The Widows Club

by Dorothy Cannell

  “But, Ben, it seems to me that the one being injured by this woman’s wagging tongue is your father. Your mother isn’t around to hear what is being said about her curtains.”

  “Mum’s seventy years old. Why shouldn’t she take a nap-a dozen naps, if she wishes?”

  “Yes, of course she may, but a change in routine, Ben…” A wife senses when it is best to change the subject. “Was your mother friendly with Sid’s mother when the Fowlers lived on Crown Street?”

  “They were fairly matey until George Fowler ran off with another woman and Mum went to church twice a day for a week to pray for his return. Seems Mrs. F. didn’t want him back.”

  An overnight bag rolled off the rack above the heads of the two women sitting opposite us. It might have hit one or both of them, but Ben lurched up and caught it.

  “One of you ladies missing this?”

  A warm glow flared inside me. He was so athletic, so suave, so mine. The large woman was rustling about in her bag; it was the tartan pussycat who spoke. “Thank you so much. I must not have put it up there properly. Rushing for a train always distresses me. As a rule, I try to allow plenty of time. But I had a funeral to attend this afternoon and one can’t hurry away, can one?”

  “Allow me.” Ben replaced the overnight bag.

  So that was why the woman looked familiar-she had been a mourner at the churchyard that morning. Her blackbird brooch looked familiar, too. Her friend was also wearing one on her coat. Either these brooches were the insignia of a bird-watching society or a hot item at the church bazaar. The woman in tartan took off her glasses and polished them. Her friend snapped her bag shut and leaned forward.

  “The bride and groom, I presume. Giselle and Bentley Haskell, am I right? Splendid.” She gave a great billowing laugh. She was altogether a billowing sort of woman. Her bloated face shook with chins and her bosom was an entire feather bed more than a bolster. I pressed a hand to my waist. Never again must I let the words clotted cream pass my lips.

  “I am Amelia Bottomly and this is my friend Millie Parsnip.”

  “How do you do,” Ben and I chorused politely.

  Who did she put me in mind of, other than a hand mirror of what I might have become? Queen Anne, after she was stricken with dropsy! That was it! That towering pompadour of greying brown hair, the heavy garnet and amber rings biting into the puffy fingers, the suggestion of pomp and circumstance in her manner. Her face was presently lathered with smiles, but the set of her mouth gave her away. Let anyone displease Amelia Bottomly and she would cry, “Off with his head!”

  I smiled at Millie Parsnip, crushed into folds against the window by her friend’s bulk. “We crossed paths this afternoon in the churchyard.”

  “So we did! And I have been wanting to meet you. You see, I have this sofa I wish reupholstered, and I wonder, Mrs. Haskell, whether you think a gold brocade would go well with my oriental rugs?”

  Amelia Bottomly boomed a laugh. “Don’t be tiresome, Millie.” She hefted round in her seat to face Ben and me. “I missed the funeral. I’m a widow myself, as is Millie here, both lost our husbands about three years ago, so naturally I’m sympathetic, but I had to visit a friend who’s a patient at The Peerless Nursing Home. She’s been having a bit of nerve trouble-the change, you know.” She mouthed the last few words. “And it’s not as though I am acquainted with Mrs. Thrush, the bereaved. So hard, isn’t it, at times, to draw the line between concern and vulgar curiosity? Especially in a case, like this, of a fatal accident.”

  “Indeed,” said Ben. He was doodling on his railway ticket.

  “A motor accident?” Mine was vulgar curiosity; it helped take my mind off my missing mother-in-law.

  “Why, Mrs. Haskell!” The chins shook with astonishment. “Didn’t you read about poor Alvin Thrush in The Daily Spokesman? The story was right below ‘Dear Felicity Friend.’ The man was electrocuted in the bath. He was a do-it-yourself electrician and had wired, or miswired, a heated towel rail.”

  I had overheard one of the mourners say, “His death was a terrible shock.” Edging closer to Ben, I silently vowed we would always hire professionals to replace light bulbs.

  The train hurtled through Snaresby Station. Opening her large handbag, Amelia Bottomly pulled out a gold compact and began flouring her purplish nose. “How I envy you two young people that wonderful old house. You adore it, too, don’t you, Millie?” In turning, she almost smothered the other woman.

  A muffled, “Yes, indeed.”

  “Marvellous stories are told about the place and some of the characters who have lived there. Quite the equal of anything in Mr. Digby’s books.”

  A familiar refrain. Ben was pretending to be asleep.

  “I feel uncivic-minded admitting I’ve never read an Edwin Digby book,” I said.

  “You do know he writes under the name Mary Birdsong?” Amelia Bottomly dropped the compact back into her bag. “The Vegetarian Vampire. Marvellous! I won’t give the whole thing away, but the premise is one can’t get blood out of a turnip!” After a great burbling laugh, Mrs. Bottomly speared Ben with her eyes. “I understand we have another author in our midst! A cookery book, no less!”

  Ben pretended to be deeply asleep.

  Millicent Parsnip leaned forward as far as she was able, her soft, whiskery face eager. “Perhaps Mr. Haskell would enjoy doing a little cookery demonstration for the Hearthside Guild.”

  “Splendid idea! I am on that committee as well as a few others.” Mrs. Bottomly straightened the blackbird brooch, then began ticking off on her fingers: “Secretary of Lighthouse Preservation, board member of Active Women Over Forty, chairperson of the Historical Society. Have I missed anything, Millie?”

  “I thought you joined Bunty Wiseman’s aerobics class.”

  “I did, but dropped out before I passed out.” The chins compressed into a great ruff.

  “Would you nice young people”-Mrs. Bottomly’s eyes again shifted to Ben-“agree to the Historical Society doing a tour of your home? A marvellous fund-raiser, don’t you agree, Millie? Viewing the dungeons would be worth the price of admission.”

  Ben opened his eyes as the train pummeled through another station to a blaze of white light. “Merlin’s Court doesn’t boast dungeons,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” No longer beaming, Mrs. Bottomly enunciated each word with surgical precision. “Surely Mad Merlin did not seal them up!”

  “Amelia,” bleated Mrs. Parsnip, “Mrs. Haskell was related to the late, lamented-”

  “I’m not blaming her for that-”

  We entered a tunnel, diving through its blackness with an anguished howl. I grabbed for Ben’s hand and found it clammy with sweat. This was torture for him.

  “I’m afraid of slugs,” I confessed in a whisper.

  All clear. The light was murky grey again, pinpricked by houselights and street lamps. Mrs. Bottomly heaved up from her seat.

  “I fancy a couple of meat pies from the buffet. Coming, Millie? What about you, Mr. and Mrs. Haskell?”

  “No, thank you,” said Ben, which would make a yes from me sound piggish. And I was hoping to lose another half-pound before donning the pink nightie.

  Millie Parsnip smiled her nice smile, reminding me so much of Tobias. “Are you sure?”

  Mrs. Bottomly interrupted, chins jostling each other in excitement. “Why, Millie, if that isn’t Dr. Bordeaux! I would recognise that classic profile anywhere. At the far end of the carriage, yes, in the black cashmere coat. He’s with the sandy-haired girl. She must be the daughter of the paralysed woman who lives in the Dower House on the nursing home grounds. Yes, I can see now-she’s with them.”

  I kept my shoulders pressed against the back of my seat. I would not gawk… Dr. Bordeaux!

  “People say such wicked things.” Mrs. Bottomly swelled with intensity of feeling. “But the B.M.A. thought the charges ridiculous. Why shouldn’t he specialise in rich people if that is his forte? What is so sinister about sick old women dying?
And what, I ask you”-her baleful gaze forced me back into my seat-“is so suggestive about a mere half-dozen such women altering their wills in his favour, hours before their deaths? Devotion should be rewarded.”

  “And greedy friends and relations should get what is coming to them-nothing,” supplied Millicent Parsnip.

  She would be told about interrupting later. Mrs. Bottomly swept on.

  “Oh, I have heard all the snide remarks-that he has saved more lives than he has taken. But The Peerless is thriving. The patients all get such personalized care! Only the one doctor-” She stopped suddenly. It was the train. Something was happening to the train…

  We had been hurtling toward Pebblewell Station, lights zooming toward us like Olympic torch bearers, when came this shuddering jolt. The walls gyrated; the carriage threatened to tear apart. Shrieks, moans from other passengers. My mind became a screen blazing with the words The End.

  When I opened my eyes, everything had gone quiet. Ben’s arms encircled me like a safety belt. Millicent Parsnip, tam-o’-shanter askew, lay across her seat tugging at her skirt to cover her splayed legs. Scared voices queried, “What happened?” Two middle-aged men in bowler hats clung to each other. Mrs. Bottomly was wedged in the aisle. Never was obesity more stalwart, more magnificent, more inspiring.

  Ben said, “Ellie, are you all right?”

  I nodded. There was a turmoil of people on the platform. The train wasn’t moving. The passengers pressed toward the exits. A guard threw a door open, leaned in and yelled in a voice guaranteed to escalate alarm, “No need to panic! Everything under control!”

  “What happened?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Is it the I.R.A.?”

  The guard leaped back onto the platform. “A man fell on the line but it’s-”

  His voice was cut off by one even more authoritative than Mrs. Bottomly’s. “Let me out! I am a doctor!”

  And as I watched, the man with the poet’s face stepped down and swiftly followed the guard down the platform. I was glad the British Medical Association had been merciful. I hoped Dr. Bordeaux could do something for the poor man, whoever he was.

  8

  … “Let me guess!” Primrose pressed a finger to her pursed lips, and closed her eyes. “The nearly deceased man was Mr. Vernon Daffy, estate agent.”

  “Very impressive,” I said, “although the story was plastered all over the front page of The Daily Spokesman-‘Man Pitches Onto Railway Line,’ ‘Gallant Rescue by Unknown Woman as Train Hoves Into Sight.’ ”

  Hyacinth’s orange lips formed a smile. “Would it improve the credibility of Flowers Detection if I gave you the name of the unknown woman?”

  “As I have no idea who she was-”

  “Oh, but my dear, I think you have.” Primrose stirred a spoonful of sugar into my coffee. “According to eyewitness reports, Mr. Daffy was standing close to the edge of the platform when he screamed, ‘mouse,’ and pitched forward. Everyone froze except the woman-middle-aged, woolly-haired, and plainly dressed-who had been standing nearest him. She performed the rescue and disappeared in the general hullabaloo. Her courage was applauded by the press and public-but what we know is that she had lost her nerve at the final moment.”

  “Mouse,” I said slowly, “as in ‘three wild mice?’ ”

  “Correct, my dear Ellie.” Primrose beamed. “Therefore, the woman in question is indubitably Mrs. Beatrix Woolpack, in whose car you and Ben took shelter on your wedding day. She was instructed to acquire the mice, and being a conscientious soul, she jotted them on her shopping list. ‘Three’ because one or two might go in the wrong direction and not scare Mr. Daffy, who was mouse phobic, out of his wits, and ‘wild’ because white laboratory mice might raise questions.” She sighed disparagingly. “Such a wanton disregard for animal life.”

  Hyacinth’s hooded black eyes gleamed in the rosy light. “Mrs. Woolpack must have received a raking over the coals by the president and her associates on the board… if nothing worse. The Founder had to be very displeased. An exquisitely coordinated plan wasted. Note that Mr. Daffy did not catch the train at Chitterton Station where both he and Mrs. Woolpack would more likely be recognised. No, someone persuaded him to catch the train at Pebblewell-one of the wedding guests perhaps who happened to be driving to Pebblewell that evening and would be happy to save Mrs. Daffy a trip.”

  I touched my wedding ring. “Mrs. Daffy was so warm and friendly. She liked cats. And she spoke fondly of her husband, who called her Froggy.”

  Primrose shook her head. “My dear, she called him Squeaky, which surely is every bit as vicious as his calling her Froggy. Mr. Daffy had been engaged in an illicit affair for weeks. We have it on good authority that he had asked for a divorce.”

  I forced my mind away from Mrs. Daffy’s amiable visage… and custom-made murder. “What do you make of Dr. Bordeaux and his entourage being on the train and his rushing to offer assistance to the victim?”

  “An aborted alibi turned to excellent account,” declared Hyacinth.

  “What I wonder,” Primrose interrupted, “is whether Mr. Daffy’s wig dislodged when he fell off the platform? How very embarrassing that would have been. It brings back memories of that terrible time the elastic in our Aunt Ada’s unmentionables gave way and-”

  “Wig?” I stared at both sisters.

  “My dear Mrs. Haskell,” said Hyacinth. “I was so certain you had guessed when you made mention of”-she resorted to the notebook-‘his oversized mop of black curls.’ But enough of the Daffys. Let us wend our way with you to North Tottenham and the meeting with Mr. Elijah Haskell.”…

  * * *

  We gave up on the bell. Ben rapped on the door of Haskell’s Fruit & Veg., at first tentatively, then loud enough to set the Closed sign rapping back. Nose pressed against the pane, I beheld a fuzziness similar to a telly on the blink. The contents of the room, counters, and vegetable bins, were visible in the glow from a low-wattage bulb. Ben shoved his fingers through his hair and rapped again.

  “He must be asleep.” Stepping around our luggage, I peered up at the narrow rectangle of window on the second floor. The curtains were drawn shut.

  “Dad’s a light sleeper.” Ben stared up and down the street, reabsorbing the feel of the place. Again I felt excluded by his past. It wasn’t exactly raining, but the night had a cold sweat about it. The houses on Crown Street were terraced and of sooty, buff-coloured brick. Their front doors opened directly onto the narrow pavement. Lights burned in many of the windows.

  A bus skimmed down the road. A man, hands in his pockets, head down, walked past opposite us; a boy of about seven airplaned along behind him, making zoom-zoom noises.

  Ben stopped rapping.

  “Do you hear your father?”

  He shook his head. “That bloke across the street-I went to school with him. Tom somebody. Doesn’t look like life’s treating him too well.”

  “What makes you say that? The little boy seems to be his and they’re well-dressed.”

  “His walk.” Ben squinted in concentration. “It’s depressed. Haven’t you ever noticed, Ellie, how people often reveal more about their state of mind by their walk than their faces?”

  I hadn’t thought about it, and I wasn’t sure I agreed. The widow going up the church steps had looked jaunty from the rear. I made noncommittal noises. A good wife does not set herself against her husband on every occasion. I wondered whether we should break into Haskell’s Fruit & Veg. or knock on a nearby door and ask to use the phone. I pushed our luggage closer to the wall with my foot, then heard a sound that inspired hope-clanking beer bottles. “Ben, does your father frequent the local pub?”

  Ben peered into the deepening gloom. About a dozen houses down, a humanoid shadow was emerging from the shadows. “No, but I am an expert on more things than human locomotion. Approaching beer bottles are to me what fingerprints are to Scotland Yard.” The bottle noises were now accompanied by the tat tat of high heels on pavement. �
�These tell me that Mrs. Merryfeather is upon us. Damn! She is the biggest gossip since speech was invented.”

  “I thought that was Mrs. Long, the woman who informed the police that your mother was missing?”

  “It’s a tie. Sorry, Ellie”-Ben grabbed hold of me-“I have to do this.”

  Snogging on a street corner was every bit the vulgar thrill Aunt Astrid had led me to expect. There was only one niggle on the periphery of my delight: Was Ben scared that Mrs. Merrywhoever might dredge up stories about his youthful love life?

  The bottle medley slowed to a jingle, the heels stopped tapping, and a high-pitched shriek pierced the air.

  “Don’t tell me, ’cos I won’t believe it! Little Benny Haskell all grown up! And what’s this?” The voice dropped to gravelly coyness. “Got yourself a nice girl, have you?”

  Ben and I fell apart. He straightened his tie. “Mrs. Merryfeather, this is my wife, Ellie.”

  “Married, never!” The twin bags, full of beer bottles, trembled. “My Stella will kill ’erself when she ’ears Benny ’Askell is taken.”

  Mrs. Merryfeather turned to me, a headscarf tied package-fashion around her head and a froth of blond curls bunched at her forehead. Her apron bib protruded through the V-neck of her coat. “Oops! Me an’ my big mouth. Cracking jokes at a time like this! I said to Stell, somebody’s nipper will be netting for tiddlers under a perishing bridge, and he’ll fish out Mrs. ‘Askell instead.”

  Fumes were coming out of Ben’s nose. “My mother is not missing. She knows precisely where she is.”

  “Right you are, love! Keep on ’oping until the very last.” Mrs. Merryfeather poked Ben with her elbow, the bags lurching against her hip with a heavy thwam. “And in future don’t be such a stranger. The place in’t the same since you and Cassanover Sid did a bunk. I used to say to Stell, ‘Them lads can pick their women like fruit off a tree.’ ” She looked me up and down, deciding no doubt that I didn’t come up to Stella. “ ’Ow do you like Crown Street?”

  “Very nice.”