“No.” I shook her off. The situation permitted extreme agitation. “I will go and lie down. You phone Dr. Padinsky immediately.”
I was within a couple of yards of the waiting room. I grabbed the door, closed it behind me, then raced for the French windows. Could I make it around the side of the house to my car before Nurse got off the phone? Was she suspicious? Was she even now speaking to Dr. Bordeaux, listening to his instructions, preparing to arm herself with a poisoned syringe and pursue me at full tilt? Or had she swallowed the situation because she had let me into the building, and Dr. Bordeaux might be very, very annoyed with her if anything were amiss?
Ducking across the lawn, I felt weighed down by hopelessness. The doctor could appear at any moment, the dogs panting at his heels. And menace there already was aplenty. The wind dragged at my hair like an outstretched hand and sucked in gloating breaths. The trees kept breaking through the tattered mist to stand directly in my path. My hip whapped into a bench. Inside the house, the dogs Virtue and Sin began to bark.
Immediately ahead now was the Dower House. No sanctuary to be found there even if the doctor were absent. Jenny was only a child, her mother helpless, and the nanny ancient. Dr. Bordeaux was their patron, probably respected. Possibly loved.
I was now level with a set of French windows similar to the ones I had just exited. Panting, I peered through the glass and saw two people. Clinging to a web of ivy, I strove to catch my breath. The couch was empty, unlike the time when I was in this room and the invalid lay there. Jenny was in the middle of the room with her back to me, her hair-more auburn than sandy under the electric light-spilling loose about her shoulders. It struck me that something was different. Her dress, a green silk sheath, was for once not too young, but too old for her. The other person in the room was Dr. Bordeaux. I couldn’t see much of his face because Jenny kept moving, blocking off my view, her gestures angry. Clearly some sort of altercation was in progress. Good for me, but I was sorry for Jenny.
Nipping past the window, teeth chattering, I slithered around the side of the house and raced towards the gravel semicircle. Virtue and Sin waited, bowlegged, muzzles at the ready, directly in front of the Heinz. I expected to freeze with stupefied terror, but the stupefying part was, it didn’t happen. Perhaps life with Sweetie had toughened me or perhaps as adversaries I would take the dogs over the nurse. Teeth bared in a playful smile, I hurled a shower of pebbles into the air. With canine shrieks of glee, they leapt into the air, tongues lapping, paws flapping, while I made the last desperate hustle toward the Heinz. Would a hand reach out from behind me and twist my neck into a rope?
I jabbed the key in the ignition, my eyes riveted to the door of The Peerless. Foot on the accelerator, I begged, “Heinz, don’t fail me now.” Then I rammed into reverse and whizzed backward down the avenue. I couldn’t risk the precious minutes necessary to turn the car around.
Not only had I to get away from here, I had to get to the Tramwells. I had to tell them that my visit to The Peerless had convinced me, as nothing else could have done, that The Widows Club was a matter for the police. Yes, the men in blue had been unreceptive at first, but I would accompany the sisters to the station house and offer all the information I had garnered. But I couldn’t-wouldn’t-play amateur detective any more. The risks were too great. I wasn’t going to end up in a broom cupboard, and I wouldn’t have Ben involved. I couldn’t shake off the feel of the nurse’s hand on my arm or the look in those pebble eyes. And if such a woman was afraid of Dr. Bordeaux, God help us all.
I sat shivering in a maroon leather chair in the reception room at The Pebblewell Hotel from four that afternoon until six in the evening, drinking countless cups of coffee and whiling away the time by counting people going up and down the red carpeted staircase. Soon they all wore grey woolly coats, had faces like Mrs. Woolpack, and talked in sheep’s voices. When I awoke, the Tramwells still hadn’t returned. What if they didn’t come back? What if they had decided they were not equipped to handle a murder investigation and had returned to their pastoral village? Panic broke in icy waves through my skin. What if Ann were hit by a car? Her belongings would be examined by someone in authority who would find the damning note I had written to Dear Felicity Friend. What precisely had I said in that note? Forget the police! What if Ben somehow got hold of it? I began pacing the space between the two couches, bumping every third step into the oversized coffee table. The receptionist had her eyes on me. Mine kept time with the onyx clock on the mantel. Still the sisters did not return. When two elderly gentlemen, newspapers tucked under the arms, invaded my territory with talk of grouse shooting, I had waited long enough.
The Heinz, marvel of marvels, started right up. I drove through the dark blanket of evening into Chitterton Fells and along Market Street. I had to get that piece of paper back. A streetlamp spread a silvery sheen outside Delacorte’s Antiques. I drew up at the curb, opened the door to step out and jumped when something brushed against my calf. Looking up at me was Mother. She honked, eyes bright with hope. Mine scanned the street but I could see no sign of Mr. Digby. He must be swilling it back at The Dark Horse.
“Unlike you, old faithful, to leave your post,” I said to Mother. “Seen someone you know?” I stroked her head. “Some people don’t deserve to have geese.” She looked defensive, then forlornly scooted away.
The shop sign said Closed, but Ann might not yet have locked up. She hadn’t. I entered to greyness, dramatised by shadowy humps of furniture and the William Tell Overture.
“Ann,” I called, fumbling for the light switch. The room sprang to eye-smarting brightness. “Ann!” No answer. The shop looked different at night, less cosy, but something was wrong… no, more like-missing. And why not! After all, everything here was for sale except the cash register. I shook myself, but the day’s events crowded in on me. Would there be repercussions to my visit to The Peerless? What would I say to Ann? Could I persuade the police that Bunty might be in peril if the widows were prepared to bend the rules? I crossed the shop, telling myself that I would walk up those stairs and knock on that door. My hands reached for the amber velvet curtains and pulled them apart… I would say, Hello Ann, I’ve been thinking about that little charade we played…
Something brushed against me and I was so startled I toppled over. When I opened my eyes and grovelled to my feet, I found myself looking at Ann. Her eyes were opened wide, her hair and fortyish clothes as elegant as when I had seen her that morning.
There was only one real difference. She was dead. Two arrows pinned her jacketed shoulders to the wall under the left-hand curtain. A third was punched into her chest.
I had been right: there was something different about the shop. The crossbow was missing from the wall behind the register.
I was standing there looking at this woman who had been my friend when I heard again the tinkle of the William Tell Overture.
From the Files of
The Widows Club
Minutes of Board Meeting, Monday, 11th May
The minutes of the March meeting were approved as read. Treasurer, Mary Ellis, reported a current balance of £139.71 and fended off an accusation by Betty White that £2.13 had been misappropriated for the purchase of fertilizer for the gardening committee. Activities Chairwoman, Martha Grub, made a motion that a trip to Hampton Court be made an annual event. Motion seconded by Mrs. Shirley Daffy and unanimously approved by the Board. Mrs. Agnes Levine, Membership Committee, circulated copies of the updated standard Telephone Approach To Prospective Members. Two spelling and three typographical errors were called to the Board’s attention, but the document passed by a two-thirds vote for immediate implementation. Corrected sample attached. Refreshments of currant buns and cocoa were served. The meeting concluded abruptly at 9:36 P.M. when the news of Ann Delacorte’s death was received.
Respectfully submitted,
Millicent Parsnip,
Recording Secretary
The Widows Club
Telephon
e Questionnaire
Membership Committee Member:
Good day, Mrs. Jane Smith (fictitious name). I am telephoning at the request of a mutual friend who tells me you may seriously be considering the possibilities of becoming a widow.
Mrs. Jane Smith:
a. I am indeed.
b. Is this an obscene phone call?
(If the response is b, pretend you have the wrong Jane Smith, on whom you are playing a practical joke, and hang up. Otherwise proceed.)
M.C. Member:
Let us be sure we fully understand each other. You do dream of having your husband murdered?
Mrs. J.S.:
I can’t think of anything nicer.
M.C. Member:
Well then, Mrs. Jane Smith, you are exactly the sort of woman we want in The Widows Club, a local organisation that offers a vast assortment of social and cultural activities along with its guilt management services. Your sponsor will be happy to discuss them with you, if you decide to join us.
Mrs. J.S.:
When may I be admitted to your ranks?
M.C. Member:
That I cannot tell you. The admittance procedure varies anywhere from a few days to a few months. We do ask that you begin preparing yourself emotionally. Get plenty of rest and exercise to control nerves. Endeavour to treat your husband as though you were readying him to go away on his holidays. A little kindness now is an investment in both your futures.
Mrs. J.S.:
I cannot wait to begin.
M.C. Member:
Good. Now we come to the matter of the initiation fee. The Widows Club realises it is difficult for many women to come up with one thousand pounds cash. If you can, splendid; otherwise we ask that you make a contribution of jewelry-your engagement ring, gold watch, etc. The Widows Club does not discriminate on the basis of economic status. On payment of your fee it is required that you enclose a brief, handwritten application. This, along with the note you recently wrote to an advice columnist, will be kept on file.
Mrs. J.S.:
How and where shall I deposit the membership fee?
M.C. Member:
The current depository is the statue of Smuggler Jim in St. Anselm’s churchyard. The left boot contains a crevice ideal for the purpose. Please deposit the fee between midnight and four A.M. during the next forty-eight hours. On the remote chance that you are seen in the churchyard, say you felt a need to come to terms with death.
Mrs. J.S.:
And then?
M.C. Member:
Relax and wait. You will receive notification of approval through the confidential column of our local advice columnist, Dear Felicity Friend. Mrs. Jane Smith, it is my privilege and pleasure to assure you that your husband will be detained on earth no longer than strictly necessary. I look forward to that happy day when you join us at one of The Widows Club’s general meetings and receive your membership badge.
22
Primrose was, I think, disappointed that I didn’t faint dead away or, at the very least, go into hysterics when she and Hyacinth entered Delacorte’s to find me in the most compromising of positions, inches away from Ann’s body.
“My dear Ellie,” she said, as she propped me against a bureau, “what a very nasty shock for all of us. I have for years considered bows and arrows one of the menaces of modern society, but, on the bright side, we must remember that Mrs. Delacorte was hardly a person you would have wished to keep as a friend.”
“True, but I didn’t kill her to get her off my guest list.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Primrose soothed. “This wasn’t a murder, it was an execution. Oh, the thrill, Hyacinth, of being proved right!-professionally speaking.”
I wished she would keep her voice down. I could not shake the feeling that the murderer might still be here, lurking behind a piece of antique furniture.
Hyacinth lowered me onto a chair. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Prim. We suspicioned (did we not?) that Mrs. Delacorte had used The Widows Club for her own ends. But there has to be more. She must have taken some action to precipitate this.”
I pressed my fingers to my eyes, trying to shut out the horror of Ann’s unflickering gaze. “Life is what you make of it,” she had said. “If you want something done, an obstacle removed from your path, it is best to go to the top.” I heard myself giving the Tramwells a fractured account of my visit here this morning.
Primrose fluttered in circles like a moth. “Somehow Mrs. Delacorte discovered, or guessed at, the identity of The Founder. After you left her, she went to see him or her. Putting you up for membership would not have sealed her fate, so my belief is she requested that Bunty Wiseman be eliminated; perhaps she even put the squeeze on The Founder. But that is neither here nor there. Mrs. Delacorte placed herself in a very perilous position and it was decided she had to be removed. It most assuredly would not do to have members of the club stepping outside the club’s charter. Oh, dear me, no! The results would be murderous mayhem.”
“Absolutely,” said her sister. “But I feel very strongly that the swiftness of the response indicates a breathless kind of fury, due to the fact that Mrs. Delacorte’s desired victim was a woman and one whose husband she coveted. We have much to discuss-why we are all here, for instance-but now we must do the courteous thing and telephone the constabulary.”
“Not for a few minutes, please. I have something I must retrieve from Ann’s bag.” I pried myself out of the chair.
“Dear me, of course!” fluted Primrose. “The note you wrote to Dear Felicity Friend! Who is, as Hyacinth and I have been meaning to tell you, none other than Edwin Digby, under the guise of another female pseudonym-”
“We can go into all this later,” Hyacinth interrupted, but Primrose swept on.
“Butler has confirmed the suspicions aroused, Ellie, when you spoke of the page you saw in Mr. Digby’s typewriter. The writing had the cadence of something from an advice column. And when Mrs. Malloy arrived at The Aviary that day she mentioned that she had seen him entering the…”-Primrose stumbled over the next word-“Gentleman’s. Her hints that she could keep her mouth shut suggested that this observation had been made somewhere other than The Dark Horse. Earlier she told you, Ellie, that she had cleaned the executive toilets at The Daily Spokesman and knew the identity of Felicity Friend. Am I making myself clear?”
“You are making yourself long.” Hyacinth tapped on a Victorian desk. “We must look for that note at once, although Mrs. Delacorte may have already passed it on. Indeed, she may have used it as an excuse for her fatal visit. Ellie, your contribution to our efforts is magnificent and I regret you have been forced to spend the remainder of the day aimlessly awaiting our return from London. When we arrived back at the Pebblewell Hotel we were told that you had just left the premises. We followed at top speed and spotted your car.”
“My dear,” scolded Primrose, “you were saying that I was talking too much. The police tend to be nitpicky over such questions as ‘When did you enter the premises and discover the body?’ ” She touched my arm. “We will say that you fainted, Ellie, and we dithered about reviving you. However, two minutes is all I think we can allow ourselves to search for the handbag with the note.”
“Are we going to tell the police about The Widows Club?”
“Indeed not. Think how galling if they were to step in at this late stage, solve the case, and scoop the credit. I think I would weep after the exhausting day we have had browsing in Harrods, waiting for Butler to get finished checking up on Edwin Digby’s genealogy at Somerset House. And all for naught. It seems Digby isn’t his real name either. Oh, and Ellie… Put your gloves on, dear.”
I went through the amber curtains sideways so as not to brush against Ann’s body, then up the stairs to the flat. I had to find that note. If the police got their hands on it, I doubted my marriage would survive, and prison decor had never excited me. As things stood, the police would surely put me under the microscope. This was my second body in less than
a month. First the husband, then the wife.
Switching on the light, I lifted Ann’s coat from the chair where it had been tossed, but the bag wasn’t underneath. Hyacinth’s voice sliced through my jumping nerves. She was telephoning the police station. I could count on a minute at most.
How ironic to realise that less than half an hour ago I had wanted to talk to the police. I had pictured a kindly detective patting me on the arm and saying, “Thank you, madam, the boys and I will get right on it.” Alas, how a corpse alters the case. Now I pictured a different look on the inspector’s face as I babbled away about a widows club while Ann’s body was pinned to a wall. I had to find that note.
The scream of the sirens ripped into my head just as I discovered Ann’s black suede bag on a bookcase. Hands shaking, I snapped open the clasp. Comb, mirror, purse, cheque book, oh, please… My fingers were stiffening up. But there it was, the folded square of paper. I opened it just to make sure. Yes. I moistened my lips and placed it on my tongue. I always said I could eat anything. Then I flicked off the light and, chewing madly, stumbled down the stairs.
I wasn’t alone in the narrow dark. The what-if demons pressed in on me. What if Ann, even though she had not passed on the note, had mentioned my interest in becoming a member of The Widows Club? What if the nurse described me accurately enough to Dr. Bordeaux that he recognised me? What if I broke down under police questioning? I took the last step and edged the curtains apart.
Hyacinth was on her knees half under a table; Primrose was atop a stepstool.
“There, there, ladies,” came a comfortable male voice. “You can come out of hiding. You are perfectly safe.” The shop was crammed almost as full with policemen as it was with merchandise. I swallowed hard.
“Well, that didn’t go too badly, did it?” remarked Hyacinth. Primrose had driven the hearse around the corner from Delacorte’s. She now proffered a bag of extra strong peppermints, saying they would warm us up. I liked the way they killed the taste of paper and ink.
The Widows Club Page 31
