He was still yelling after me as I entered The Square. “How rude! Know what, lady? Why don’t you drop a line to Felicity Friend. You know, the woman what writes that sob page in The Daily Spokesman. Ask Dear Flis how to entertain the bloody town without blokes dropping dead and putting everyone off their grub!”
The fat Ellie could not have run from the kitchen sink to the refrigerator without getting winded, but now, pursued by his insults, I sprinted the length of Market Street without catching my breath.
In daylight, Chitterton Fells abounds with the cobblestone charm of a Victorian card. Now, in the dusky twilight, each facade looked secret, a little sly. All the shops were closed. Lights gleamed through grilled windows. Silence hung thicker than the mist. Reaching The Dark Horse pub, I cut a curve around Mother, feathers glistening like soap flakes, now waddling patiently up and down outside the saloon bar.
At last! There it was-Abigail’s-the gabled Tudor building with Georgian bow windows on the ground floor. At one of those windows, a curtain twitched. Otherwise, the place was depressingly lifeless. A sudden bang made me jerk around.
But the person closing the door of Bragg, Wiseman & Smith, Solicitors, was no ghostly apparition. It was a solidly built, middle-aged woman. Lady Theodora Peerless, Mr. Wiseman’s private secretary. As she drew near, I called out a greeting. She made no response and my silly, expectant smile slid off my face. Bracing myself, I called again, but her footsteps were already swallowed by the mist. She must not have heard me. Teddy Peerless liked me, or rather, hadn’t shown unmistakable signs of loathing. But that was before… She was the one who found the body. I shoved the thought away.
Slowly I went up the red brick steps and under the dark green awning lettered Abigail’s in gold. Suddenly, I had no idea why I had come here.
Portraits of famous chefs hung on the wainscotted walls of the octagonal foyer. How sad to remember the day I purchased them and the night-watchmen lanterns, now electrically wired and mounted, and the gleaming library table that was to do duty as a reception desk. Despite its unpleasant, sad associations, Abigail’s was sanctuary, a place where even phantom hearses could not get me.
A waiter trod softly across the parquet floor, his lips hooked into a smile, hands fluttering in a display of welcome. I could not recall meeting him before, but Ben had proved a hard taskmaster during the probationary period, and staff had come in one door and out the other.
“Out jogging, Mrs. Haskell? I perceived you from the window in the Bluebell Room while smoothing out a wrinkle in the curtains.”
I undid another button of my coat, unable to speak. My eyes turned toward the Bluebell Room. I considered its remodeling and furnishing one of the finer moments of my career as an interior designer. Moss green carpet, walnut-panelled walls. The fabric that covered the chairs and couches grouped around the fireplace repeated the bluebell pattern of the curtains and valances. My favorite touch was the portraits of children rambling through local woods in springtime. Ben had been delighted with the results. Now the room was flawed in a way I could never put to rights. At six o’clock on a Friday evening it should have been crowded with sherry-sippers and cigar-puffers waiting to be summoned to one of the dining rooms. Guests should be anticipating such delights as Ben’s inimitable fricassee of pheasant (to be featured in a full-colour photo on page 239 of the cookery book). Instead, it stood empty.
The waiter, whose name (according to the discreet name tag on the lapel of his jacket) was William, took my coat and folded it over his arm.
“Permit me to offer my sympathy, Mrs. Haskell. This is an ’orrible,” he cleared his throat, “horrible time for you. But mustn’t despair of business picking up.” Removing a piece of lint off my coat, William rolled it between his fingers. I fought an insane desire to yelp.
He quelled it by adding soberly, “Death does seem to have reached epidemic proportions of late in Chitterton Fells. Especially among the gentlemen. We have the late manager of the Odeon, gone missing, then found in the deep freeze with the ice lollies. And only this afternoon two police constables stopped in for coffee (most gratifying) and mentioned the discovery of a male cadaver down a disused well in Chitterton Woods.”
Those pictures in the Bluebell Room! One of them had shown children throwing pennies down that well. A dish of chocolates sat on the rent table, and I had to squeeze my hands behind my back to stop them from lunging.
“Did the policemen say if the man was Mr. Vernon Daffy, the estate agent?”
“They did.” Butler’s face assumed an expression of gravity. “But I should not be keeping you, Mrs. Haskell. Would you be here to see Mr. Flatts? He is presently engaged in practicing gravies, but I know he will be delighted to see you.”
“No, please! Don’t even mention I am here. I would like a pot of tea, after which I will ring for a taxi to take me home.” Poor Shirley Daffy, she had been so wonderfully brave when Vernon disappeared last week. And now he’d been found down a well!
“As you wish, madam.” William’s tone was reproving.
No matter. I absolutely would not see Ben’s assistant, even though he was my cousin Freddy. After all, he had failed me in the Cooking Crisis that awful day…
William ushered me into a small room. The words Coffee Parlour were engraved on the brass doorplate, but the room was designed for afternoon tea as well as morning coffee. It was softly lit by brass wall lamps shaded in pink silk. Warm and rosy shadows played upon the stuccoed walls between the age-blackened beams. I wished I could get warm.
“Some hot buttered toast with your tea, Mrs. Haskell?”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
I had grown adept at lies of this sort. Besides, I had been afraid to eat ever since it happened, in case I couldn’t stop. Ben had never fully understood my feeling that my new, svelte body was only on loan and that at any minute I might have to give it back. He had accused me of resenting the fact that people had stopped oohing and aahing over the change in me. He had… but so many things had not helped our relationship and then, of course, there had been the Terrible Row.
When William left, I parted the curtains and rubbed at a spot on the pane. Parked across the street was the hearse. My heart thumped. Dropping the curtain, I sank back into my chair. I must try to get a decent night’s sleep. If I didn’t, my nerves would go from bad to worse; I would end up in The Peerless Nursing Home, run by the notorious Dr. Simon Bordeaux.
William must have left the door ajar because I had not heard it open. I could feel, rather than hear, his footsteps. Ben always said the best waiters moved like burglars. I stifled a yawn. Perhaps I would sleep tonight. I couldn’t even summon the energy to turn my head. A scent of rain-drenched wreaths-flowering and over-sweet-filled the air. The tea would help revitalize me. A hand crashed down on my shoulder, and my scream filled up all of Abigail’s empty rooms.
2
“My dear, I am so sorry I startled you,” said a feathery female voice.
“Really, Primrose,” came a crisp admonishment. “How often have I warned you against popping up like that on people? You might have given the girl a heart attack. And we are in the business of saving lives, remember!”
Clutching the tablecloth, I looked upon two elderly ladies. One had dyed black hair swept into a cone on top of her head. Earrings shaped like miniature daggers sliced back and forth against her neck. Her velvet bolero and taffeta skirt were straight from a thrift shop. Her companion was more conventionally dressed in a tweed suit and violet jumper, but small pink bows ornamented her silvery curls and she sported an enormous Mickey Mouse watch. Her eyes were limpid blue in a crumpled face. She was the one drenched in toilet water. As I stared, the black-haired one delved into a carpetbag strikingly decorated with beaded peacocks.
“Here, Primrose.” She held out a dark purple vial. “What a blessing I remembered to bring your smelling salts.”
“How very dear, Hyacinth. But I do not believe I feel the need-”
“Not
you, dear. Poor Mrs… Haskell.”
The bottle lay in my palm.
“Do you ladies own and operate a hearse?”
“We do.” They spoke in unison. “May we”-they laid their coats on a serving trolley and gestured toward my table-“may we join you?”
I turned the smelling salt bottle over. It was at least fifty years old and rather pretty with that lattice cutwork. I remembered having seen an identical one in Delacorte’s Antiques a month ago.
“Yes, do sit down. I’m interested in why you tailed me down Cliff Road and…” William entered with the teapot, three porcelain cups and saucers on a tray.
The black-haired woman crooked a finger at him. “Most welcome, Butler. Put the china down in front of me, please. Poor Mrs. Haskell is a little unsteady. I think it best that I pour.”
What an officious woman! I didn’t mind her taking the head of the table, but I did mind her addressing Ben’s waiter like a second footman in the baronial hall. Unruffled, he smoothed back the curtain I had moved.
“The toasted tea cakes are delayed, madams.” He inclined his head. “A minor combustion occurred in the kitchen.”
“Brought under control, I trust?” warbled the silver-haired lady. “This has already been a most difficult day.” Fishing a lace-edged handkerchief out of her bag, she dabbed at her blue eyes. “Not that the funeral wasn’t wonderful. Exactly what one would wish for oneself, don’t you agree, Hyacinth? Superbly mournful hymns and so very handsome a clergyman. A bachelor, I heard.” She lowered the hanky a half inch. “Butler, would it be possible to provide some brandy for the tea?” She turned to address me. “My sister and I find neat tea rather acid-forming.”
“How very-”
“At once, Miss Primrose.” He picked up their coats and folded them over his arm. “The house offers an unassuming but spirited cognac that I believe your late father would not have been h’ashamed-ashamed-to serve.”
My jaw dropped a notch.
The black-haired lady reached out to pat my hand, still clenched around the smelling salt bottle. I flinched.
“You surmise correctly, Mrs. Haskell. William Butler is in our employ.”
The carpetbag was rummaged through again. “Mrs. Haskell, our professional card.”
It lay in my hand, heavy and sharp-edged.
Flowers Detection.
Specializing in crimes with a difference.
Miss Hyacinth Tramwell, President;
Miss Primrose Tramwell, Chairperson.
No Divorce
“You’re private detectives?”
“You didn’t guess? Splendid.” The silver-haired lady caught the smelling salt bottle neatly as it toppled. “As for Butler-when Hyacinth and I are in residence at Cloisters, Flaxby Meade, he performs those services suited to his name. In our professional engagements, he assists us in ways even better suited to his talents.”
Butler made me a deferential bow. “I am an ex-burglar. Madam. And so I have an understanding of the criminal mind.”
These people were strange, genteelly so, but I definitely did not wish to partake of tea cakes with them. Dragging my bag across the table, I overset the salt and pepper shakers.
“My dear, do not hurry away.” The black-haired one set the little pots to rights. “I am Miss Hyacinth Tramwell, and I speak for Primrose in saying we sincerely regret frightening you this afternoon. Do believe me that until we motored into the village and saw you in speech with the cyclist, we were unaware that it was you, Mrs. Bentley Haskell, walking ahead of us down Cliff Road. It was in hopes of making your acquaintance that we attended the funeral. We were exceedingly disappointed when you left precipitously.”
I gripped the table edge. “Why didn’t you pass me on the road?”
Primrose Tramwell lowered her silvery head. The pink bows quivered. Her cheeks matched them in hue. “This is exceedingly embarrassing, Mrs. Haskell. I have only recently begun to drive and am still learning by my mistakes-only a couple of walls and an old gardening shed, you understand-but now before I take the wheel Hyacinth gives me a refresher course on which pedal is which and what all the little knobs are for.” She fiddled with a button on her cuffs. “As for passing, I have every expectation of advancing to that stage soon.”
“The important thing, Prim, is that we have now met Mrs. Haskell.” Hyacinth spoke bracingly.
A respectful cough from Butler. “Miss Hyacinth, would you wish something more substantial than the tea cakes?”
“Not at the moment, thank you.”
As Butler bowed himself out, she plucked at a jangly gold bracelet with a blood-red fingernail, her shoe-button eyes on me.
“We can talk quite freely in front of Butler, but alas, when he remains unoccupied too long, he gets itchy fingers. I’m sure you meant no harm, Mrs. Haskell, but leaving your bag in full view was tantamount to twirling a mouse in a cat’s face.”
“I’m sorry.” Chastened, I tucked the bag under the table.
“Mrs. Haskell”-Hyacinth Tramwell’s earring knifed back and forth-“you have been brought to our attention as the victim in a most deadly affair.”
“Victim?”
“Along with the deceased; may the Lord have mercy upon his soul.”
Propping my elbows on the table, I measured out my words. “You know about my recent… tragedy. What else do you know about me?”
In response, Hyacinth delved into her carpetbag and fetched forth a green clothbound book, the housekeeping journal sort. She stabbed it open with a red fingernail.
“Your father-Bosworth Hastings Simons-attended the Richmont Choir School and Cambridge, where he read Art History. Currently he is self-employed as a rainmaker on the outskirts of the Sahara.”
I bridled at her intonation. “Needless to say, I would prefer him to be a belly dancer, but I realised long ago we cannot choose our parents’ lives for them.”
“How true!” sighed Primrose. “Our own dear father was, at times, a bitter disappointment.”
Hyacinth trounced over her. “Your maiden name was Giselle Simons. Sixteen months ago you met your husband, Bentley Thomas Haskell, through an organization named Eligibility Escorts, owned and run by a Mrs. Swabucher. Under the provisions of your Uncle Merlin Grantham’s rather colorful will, you and Bentley inherited the property known as Merlin’s Court. This restaurant is named for Merlin’s mother, Abigail.” The red nails flicked to another page. “You also inherited an elderly gardener by name of Jonas Phipps, and shortly after your arrival at Merlin’s Court, you employed a Miss Dorcas Critchley as housekeeper. She is a games mistress by profession and a woman of independent means. She and Mr. Phipps are presently on excursion in America. You have a cousin Frederick-”
“Our dear sister Violet resides in America,” interposed Primrose. “At a place named Detroit. Regrettably we have never been to visit, but it sounds enchanting. Perhaps one day under propitious circumstances…”
A withering glance from her sister’s hooded black eyes quelled her. “My dear Primrose, we are telling Mrs. Haskell her life history, not ours.”
I took in Primrose’s crumpled face and Hyacinth’s sallow one. “Why did you speak just now of my being a victim?”
Hyacinth snapped her book shut.
“Hereabouts, Mrs. Haskell, as I am sure you are woefully aware, you are being dubbed the Demon of Death. Flowers Detection, however, is convinced you have been preyed upon by a murderous organisation. It wickedly decreed that a man should die, and you became the scapegoat.”
“That’s nonsense. I-”
William materialized. We sat mute while he set down fluted plates, filled with butter-dripping tea cakes. He tilted back the bottle he had been carrying under his arm so Primrose could survey the label.
“The cognac for your tea, madam.” At her nod of approval, he set it with a flourish on the table.
“Butler, are we alone on the premises?” queried Hyacinth.
“Mrs. Haskell’s cousin left a few moments ago, madam.”<
br />
“Good! Please close the door behind you and keep watch in the hall.”
Hyacinth tapped me lightly on the wrist with her fork as Butler exited. “It is imperative we not be overheard. The members of this organisation wear the perfect disguise: nice, kind, ordinary faces.” A covert glance at the window. She lowered her voice. “It is in an attempt to eliminate this organisation that we are here.”
Were these women escapees from a place like The Peerless Nursing Home?
Hyacinth was cutting her tea cake into geometric shapes, and Primrose was placidly sousing her tea with cognac. Hyacinth reached for the bottle and angled it over her cup. “Will you indulge, Mrs. Haskell?”
I did feel a need.
“We arrived in Chitterton Fells some weeks ago,” she continued placidly, “at the behest of an insurance company, whose name we are not at liberty to divulge. We can tell you that their computers had been bleeping out distress signals. You know the insurance company mentality, Mrs. Haskell-they want people to worry about dying but never actually do it. Thus, you can appreciate our client’s chagrin on discovering that during the last few years its balance forward had been affected by a marginal, but suggestive, upswing in the number of untimely deaths among married men residing along this part of the coast. Most distressing.”
“Particularly,” Primrose interjected, “for the innocent people whose premiums will soar.”
My heart thumped.
Hyacinth took a bite of tea cake and a sip of tea. “Not in one case was murder cited as the cause of death. Postmortems, when performed, invariably brought conclusions of misadventure, suicide, or natural cause. Suspicions of one kind or another may have been raised, but as in the case involving yourself-”
Enraged, I came up out of my chair. “How dare you accuse me of involvement with a murderous gang-”
“Shush, shush, my dear.” Primrose eased me back down. “We know your participation to be entirely involuntary and unknowing.”
The Widows Club Page 2
