Criss Cross: Friendship can be murder

by Caron Allan

  Consequently I overslept this morning. When I awoke, Mrs H was already here. As I was dressing, I remembered I’d forgotten to leave a note or anything to explain about the cat to tell her she wasn’t to worry, it would going on a little visit to the vet—any vet—later in the morning. I rushed downstairs without even waiting to put my make-up on. I could hear Mrs H banging about in the kitchen.

  When I entered the kitchen, I was already saying ‘By the way, Mrs Hopkins, I’m afraid I forgot to mention about my mother-in-law’s…’

  ‘…your mother-in-law’s cat, yes I know,’ she said. She was wiping a champagne glass and placing it in the cabinet. She turned and gave me a huge smile, which was a bit of a worry in itself. She’s never done that before.

  Now I finally looked around me and for the first time I took in the shallow Wedgwood bowl on the floor, still containing the remains of some mashed sardines and beyond the kitchen, through the open garden door, a small tabby cat smugly washing its paws in the sunshine. Of the cat basket there was no sign.

  ‘I fort there was two cats?’ Mrs H said anxiously. Feeling somewhat backed into a corner, I smiled rather stiffly and said the only thing that immediately came to mind.

  ‘Unfortunately the other wasn’t very well. The vet told my husband there was nothing he could do to help it. It seemed best to ease its suffering.’

  ‘Poor little bugger,’ Mrs H said with a sniff. She turned away and rummaged in the pocket of her overalls for a tissue. ‘At least we’ve given one of ‘em a lovin’ ‘ome. What’s its name?’

  I gaped at her floral-encased rear. Was Mrs H crying? Could it be she had a weakness? Was she truly Mortal? And what was I going to say? I couldn’t recall whether or not anyone had ever mentioned the names of the cats. Although—Trixie? But no, that was the neighbour’s cat, or should I say, late cat. But I had never seen Mrs H so human, so malleable, so weak. I was not going to risk losing all that now.

  I looked around the kitchen, desperately trying to gain inspiration for a name that would be suited to a brown tabby cat, whilst maintaining the appearance of someone who has it on the tip of her tongue, a mere momentary aberration.

  Mrs H turned to me with a querying look.

  ‘Tetley,’ I said. Mrs H looked a bit surprised and then smiled.

  ‘Ah that’s quite sweet, innit? Unusual. Er, Mrs Powell, about the ‘oover.’

  ‘Oh Mrs Hopkins, I’m afraid I haven’t…’

  ‘I’ll get my Sid to have a look at it, if you don’t mind. ‘E might be able to fix it. Save you splashin’ out on a noo one. Ah look at little Tetley, washing ‘er arse on the driveway. Ain’t she a pretty little fing? It’ll be luvly, ‘aving a cat about the place.’

  OMG I have been outmanoeuvred by a small tabby cat saved from the gallows by a mere quirk of fate!

  All day I worried about breaking the news to Thomas.

  I told him over dinner. He was surprisingly accepting of the situation. In fact, sensing that he was in the mood to be entertained, I told him the whole story in detail, everything Mrs H said, how I frantically tried to think of a name. Lovely to hear him laughing like that. He leaned across the table and took my hand in his. Gazing into my eyes, he said,

  ‘Darling, I love you so much.’

  And at that point our beautiful interlude was shattered as the dining room door was thrown open and Mrs H slammed a couple of plates down on the table in front of us, said ‘Cheesecake!’ and left again. The spell was broken, but the remaining sense of warmth and happiness enveloped us.

  Thomas told me about his visit to Clarice’s solicitor this morning. As soon as he started, I interrupted him excitedly with ‘Ooh, did he tell you where the rest of her cash was stashed?’

  He shook his head sadly. I was a bit surprised.

  ‘Really?’

  He shook his head again. ‘There’s no stash.’ I gawped at him.

  ‘No stash?’

  He shook his head again. His face showed his disappointment.

  ‘Apparently there were gambling debts.’

  ‘Gambling debts?’

  He nodded soberly. This was getting worse and worse! ‘Apparently she used to get the milkman to put on bets for her, and she wasn’t very good at picking winners. Mr Stroudly was a bit embarrassed to tell me that his firm had to settle what he termed as a ‘substantial’ account at a whole string of betting shops within about a thirty mile radius of Highgates.’

  ‘How substantial?’ I asked, my eyes narrowing at the thought of that hideous old bag frivolling away our—I mean—Thomas’s inheritance.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to know. He reluctantly told me that she owed £470,000 on bets placed over the last two years.’

  OMG!

  This time I had nothing to say. I just stared at him. He looked as if he wanted to cry. I knew just how he felt. But after a moment, I came over all philosophical, and shrugged my shoulders, and put my best foot forward and whatnot, reaching out to take his hand across the table and giving it a squeeze of wifely encouragement and support.

  ‘Never mind, Darling. We don’t need the money. And if it brought her a bit of pleasure, then it doesn’t really matter, does it?’

  ‘I suppose not. All the same it’s a hell of a lot of money. Wish I’d have known, I would have bought shares in RiteBet.’

  He sipped his wine then pushed his glass away. Sighing heavily, he got to his feet and drew me over to the sofa.

  He dropped a kiss on my hair and we sat back and gazed into the fire.

  Later in the evening I had a call from Monica.

  It took me a bit by surprise, and due to my new suspicion of her, I found it difficult to think of something to say. I know I sounded a bit stilted and awkward and unnatural, but I just couldn’t help it. I couldn’t remember how to talk to her normally. She asked me how I was and I made the excuse that I was a bit tired following the funeral and going down to the house and everything.

  She invited me to coffee the following morning. Any other time I would have been keen to go, and I accepted, purely because I didn’t have the wit to think of an excuse. So I said I’d love to, and accepted her best wishes for a good night’s sleep.

  But again and again throughout this evening I’ve found myself returning to the same thought.

  What am I going to say to my friend the murderer?

  Wed 18 July—6.30pm

  Just when I think life can’t get any more peculiar, I spend some time with Monica.

  Huw was out when I got there. Obviously. He is something important in a large corporation—may even be right at the top, I’m not sure. I mean, who knows what one’s friends’ husbands do for a living? It’s as much as I can do to manage to listen my own husband banging on about work, let alone other people’s.

  So when Monica and I sat down to coffee and cake in the little summerhouse behind their nicely lavish home, we were alone. I was immediately struck by how tense Monica appeared. I mean, if anyone ought to have been tense it ought to have been me—I was the one taking coffee alone with a murderer just yards away from who knew what variety of implements and gadgets and poisons in a remote part of the garden about fifty metres from any kind of useful assistance.

  I sat back in my chair, cup in hand, and glancing up, I caught her watching me, apparently appraising me. Again! It was as if we were strangers, meeting for the first time and sneakily trying to size one another up, but at the same time it was more than that. It was almost as if we knew each other too well, like old lovers, and knowing far too much about each other, as if we were somehow trying to find a way back. I set my cup down, biting my lip, wondering if I should invent an excuse to leave. Our friendship was surely over, I didn’t see how it could work anymore. Then she said:

  ‘I didn’t think you would come.’

  Surprised, I just gaped at her.

  ‘Why did you?’ she asked. I tried to make light of it.

  ‘When have I ever turned down a free coffee?’ I tried a little laugh but her exp
ression silenced me. So I simply sat back in the chair and looked at her. Time to be honest.

  ‘Nothing’s changed,’ I said, ‘not really. We’re still friends—you’re still my best friend. You haven’t changed.’

  She didn’t speak. Just sat there, looking at me. But she seemed in some inexplicable way softer. I felt bolder.

  ‘I know that you did what you did for my sake, to make life easier for me. You knew I was having problems with Thomas’s mother. Let’s face it, how could you have not known, after the way she spoke to the two of you. And I’m so grateful to you. It’s wonderful to feel so free again.’

  There was still a palpable tension. So I picked up my cup, saluted her with it and said, ‘Thank you!’ Then I drank deeply and set down the cup. I grinned at her.

  ‘At least I got a cat out of it. My cleaning lady slash housekeeper adores me now.’

  She smiled at this and immediately I felt at ease. We looked out at the garden, hollyhocks and penstemons nodding bright heads in the sunshine.

  ‘Do you like old films?’ Monica asked a moment later. I was thrown for a moment. If I had given any thought to what she might say next, I would have expected her to say something a bit more on-topic. So after a slight double-take I said yes, I loved old films.

  ‘Hitchcock?’ she asked. I nodded.

  ‘There’s a special showing at that new arty cinema in town, The Cube. I wondered if you fancied going? Huw’s not interested so I thought a girls’ night out might be nice? I mean, if you want to, it might be fun. But it’s okay if you’re not really into that.’

  ‘I might. What are they showing?’

  ‘They’re double-bills, so there’s a pick of Vertigo and The Lady Vanishes, Dial M for Murder and Strangers on a Train, or North by Northwest and Rear Window. Take your pick.’

  ‘What do you fancy?’ I asked, ‘I love all of those but Dial M for Murder is my favourite. ‘Mark—I think I’m going to have that breakdown now.’‘ I said in my best BBC English, then burst out laughing.

  ‘Sure you wouldn’t rather stay in and paste some press cuttings into a scrapbook? Or darn a few stockings?’ Quoting from the film, Monica was laughing too, and as she sat forward on her chair, she seemed suddenly relaxed and animated. ‘Though I like the modern remake too. ‘I always think bludgeon has a spur of the moment sound...’ she said in an exaggerated American accent à là Michael Douglas in A Perfect Murder.

  ‘What about the other Hitchcock film, Strangers—there was a spin-off of that too. A comedy. Throw Momma From the Train? I loved that film when I was a teenager.’

  ‘So long as you’re Danny DeVito!’

  I laughed, and went on,

  ‘But I’ve never read the original book, though I’ve always intended to.’

  ‘I’m not a huge fan of Agatha Christie myself,’ Monica said, wrinkling her nose. I gaped at her, not sure if she was joking or whether she really thought Christie had written Strangers on a Train. But then she made another comment, and I replied to that and then the moment was gone, though the discrepancy still nagged at the back of my mind. Poor Patricia Highsmith! This is not the first time I’ve had cause to be concerned about Monica’s pitiful lack in the education department. Made a mental note to order the book, asap.

  We laughed together and chatted, suddenly at ease, thinking of all our favourite scenes in our favourite Hitchcock films, reminding each other of all the places where he cropped up in his famous cameos—in pictures on the wall, wrestling with a cello case, simply walking along a street, that kind of thing. With that and drinking coffee and eating cake, it was all very pleasant. It was lovely to feel like we had got back on that old, friendly footing again, all that strange tension between us gone as quickly as it came.

  The films are showing tomorrow evening, so we have arranged to grab a bite to eat beforehand. We’re going to meet at around five thirty at Fat Nigel’s for a pub dinner and a couple of drinks, then it’s only a short walk and we’re at The Cube. It’ll be fun. I’ll leave the car at home and get a taxi in, then I won’t need to worry if we have some wine.

  Same Day: 10.15pm

  This evening over dinner, Thomas said, ‘Mrs Hopkins seems to be spending more and more time here. Have you given her more hours?’

  ‘No.’ I said. And I thought for a moment. ‘Hmm. You’re right, she’s supposed to do two hours a day, but even allowing for the fact that I said she could choose which two hours a day she does, to suit herself, just recently she’s always here.’ I bit my lip, pondering. ‘I’d better have a word with her.’

  ‘It’s not that I mind, or anything,’ Thomas said, ‘I was just curious, that’s all. It might be a good idea to give her more hours if she can’t get everything done in the original two per day we agreed. I mean, this is a big house. And she does quite a few things that are not technically cleaning.’

  ‘She’s taken over the cooking now,’ I said thinking about it, ‘in fact she does seem to be practically living here at the moment,’ and I paused, thinking, puzzling it over. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it until now, but I definitely saw her going out to the dustbin this morning, first thing, as I was leaving to go into town before going to Monica’s. And yet she was still here to get dinner out of the oven for me half an hour ago. I mean, she might have popped home first thing this morning and not come back again until an hour or so ago, but I’m not sure, that wouldn’t make much sense, would it? I’ll speak to her tomorrow.’ I shook my head, puzzled now about what was going on. We ate in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘She just adores that cat,’ I added. He smiled.

  ‘If it keeps her happy, it’s worth it.’

  Then I told him about Monica’s suggestion of the cinema. He was keen for me to go. Old films weren’t really his thing, but he knew how much I enjoyed them.

  ‘She’ll probably lean quite heavily on you over the next few weeks and months,’ he said next. Weird, I thought. A bit cryptic. What did he mean?

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. He bit his lip, pondering.

  ‘Don’t let on you know, but Huw told me the other evening—more like a confession really—he’s been having it off with his secretary—bloody horrible cliché—but he’s decided to actually leave Monica for this woman. He wants a divorce!’

  ‘No!’ My knife clattered on my plate. Huw had always seemed such a nice chap. A bit dull, like Thomas, but surely that’s an ideal quality in a husband? Who’d have thought he was up to no good with, of all people, his secretary.

  ‘Does Monica know?’ I asked. Thomas nodded, taking a good swig of his Merlot.

  ‘Yes, apparently she’d suspected for some time, then she confronted him and he admitted it. They had the most enormous row, Huw said. He’s been sleeping in one of the guest rooms, and she’s told him to move out by the end of the week. He says she’s devastated.’

  ‘He might be kidding himself there,’ I said, ‘she seemed very calm and relaxed with me today. Not as if anything was on her mind. Although…’ my thoughts drifted off.

  Had she been, though? I took a moment to think about that. Her manner had been rather odd. There had been something wrong, but of course, I’d assumed it was something to do with that other little matter, Clarice’s murder. When she asked me to go to the pictures with her, she’d said Huw wouldn’t be interested, but now I could see why. I couldn’t believe he could betray her so horribly.

  We ate on in silence. I brought in Mrs H’s lemon sorbet from the kitchen. Thomas, dabbing his chin with his napkin, said,

  ‘Perhaps Monica’s got someone on the side too. Perhaps she’s glad to get out of the marriage?’

  ‘If she has got anyone, she’s never so much as given me a hint of it, and I think—I hope—she’d confide in me, we are best friends, after all. But she always seems so happy, so contented although possibly a bit lonely. I’m just so shocked. I can’t believe it.’

  He nodded.

  ‘It’s very sad,’ he said. ‘I told Huw I thought he was a
total wanker.’

  ‘He certainly is.’ I said. And we got up from the table.

  Thurs 19 July—10.35am

  Feeling very dull today. Horrid dreams last night ruined my sleep and left me in that tense state of fear that they might come true.

  Dreamed Huw was found with his head bashed in, and that Monica had done it and that she was coming after our cat Tetley next. It was all very weird and stupid and nonsensical as dreams often are, and the only weapon I had to defend my home and family with was that rolling pin except it wasn’t glass but some sort of floppy plastic, so no use whatsoever.

  I woke a couple of times and tried to get the dream out of my head, but when I drifted back to sleep again, there I was, right back in the middle of the same damned dream. And it was not so much the actual events of the dream that scared me but more an overwhelming presence, an atmosphere of malice that seemed to cling about me, penetrating my clothes, my skin, unnerving me. I was so glad to wake up properly and find it was a sunny morning, although the nice weather didn’t last long.

  I’ve just had a rather unsatisfactory interview with Mrs H a few minutes ago. I taxed her with the fact that she seemed to be doing a lot more hours than I paid her for, but she just kept saying that she didn’t mind, she didn’t feel right taking so much of my money for so few hours and in the end, she said it was because she wanted to keep an eye on the cat. What is going on with that woman? The house gleams and shines—there’s not a speck of dust anywhere. The fridge, the freezer, the larder are all stocked up—I haven’t had to do any food shopping or cooking for ages now, she’s taken over everything. I mean, it’s not as if I mind. But it is a bit odd. Although I have to admit, she really is the most exquisite cook. At the end of the day, however, I only pay her for cleaning and a little light cooking, 12 hours a week. She’s here more like fifty hours a week, surely? I mean, I know I pay well, but not that well!

  She seemed a bit furtive too. Something is definitely going on, but I’m obviously not going to be able to get to the bottom of it right away, and in any case, I’m far too busy. I nearly ran out of time to get ready for my yoga class and then tonight is my evening out with Monica. I feel a small sense of doom.