The Widow's Walk

by Carole Ann Moleti

  “You and Kevin should go. Next fall.” How they would pay for it without a salary remained to be seen.

  “This is more important right now. Let me pass, so I can go to the bathroom.”

  Mike stood while she, along with the gent who’d snagged the window seat, got up. He dodged the flight attendants serving breakfast, then headed to the john himself. The plane dropped, leaving his stomach in his throat. Flustered, he fumbled with the door lock but relaxed when it clicked open as the captain announced that they were beginning their descent.

  The tasteless bread with butter and jelly was cold, but the tea was hot. They said English food was awful. Pubs were supposed to be best. Didn’t have a tour book. Didn’t have a clue about anything. Maybe the hotel they’d stay in would have a concierge who could read tea leaves like Professor Trelawny in Harry Potter and decipher what the A and S meant.

  The seat seemed smaller. Mike’s knees skimmed the bottom of the tray. His ears popped. His fingers drummed. He listened to the news. Flipped to a comedy show that wasn’t funny. Gave up.

  He pulled out Unsolved Mysteries: The Ghosts of Brewster Massachusetts. Could there be any clues in there? He read the account of Bethea Vauxhaul’s testimony against Jared Sanders during his trial for murder. Katherine’s conflicting account, corroborated by the lawyer who’d been responsible for Edward’s estate. No surprises there.

  Toward the end, in typical Sandra Kensington drama, came speculation that Elisabeth and Edward haunted the Barrett House, seeking to solve the mysteries of their untimely deaths. She also made sure to include that poor Jared Sanders had been acquitted, but ruined financially, and died of pneumonia shortly thereafter. Bingo! No wonder Liz was so afraid of Sandra spilling it all to him. And why she was so hysterical when he got sick. It was pretty creepy, though.

  Liz had whipped up the maelstrom from a tiny breeze. And it never would have happened if they’d both been honest with each other, talked to each other about what was going on inside them. Or if Liz had realized that Sandra had won the battle with her own ghost and could guide them.

  Mike closed the book. Liz was right. None of it mattered anymore.

  “What’s that?” Mae asked.

  “Just something I grabbed to read.” He’d lend no further credence to the sad epilogue, which had driven he and Liz, and their ghosts, into a frenzy.

  Mae studied the map of Surrey. “I’m searchin’ for anything that that begins with A. Nothin.” She put it away and looked through the hotel reservation details, the vouchers for the shuttle transport.

  The flight attendant gave Mike the Customs form. “One per couple.”

  “She needs her own.” They’d battle this for the entire trip.

  “Sorry, sir.” She handed Mae one, and another to pass to the gent by the window.

  They got to work. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered except finding her. There was no joy, no relief, nothing but desperation as the plane bumped along the runway, the engines whirred and reversed to stop the jet, and they finally were sprung. His only hope was that Liz was in control, not Elisabeth.

  Customs. Pleasure trip, he wrote, even though it was the furthest thing from the truth. Found the bus to the hotel, but more hurry up and wait for another flight to arrive. More expensive, awful food, something in between cardboard and cheese, in the airport.

  At last they walked into the lobby of an adequate hotel. With a concierge. Local time 13:00. Mike didn’t try and deal with the perception that they were husband and wife. They dropped their bags, washed, and changed clothes. One double bed. Mike laid his suitcase on the sofa while Mae was in the bathroom. “You’ll never fit on that, Mike. Let me sleep there.”

  “I’m not worried about it now, Mae. Let’s go down and try and figure out where to go next.” He didn’t ask if being in London had awakened any awareness in Katherine. He didn’t have to.

  Mae took out stacks of papers, along with her map. “Kensington, no not Sandra, keeps coming to mind. He was the Earl of Camberley. Lived near a park. Off a lonesome lane. A bumpy road when the carriage ran over it. Katherine never paid much mind to the route.”

  Nothing seemed useful. “Liz mentioned something about some research for her book. We should start with questions for the concierge about museums and then plan our strategy over supper.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Mae continued to rifle as they took the elevator to the lobby.

  Mike stood back while she put on the charm. “Are there museums or libraries that spotlight Victorian textiles and architecture?”

  “You’ll want to see the collection at the William Morris Gallery in the South Kensington District,” the concierge advised. “Lots of nice restaurants and shops nearby. Best to start early tomorrow morning since they close at 17:00. The Victoria and Albert Museum has a marvellous collection, and it closes at 16:30.

  Mae beamed when he mentioned Kensington.

  “And where is Camberley?” Mike probed for something more useful.

  “A lovely town in Surrey—about a half hour by car,” the concierge answered

  “Very good, thank you.” Mae turned to Mike. “That leaves us two hours. We might not need to worry about Camberley. I have a feeling Liz is at the museum near Kensington. It’s a place Elisabeth might want to visit, even if Liz wasn’t doing a twit of research.”

  A flicker of hope ignited in Mike’s nearly dormant heart. The doorman hailed them a taxi.

  “William Morris Gallery,” Mae said.

  The now familiar interior of Iman’s Mercedes, soft classical music, his assured manner, lulled Liz into a sense that all was well despite the bad news. “Emma called the curator, but there were no appointments available for the private galleries.”

  “Let me see what I can do.” Iman dialed his mobile, then spoke in another language into a headset.

  Liz, lost in the translation, picked a triumphant smile out of the interchange.

  “11:00, Mrs. Keeny.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Give a favour, take a favour. Service businesses must give good services.”

  And she’d have to reward him for what could only be called impeccable service. The small flicker of guilt at using, or misusing, connections passed as soon as she arrived and was escorted into the gallery.

  Liz perused the catalogues, filled out the permissions forms, then waited as they were stamped and processed. Her agent would be thrilled to know the last hurdle would be cleared in about six weeks–enough time to complete the writing.

  Things were going too well. She had the rest of the morning to do some sketches in the public rooms, examine some archival materials, even have lunch in the café while Eddie napped in his stroller.

  The weather was cold, but clear. Liz strolled Eddie down to the Kensington Hotel and slipped into the lobby. Touted in the tour books as one of the last grand Victorian hotels, the well-worn grandeur seemed more sad than preserved.

  The ladies at lunch were dressed in tourist garb, but Liz closed her eyes to experience Elisabeth’s recollections of satin and silk rustling, bustles, carriages, and the clop of horses’ hooves.

  Our clandestine honeymoon was not pleasant, topped off by Edward leaving me in this lobby while he ran to catch his ship. All was expunged two years later. He’s coming for me again tonight. He won’t leave me behind again.

  Would he stand Elisabeth up tonight, or leave her to the restless inhabitants of Apthorp?

  Anticipation prickled like a pincushion. A blast of cold air crackled the windshield on the stroller as she hurried back to meet Iman. The black Mercedes waited outside. She bundled Eddie into the car while he loaded the stroller.

  “Still feel up to the Victoria and Albert, Mrs. Keeny? I’ll drop you off and be back by closing. Promised James and Emma to have you and Master Edward
there for supper at 19:00.”

  “Yes, Iman. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Elisabeth chafed, looking forward to what would come after dinner, after dark, after the ghosts came out to dance.

  Mike tapped his foot as they inched through traffic. Time ticked away. Not even the novelty of the left-sided driving distracted him.

  They arrived at the William Morris Gallery arrived at 15:30. Hurried in. All a waste. By appointment only and there were none available. No sign of Liz in the lobby. Not even in the ladies room, and Mae checked every one.

  “Let’s go back to the hotel, Mae. I’m hungry, I’m tired.”

  “She’s here, I know it.” Mae went to a security guard. “Excuse me. We’re here to collect my friend. An American woman with a baby. Might you have seen her?”

  God, she sounded so much like Katherine she could pass for British instead of Irish.

  “Yes. Spent the day in the research library and took in Kelmscott House. Adorable tyke in a sling, holding on to his mum, stealin’ ‘er pencil as she did some drawings. Was headed to Victoria and Albert before closing.”

  Mae put her head in her hands.

  16:15. They’d never make it. Mike punched the air, the only thing he could take his frustration out on without getting arrested.

  The long and circuitous ride netted nothing but a grand tour and car sickness on top of Mike’s disorientation and jet lag. Butterflies flitted in his stomach. His chest burned from the acid, his stomach churned.

  The lights of London flashed by at high speed, bathing Mae in strobe effect. “Well, at least we know Liz really is doing research and the baby is fine.”

  “True.” He exhaled. “Let’s grab something to eat in the hotel and then pump the concierge for more hints. I need to get some sleep before we start on our next adventure.”

  The cabbie pulled into the drive. Mike peeled off more of the pound notes that were disappearing like confetti in the wind.

  The lobby bustled with tourists speaking a zillion different languages, dressed for theatre, dinners. The selections in the restaurant were way too French and way too expensive. Mae crinkled her nose, and Mike nodded his agreement.

  “I saw a fish and chips place across the street,” she suggested.

  “Okay, but let’s get some maps and brochures from the concierge to look at while we eat.”

  “How can I help you?” The fellow didn’t recognize the American and the Irishwoman he’d helped earlier. Why should he? The place was like the United Nations.

  Mae, no Katherine, began. “We’ve heard a lot about Camberley and wonder about any old estates we can tour to see the period furniture.”

  “Bedroom community now, but at one time it was a country escape for the nobility. There’s quite an old place, now a conference center, loaded to the rafters with antiques. A bit worn; those places are dreadfully expensive to maintain. Taxi ride is about a half-hour. Be sure to set a price in advance. Some nice pubs in the area.”

  “Where is it located?” Mae pulled out her map.

  He drew a circle. “The estate abuts a large park. It’s called the Camberley Inn.”

  Mae’s face flushed. “Yes, there was a lovely park . . .”

  The butterflies threatened to escape, along with whatever happened to be left in Mike’s stomach from the airport lunch. “Mae, let’s go.”

  She ignored him, transfixed by whatever Katherine was thinking. “Tell me, sir. Was it once called by another name?”

  “I’m sure. It was once the seat of the Earl of Camberley. Baxter, I believe is the family name. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” He turned his computer screen so they could all see it and typed Earl Baxter, Camberley, UK into Google.

  Mae spit it out before the listing came up. Her face blank, eyes wide, unblinking. “Apthorp. It was called Apthorp.”

  The concierge looked up. “That’s right.”

  “Thank you.” Mike grabbed Mae’s hand. “Run up and get our overnight bags. I’ll get take out, and we’ll eat in the cab.”

  Chapter 35

  The hubbub of London faded into a stretch of neat row houses and green spaces. “Next to a park you say?” The driver studied his GPS. “It would help if you had an address.”

  “It’s just on the other side of the commons.” Mae leaned forward in her seat. “Stay on this road and you’ll see the turn off.”

  “Whatever you say, mum.” He squinted and put on his high beams as the road grew progressively darker. “Right there! Through that gate!” Mae said. “See there, Apthorp. It used to be called Apthorp.”

  The driver took a hard left, and Mike bounced off her. “Sorry.” Numb, tingling with anxiety, he couldn’t allow himself to hope.

  Mae didn’t answer. Katherine must have been distracting her attention. No one else would know to look for this place unless they’d been here before. Mae’s eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed.

  The car chugged along a straight path, surrounded on either side by tall pines. Patches of snow lingered in between them, but there was no sign of any birds or wildlife. The house, its façade illuminated by a pair of lanterns on either side of the double wood doors, appeared out of the darkness, like a vision, an oasis.

  “Shall I wait?” The driver asked.

  “No.” Mae said. “The sign says vacancy.”

  Mike peeled off bills, with a few extra for the man’s patience. They’d stunk the cab up with fish and chips and took him far afield of those nice quick London hops.

  “Appreciate it, sir.” The cabbie jumped out to open the door on Mae’s side and helped her out.

  Mike slid after her, dragging his small black carry-on and Mae’s purple floral monstrosity. The cab was gone before anyone answered the door.

  “Maybe we should have had him wait.” Mike pounded the knocker again.

  Mae was too busy looking around, taking it all in, refreshing her memories, to answer.

  “What does it feel like?” Mike put his hand on her shoulder; she looked like she needed the support.

  The massive oak doors opened before she responded.

  A tall, thin man in a brown and blue argyle sweater and khaki’s gestured for them to enter. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Mike Keeny and this is Mae Fitzgerald. We’re looking for my wife Liz and my son Eddie. I think they’re staying here.”

  He frowned. “Do you need a room?”

  “Yes.” With jet lag pulling him into an time warp abyss Mike had no intentions of going anywhere else even though they’d paid for a room in London.”

  “Come this way.” He led them through a marble foyer and down a hall with enough portraits and sculptures to qualify it as a museum. “Emma, we have guests.”

  The woman came from the back of the house, untying an apron, damp curls around her face, her cheeks flushed. “I was just getting something together for . . .”

  Their eyes darted from Mike and Mae to each other’s in the kind of nonverbal warning signal only a longstanding couple could have perfected.

  “Dinner.” She finished the thought. “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “We missed Liz and Eddie so much we decided to fly over the pond and surprise them.” Only Katherine could cause Mae to smile so sweetly and take the back door. She normally preferred barging right through the front entrance.

  Mike took the same route. “That depends upon when Liz is done with her research.”

  Emma’s stare could have frozen water. “We’re not at liberty to give out the identity of other guests. And due to a conference beginning tomorrow we have only one room available. A single.”

  Mike couldn’t blame her. They were disheveled, clutching far too little in the way of luggage for a trans-Atlantic trip, arriving unannounced, asking to be admitted to th
e room of a woman traveling alone with a young baby. One who had herself likely arrived under some odd circumstances.

  “Liz will iron everything out when you let her know we’re downstairs.” He doubted that would work, but it was worth a try.

  “We do not disclose the identity of our guests.” James had Emma’s back.

  Mike noticed Eddie’s car seat sitting on the floor behind the desk. He tried the same non-verbal alert with Mae, touching her ankle with his toe. Mae, Katherine, whoever, was too blindsided by what could only have been a torrent of memories–good and bad. She blinked like a starlet on the red carpet, then followed the point of his chin in the direction of the baby seat. So did James and Emma. Katherine had to be in control since Mae would have immediately figured out a convincing response.