Criss Cross: Friendship can be murder

by Caron Allan

  I wonder if I ought to give Mrs H a bit of a pay rise, to encourage her to be loyal and to feel like a valued member of the household? That should ensure she keeps anything she heard to herself, especially if I add a bit of back pay. I don’t like to think of her chatting to people about me, one never knows who might be listening.

  I wonder why there were woolly mittens in Monica’s evening bag? It couldn’t have been a wrap—too small—or, well, what else could it have been? And why now, I mean, it’s been glorious weather for weeks now. And they’re not very pretty and eveningy, just big, woolly, wintery, dog-walking gloves.

  I suppose she might have thought the evening would cool when we were out doing the Twilight thingy. But you’d think she’d just grab a jacket or a wrap when she went up to her room to change? It just doesn’t make sense. Oh I don’t know. Why does anyone do anything?

  Tues 10 July—the middle of the night!

  It’s almost four in the morning. I have just woken up with such a start, and I’m so shocked by the truth that’s finally dawned on me, I know I’ll never get back to sleep now, it’s all going round and round in my head. It can’t be true. It just can’t. Can it? I’m raving. I must be making it up, I’m tired, and what with my head and everything. What I’m thinking can’t possibly be true.

  So I’ve come downstairs and I’m wearing a pair of Thomas’s socks, his dressing gown, and a waxed jacket over the top of that, a woolly scarf around me and still my teeth are chattering, I can’t get warm.

  I’ve made some cocoa, it’s still too hot to drink but I’m clutching at the mug like a lifeline, feeling the heat going in through my fingers and travelling up my arms and into my body, and the steam is rising up to soothe my face. My thoughts keep going round and round and round in my head and I can’t seem to make them stop.

  And I can’t phone her, it’s far too early, but I can’t bear to wait. I’m just beside myself. I’m convinced I’ve realised the truth.

  Monica killed Clarice.

  She must have.

  It’s a crazy notion, but it’s the only one that makes sense.

  Why would burglars strike at exactly the time they did? Perfectly in time with my plan, though admittedly I didn’t tell anyone—not even, in fact especially not, Monica. But it’ a bit of a coincidence otherwise, isn’t it?

  That’s why she went upstairs to change, and didn’t come down, didn’t come on the Twilight bark. She was probably already there at Clarice’s when I was just pulling out of Chapley’s car park.

  Oh—My—God! That means it was her that hit me—no wonder she was so apologetic when I showed her my head—it wasn’t guilt over accusing me—it was guilt guilt—guilt over almost killing me guilt! She bludgeoned her best mate!

  That’s why she came to Chapley’s to begin with! Oh! My! God! I can’t believe it—but it must be true! Oh! I’m such an idiot, I can’t think of anything else to say—suddenly everything makes sense.

  I bet that was a balaclava she had in her bag! That would make a lot more sense than woolly mittens in summer. If only I’d paid more attention, there might have been other stuff in there—medical gloves or—well I don’t know exactly what there might have been in there, but it’s the principle!

  Oh my God! My best friend is a murderer!

  Fri 13 July—9pm

  Well that’s the funeral out of the way. It was all right, I suppose. Quite a good turnout, although of course a lot of people were only there to find out the gruesome details of what happened that night—vultures! Was it really less than a week ago?

  Monica was there, hovering in the background, but I haven’t seen her for long enough to do more than exchange air kisses and the briefest of pleasantries. But in a day or two, when everything has settled down a bit, I need to have a heart to heart talk with her—I don’t see I can put it off much longer. I mean, it’s all I can think about. I absolutely have to speak to her about it, I need to make her tell me all about that night and see if she can come up with even one good reason why she nearly killed me.

  Fortunately Thomas’s beastly sister and her hideous husband have hoofed it home again. They popped back to the house along with everyone else after the funeral, but by mid-afternoon they’d made their half-arsed excuses and we’d waved them off, fixed smiles firmly in place. I blush to remember I said something along the lines of ‘and don’t leave it so long next time’. I put it down to the excitement of the moment, seeing them leave. And of course I had my fingers crossed behind my back the whole time, so it clearly doesn’t count. Have nasty suspicion, though, that one day I shall have to answer for my sins to a higher power!

  On her way out Nadina came over with Jeremy in tow. She had her sad face on, her bottom lip was even sticking out a little bit—I could have happily slapped her, she looked like one of her own six year olds when told they can’t play in the home corner! She took both my hands in hers, to my surprise slash horror, and gazed into my face with more close-up sincerity than a Televangelist. Nodding slowly as she said it, as if speaking some deep and eternal truth, she said,

  ‘The Lord giveth, Cressida, and the Lord taketh away.’

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing and nodded back in what I hoped was a grateful and comforted way. Then she had moved on, Jeremy dutifully in tow. Thomas laughed unfortunately rather loudly, and Monica leaned in close between the two of us to say in my ear,

  ‘And if by any chance the Lord dothn’t taketh awayeth, Thou hatheth to putteth up with people.’

  Bizarrely Thomas also laughed at this, which isn’t his type of humour at all usually, but he had put away several glasses of sherry by this time, so that probably explains it. I turned to Monica to reply, ‘Or one canth maketh awayeth with people onethelf ath nethethary.’

  She laughed merrily at this, and then I had to help Thomas mop himself down with about thirty napkins after he had spluttered sherry all down his tie and waistcoat.

  I was pleasantly surprised to find everyone else had drifted off by about fiveish. There were no maudlin drunks to dispose of, no need to snatch china ornaments out of the trembling hands of elderly busybodies before shoving the old dears out the front door. Everyone was really very nicely behaved. Really a most enjoyable day, I do love a good funeral! Monica was the last to leave and gave me air-kisses at the front door, shouting toodle-oo merrily over her shoulder as she waved goodbye and got into her car.

  Now all I’ve got to worry about is sorting out all Clarice’s bloody old tat.

  Cess did ask me, this morning when I was in a terrific flap to get ready for the funeral (really that woman has no sense of suitable timing!), if I needed any help sorting out Clarice’s house and effects. She said it in that negative way, you don’t need any help, do you? The tone of her voice indicating she expected a negative response, so obviously I felt had to say no. Frankly I was a bit surprised. One usually hears of relatives descending like so many locusts to pick clean the bones of the deceased person’s property. They don’t usually rush off in the opposite direction, terrified of being left alone with the silver.

  Thomas says she’s superstitious, but that surely can’t be it? She is really reluctant to go to the house. I don’t get it. I mean, the only reason I used to be reluctant to go to Clarice’s house was because Clarice herself was there. Now she’s gone, well, I can’t wait to drop by.

  Must make a note to ring Cess tomorrow and ask her if there’s anything she wants—any small item to remember her mother by (surely she can’t have always hated her, can she?)—anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant or cheap, any tiny little low-value item I could fit in a small jiffy bag to send on to her once I’ve had a chance to look over the place.

  Thomas was all for getting a firm in to clear the house, and no doubt we shall, but not until I’ve had a chance to have a really good look round, those people only ever give you a fraction of what the contents are truly worth, and goodness only knows what Clarice has stashed away over the years.

  Have
pencilled in tomorrow for general sort of relaxing and recuperation as head still iffy. Poor Thomas is going to squeeze in a few holes at his club, fitting it around the weather obviously, and frankly I’m looking forward to the break from his constant fussing and caring. Then I thought we’d drive down on Sunday to look over the house and make up some sort of inventory, and then Thomas can ring up a few house clearance firms on Monday.

  Bish bosh sorted, as Mrs H would say. I feel so light and happy. It’s an enormous relief to have all this out of the way at long last. A huge weight off my shoulders. After all these years of misery and humiliation, she’s finally gone. Ahh!

  Blast! Damn and Blast, in fact. Thomas has just popped his head around the door and said, ‘Cats!’ And of course, he’s absolutely right. I’d completely forgotten about the little buggers, even though one of Clarice’s dottier neighbours made a point of ‘reassuring’ us about Clarice’s cats just as we were about to go into the funeral home for the service.

  ‘Now don’t you go worrying about Dear Clarice’s cats,’ she said, ‘I’ve been popping in to feed them twice a day, and they seem all right, though a bit lost, which is only to be expected now that they’ve lost their Mummy. I feel so sorry for them. And they’re dear little things. But I couldn’t keep them, my Trixie wouldn’t like it.’

  And as soon as I heard this woman say the words ‘Dear’ and ‘Clarice’ in the same sentence, I should have known that she obviously wasn’t sane. Completely batty!

  Thomas had assured her we hadn’t forgotten about the cats for a single moment, which isn’t really a fib, because we’d forgotten about them completely and utterly and permanently. I couldn’t resist a slight curl of the lip at her reference to Clarice as the animals’ ‘Mummy’. Can’t think of anyone less maternal than Clarice. She’s maternal in the same way that there are some creatures in nature that enjoy eating their children. That kind of maternal.

  Very well, we will have to acquire a couple of cat baskets from a local pet supplies warehouse. And I’ll find the name and address of the nearest veterinary practice, so that whilst I’m looking around the house and making lists and so on, Thomas can cart the cats off to their eternal reward.

  Sun 15 July—10.30pm

  Absolutely bloody terrible bloody day!

  We got to Highgates without incident—a really very pleasant run down, stopped for coffee somewhere on the way—so nice to just sit and chat for 20 minutes or so. Thomas was looking very handsome in casual clothing for once, I know it’s hard to believe but sometimes I get fed-up with seeing him in bespoke suits all the time. Fortunately he’s the sort of man who looks gorgeous no matter what he wears.

  Got everything sorted at the house without any real difficulties. We walked over the whole house making a note of the main items in each room, along with approximate value and anything else that seemed remotely noteworthy. It wasn’t too difficult as there was a lot of old crap I wouldn’t dream of having in my shed, let alone the house. And her jewellery was a bit of a disappointment, I have to say. No delightfully unexpected little windfalls there. What she did with all the good stuff, I haven’t a clue—perhaps Thomas will get more info from her solicitor when he sees him on Tuesday. But we selected and packed up the few items either we or Cess wanted to keep.

  Next, obviously, we had to settle up with Clarice’s cleaning woman. She seemed very pleasant—obviously she must be an angel, to have put up with Clarice all these years. (I wonder if she’d be willing to come to us? Mrs H is such an old dragon.) Once the house has been completely emptied, she has promised to give it a thorough clean from top to bottom, and we are leaving a set of keys with her so that the agent can show people around once the place is on the market so he won’t need to bother us every five minutes. In fact, she’ll have to let the agent himself in for the initial appraisal next week, but she is so obliging, she’s happy to do anything of that sort. And of course we’ll make it worth her while.

  Then we came to the question of the cats.

  Thomas brought in the cat baskets and we went in search of the little…creatures.

  It was almost half an hour later that we found them outside. One—the tabby—was asleep in the summerhouse at the far end of the main lawn, curled up in a neat little ball in an old garden chair; the other was snoozing on a sunny patch of flattened flowers on the edge of the shrubbery.

  I had no idea they would be so reluctant to get into the baskets. I had fondly imagined—never having had an animal myself—that one simply called to them and over they trotted, obedient, loyal, brimming with animal affection and eager to please. But no. I mean, admittedly cat owners are always banging on about how difficult it is to get little Muffin or Fido to the vets, or to take tablets or whatever, but I had always assumed that was a gross exaggeration, much like the way women go on and on about the pain of childbirth.

  The fluffy grey one, particularly, put up quite a struggle as we managed to grab it and shove it into one of the baskets and it howled the place down when we jammed the door shut on its tail. The creatures were surprisingly strong considering they are supposed to be in their dotage. And then of course, the two of them just had to wail all the way to the vets. It’s almost as if they knew what was going to happen.

  So it was quite a relief when Thomas popped them into the vets, paid the bill and dashed out again, and we were at last able to head for home.

  Finally I was able to relax! It felt wonderful, knowing all the hard work and the aggravation was behind us. Thomas said he felt wonderfully free, and I had to agree. I was so happy, so light—so unburdened! No more nasty visits from Clarice, no more dancing attendance on her or pandering to her inflated ego, no more insults being hurled down the phone line at me. No more miserable Christmasses and Birthdays. Bliss! Thomas was humming and tapping along in time with the radio on the steering wheel, I was looking at the scenery, it was just lovely!

  And then we got home.

  To my surprise, Mrs H was still there, for some reason. She gave us an odd look and handed over an urgent message from Clarice’s neighbour. We called the woman back.

  ‘You appear to have left one of Clarice’s cats behind,’ she immediately told Thomas. He said she sounded really quite cross. Poor old biddy, we thought. Speaking loudly and slowly in case she was deaf, Thomas reassured her with a broad smile for my benefit that we had taken both cats away with us, a tabby and a smoky grey one. And then, even before any more was said, I knew, I intuited the problem.

  Oh! My! God!

  Well of course it was too late by then. Thomas rang up immediately but the vet was quite terse with him.

  ‘You were very specific about wanting both animals euthanized due to your wife’s allergies and not having time to find new homes for your mother’s two cats.’

  Thomas explained that yes, but one of them hadn’t been the cat we thought it was. The vet was not very helpful.

  ‘Too late,’ he said and slammed the phone down.

  Clarice’s neighbour was not only upset, she was horrified, disgusted, appalled, bereaved and desolated, one emotion chasing after another down the phone to Thomas’s ear. Threat succeeded threat as she vented her outraged grief. Trixie, her pedigree Blue Persian, had, it transpired, been more than just a cat, she had been a precious little bundle of love and Clarice’s neighbour was going to call the police. Then she was going to write to the Times, her MP and the RSPCA.

  Poor Thomas had to listen to her rant on for fifteen minutes about what should happen to people who kill other people’s pets—no, not just pets, practically family members, and of noble blood at that. She recalled all the Persian’s little foibles, most of which sounded utterly and disgustingly revolting to Thomas.

  I ask you!

  So I got Thomas a Scotch and water, and he offered her some money. But money was not what she wanted, apparently. What she wanted was revenge, but finally they settled on £5,000.

  And in addition Thomas now has to drive back down to Highgates again tomorrow to
collect the other cat that eluded us today, another tabby mongrel. We weren’t particularly surprised to hear that the super-efficient, feline-doting neighbour had managed to corner it and catch it and had shut it in one of the rooms downstairs.

  I must remind him to get that key off the woman when he gives her the money.

  God, what a disaster.

  Mon 16 July—8.20pm

  Poor Thomas was simply exhausted when he got back from Clarice’s today. I must say, I was a teensy bit cross when he brought the ‘other’ tabby back here. But I suppose he couldn’t help it. What else could he do? The neighbour didn’t want it, the cleaning lady didn’t want it, and as soon as Thomas put a toe inside the door of the vet’s, the vet started shouting at him and threatening to call the police.

  I looked through the bars of the basket’s door. I’m absolutely certain that cat gave me a smug look. Of course, I immediately rang round all of my friends, and although I told them it’s quite a pretty colour and more than likely house-trained, no one I knew wanted a tabby cat of uncertain vintage and even more uncertain pedigree.

  Tues 17 July—11.15pm

  That bloody cat howled all night. We’d left it in the basket in the kitchen—that being the furthest point from both the drawing room and our bedroom, but I could still hear the little git. It literally howled for the best part of the night. We hardly slept. At one point I offered Thomas my body if he would just pop downstairs and sort it out with a brick. He simply said he had done his bit with regard to his mother’s cats. He put his headphones on and went to sleep. Men can be so selfish sometimes, even though we love them. I laid awake all night only dozing off when the sun came up and the cat finally fell silent, no doubt having lost its voice.