring. “I realize the woman’s had a difficult day, first with us and that business of the dolls and—”
Mum broke off, to stand staring at me while Sweetie took a dive onto the sofa and began burrowing under the cushions, all without a word of reprimand.
“Take a look at this, Ellie.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the hush that indicated Mrs. Pickle had turned off Dawn’s radio overhead. “It’s a threatening letter. And it’s not from the Gas Board either.”
“Let me see.” I took the piece of paper and read aloud: “ ‘Dear Mrs. Pickle, I’m sticking this through your letter box to let you know I saw you push that old girl off the cliff last night. In order for me to keep quiet about same, you must put two hundred pounds in the hollow tree at the top of the lane that leads to Pomeroy Manor. A sincere well-wisher.’ ”
Mum shook her head. “It has to be a joke. One of Mrs. Pickle’s voodoo chums having a bit of fun with her; common sense tells you that if there was a word of truth to it, she’d never have used the letter to steady the table.”
“She can’t read,” I said. “Lady Kitty told me so the other day. Bad luck for the blackmailer! And he had to communicate by letter, because Mrs. Pickle doesn’t have a phone.”
“I still say it’s a prank.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “Bridget Spike did go over the cliff last night without suffering any serious injury, thank God; and she later told Eudora she was pushed. And this morning I learned that Lady Kitty has died in a bicycle accident.”
“You never said a word to me!”
“I didn’t want to alarm you.”
“They were just at the house for tea! And now we have Beatrix, who’s eaten or drunk something that’s upset her!” Mum looked with horror at our wineglasses. “I hope I’m not one to get all worked up over nothing, Ellie, but it looks to me as if there’s trouble in Chitterton Fells.”
“We have to get out of here.” I picked up Mum’s raincoat from the floor and held it for her while she tried to put two arms into one sleeve. “This afternoon Dad went down with me to the police station to try to persuade Sergeant Briggs that we have reason to believe that someone hereabouts is targeting certain women.”
“If you mean elderly women of your acquaintance, say so, Ellie.” Mum finally freed one of her arms. “Now I understand that telephone message, the one Jonas gave you from the police. But they’re certainly taking their time if Mrs. Pickle”—she lowered her voice—“is the person to be brought in for questioning.”
“Let’s not wait for them to get here.” I looked towards the French windows blocked by the table with its tower of chairs and other odds and sods. Reluctantly I decided our best bet would be to try to slip out unnoticed by the front door.
“Now, hold on a minute, Ellie.” Mum stopped fussing with her raincoat and looked at me steadily. “You’re young—which no one is blaming you for—and one day you’ll learn not to jump to uncharitable conclusions. We have only the blackmailer’s word that Mrs. Pickle pushed Bridget Spike off that cliff and, to be completely fair to her, there was heavy fog, and—” Mum cut herself off as she bent to pick up Sweetie from the sofa. She gaped at what the little doggie had clenched in her jaws.
“Is it St. Francis?” I asked.
“No, he’s still in here!” Mum pointed an agitated finger at her raincoat pocket. “This is”—prying it free from the canine jaws—“another of those voodoo dolls. Only this one isn’t me! It’s …”
“Tricks.” I looked with revulsion at the spiky red hair and the frock made out of scraps of Indian muslin.
“Ellie, you suit yourself! Make all the allowances you like for Mrs. Pickle, I am getting out of this house while there is still time. And don’t go telling me there’s two of us to one of her, and there’s really nothing to be worried about.…”
I had her by the elbow and was propelling her towards the door, when it opened smack in front of us. In came Mrs. Pickle, still in her coat and hat, and with a carving knife in her hand to complete her ensemble.
“Would you believe I was slicing up the bread for sandwiches, when I got to thinking as how you might be ready for some more rhubarb wine.” Her face was as bland as rice pudding, and there wasn’t a hint of ill nature in her voice when she looked at what Mum was holding, and said, “I see as how you’ve found another of them dolls. And to think I stuck it so far down the back of the sofa, I thought I’d never get me arm back out again.”
“Dogs will be dogs.” Mum looked down pridefully at Sweet
ie. “Thanks to this little bloodhound, we know that what the blackmailer wrote to you was true.” Mum took a step backwards. “You are a murderer … not that I’m criticizing, you understand.”
“She’s referring to this letter!” Desperately hoping to reduce Mrs. Pickle to contrite tears, I brandished the sheet of paper in her face. “The writer claims to have seen you shove Bridget Spike off the cliff.”
“Aren’t some people nosy!” Whether she was referring to me or the blackmailer was unclear. “And to think I went to all the trouble of putting that letter in my pocket so as I could have Roxie Malloy read it to me the way she does all my correspondence. Do you know”—Mrs. Pickle gave a bemused laugh—“it’s going to plague me all night long, wondering who could have wrote it? But there you are, if it’s not one thing, it’s another. All I do know is it was some skinflint who was too mean to pay for a stamp and came and stuck it through the letter box. What I have to keep telling meself is I’m not going to let nothing spoil the happy day when I win the Martha.”
“So that’s it!” I exclaimed.
“I was so sure this would be my year. Gladstone Spike gave me the willies till I got to realizing he’d never get to win. People would say it wasn’t fair, him being the vicar’s husband. But then the blow fell. I knew as how Mrs. Taffer’s marrows were real marvels, I’d tasted Lady Kitty’s pies and knew they was unbeatable, and that the same went for Bridget Spike’s marmalade, and then there was you!” If looks could kill, the one Mrs. Pickle gave Mum would have worked on the spot. “In all me born days I’ve never seen no one crochet the like.”
“We can’t all be good at everything,” Mum murmured kindly.
“But we can take our destiny in our own two hands, like what that fortune-telling cousin of Mrs. Ellie Haskell here said. I knew as how he had the gift when he said he saw a high-class gent and a journey across the sea for someone in the room that day.”
“Freddy was talking out of the side of his head,” I said.
“I suppose”—Mrs. Pickle looked down at her carving knife—“some people would say as how I’ve gone a bit overboard over a trophy given at the St. Anselm’s Summer Fête, that there’s always another year, and so on; but what they would be missing is that this time Sir Robert’s cousin, the Honourable George Clydesdale, will be the one making the presentation—him who’s such a bigwig in the wine-making business, with his own vineyards in France, no less! I couldn’t pass up the opportunity of making him sit up and take notice of me dandelion wine. Not a man like that! For years I’ve had dreams of having me labels plastered on bottles all over the country. I’m not one of them women what sits back and waits for life to take her by the hand.”
“So Mrs. Malloy told me.” Lightning crashed. I edged closer to Mum. “She even suggested you might have done away with prior candidates in the annual race to take home the Martha.”
“What a wicked fib!” Mrs. Pickle was completely outraged. “This is the one and only time I haven’t played quite fair, so to speak. And none of this has been a piece of cake, let me tell you. I wasn’t one bit sure as how any of the murders would come off according to plan, so I had to use the dolls to help me luck along. And after you found the one at Merlin’s Court, I was at me wit’s end.” Her face strongly resembled a hot cross bun when she looked at Mum. “I’m not so daft I didn’t know I’d never be welcome back in your house. There went me hopes of burying you under a wardrobe or such. But things seemed to take a turn around when I heard young Dawn ring up and leave word that her gran, for all she was delirious, kept saying her old friend’s name. I’d put the herb killer in the rhubarb wine—when I couldn’t lay me hands on Beatrix Taffer’s bottle of youth tonic—and got her to drink some by telling her it would make her face soft and smooth as a baby’s bottom. So all I had left to do was stay on here after the family left for the hospital and wait for you to show up like lambs to the slaughter.”
“A pity for you we didn’t drink the wine.” Mum’s sniff held a certain complacency.
“So I see.” Mrs. Pickle looked at the full glasses. “A waste of perfectly good poison, if you ask me. And I had it all worked out a treat in my mind. I was going to tell the coppers I overheard Mrs. Ellie Haskell here accusing you—after she’d drunk the wine and realized too late it had tasted funny—of bumping off Mrs. Beatrix Taffer. All because you was jealous of her carryings-on with your husband. And I was going to say as how I rushed into the room to see you drinking down your glass. It would have looked like you took your own life in a fit of remorse. And that you’d tried your tricks on Bridget Spike and done away with Lady Kitty to confuse the issue, in a manner of speaking.”
“But I was never in this house before today.” Mum spoke up with the indignant courage of one who has truth for an ally. Thunder rattled deafeningly.
“And I’ll say you was.” Mrs. Pickle was fingering the carving knife in a manner that strongly suggested she could not be depended upon to exercise what little reason she had left. I was thinking that it wasn’t a case of two against one—given Mum’s size, but more like one and a half against one—when a miracle happened. The lights went out, plunging the room into impenetrable darkness, as will happen during a storm. Nothing inexplicable about that. The unearthly quality intruded when a misty white form, small in stature but giving off a wondrous glow, floated upwards to hover in limbo between floor and ceiling.
I might know that Mum had taken St. Francis from her raincoat pocket and was holding him heavenward in mute entreaty for spiritual sustenance, but Mrs. Pickle wasn’t privy to this mundane fact. Understandably, she beheld an angelic vision sent to reclaim her from the forces of evil. Hadn’t she been a Roman Catholic once upon a time, before she went to work at the vicarage? The knife fell with a thud, right on my foot, and I had just picked it up when the lights came back on and the doorbell rang.
“Excuse us.” I grabbed Mum’s hand, the one that wasn’t holding St. Francis, and rushed past the cowering Mrs. Pickle on our way out the door and into the hall.
“I can’t help feeling sorry for the woman.” Mum tripped and righted herself. “All that talk of hers earlier today about her great-great-grandmother being a witch—meaning she was probably batty as they come—leads me to suspect there must be insanity in the family.”
“We can’t always blame heredity,” I replied. “It’s just as likely to be an environmental problem.”
“In other words, Ellie, it’s Mrs. Pickle’s mother’s fault for making her pick up her toys at night!” Mum was obviously well on the way to her own emotional recovery, when she opened the front door to reveal a policeman on the rainswept step.
“Evening, ladies!” Sergeant Briggs took no pains to hold back his sigh at having to deal yet again with nutty members of the nefarious Haskell family. “I’ve come round in response to a complaint from one of the neighbours about loud music. I’d have been here sooner, but it’s been one of those nights. So”—he looked sternly from me to Mum—“who am I to take prisoner?”
“The mothers-in-law murderer,” I told him as lightning crashed. “And here’s a word of warning in your ear: If she should happen to offer you a glass of rhubarb wine, be sure and stick to your policeman’s pledge of never drinking on duty.”
Epilogue
Poor Mrs. Malloy! She took the news of her friend Edna’s fall from grace extremely hard. And although she admitted that work was a great healer, she was still talking the subject out of her system a week later as she stood in the kitchen at Merlin’s Court, pouring herself a cup of tea for the road.
“I knew she had her faults same as we all do, Mrs. H., but I never dreamed she had such a downright nasty streak. It don’t do to look back, I know, but I can’t get over thinking that if I’d only kept my trap shut and not told Edna about your bloodthirsty chat with the other ladies at the Dark Horse, Lady Kitty Pomeroy would be alive today.”
“Now, stop that,” I said for the fortieth time. “I’ve done my own share of blaming myself for what h
appened, but I have come to realize that Mrs. Pickle’s obsession was such that she would have found a way to get rid of the mothers-in-law willy-nilly. What we have to focus on is that Bridget survived her fall off the cliff, that Tricks made a remarkable recovery after ingesting the weed killer, and that Mum came through physically unscathed.”
“You’re quite the pick-me-up!” Mrs. Malloy rinsed out her cup at the sink and stared out the window into the bright afternoon sunshine. “But before you get too cheerful, you’d better remember, Mrs. H., that you’re stuck with having to find a replacement for Mr. Watkins now that he’s all set to do time for blackmail.”
“No problem,” I said. “It turns out that Mr. Savage has decided he’s not cut out to be a rock-and-roll singer, but that he does love the outdoor life. So he will be taking over Mr. Watkins’s window-cleaning business. Did I ever explain to you”—I undid Mrs. Malloy’s apron for her and hung it over the back of a chair—“that Pamela had guessed all along, on account of his having been doing the windows on the day her aunt brought her the pie for the wedding bake-off, that Mr. Watkins was the blackmailer?”
“You told me, Mrs. H., at least one hundred times.”
“But did I mention that Pamela paid a visit to the police station immediately after Dad and I talked to Sergeant Briggs? She confirmed my murder story and conveyed her suspicions about Mr. Watkins. And did you know that the phone call Jonas received was intended to inform me that Mr. Watkins, not the murderer, was about to be picked up for questioning?”
“I believe you did.” Mrs. Malloy refrained from rolling her eyes as she put on her fur coat and sequined cloche hat. “And if you don’t mind, ducks, it’s a sore subject, seeing as I was responsible for giving him the earful he used to put the clamps on you for money.”
I followed her to the door. “It did puzzle me that I was the only one among the daughters-in-law that he contacted, but once you told me that you mentioned only my name in connection with the matter …”
How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law Page 26
