The Trouble with Harriet

by Dorothy Cannell

  Far from shriveling with embarrassment, I was intensely proud of him, knowing, as I did, that he had the most compelling of reasons to believe that the woman killed in the accident was the one he had loved and already mourned for as dead. I shifted in my seat and lost an arm and a leg in the process. After finally wrestling myself free, I took care not to budge an eyebrow until all heads turned, forcing mine to do likewise in one of those chain reactions that get people injured or even killed.

  Lady Grizwolde was being wheeled down the aisle by Ned’s granddaughter, Sarah, of the rosy cheeks and cheeky expression, although if there was anything cheekier than her ladyship showing up for the service, I couldn’t think of it. Not if it was she who had murdered Harriet.

  I had lain awake in the early morning chewing the whole thing over for the third or fourth time. Had the classically beautiful woman now being wheeled into a place close to the pulpit gone out to the Old Abbey gates the night before last to intercept Harriet before she went up to the house to deliver the urn to Sir Casper? Had she acquired the injury to her ankle either in struggling with her out on the cliff road or while straining to shove the car over the edge after having first hit Harriet over the head with a rock? And why the wheelchair rather than crutches? Was she acting her heart out for sympathy?

  Temporarily setting aside her ladyship, I had gone over the list of other suspects. I had even toyed with the idea that Sarah, having heard things as she flitted about the house with a feather duster or tea tray, had told her friend Ruth of the impending arrival of the relic. And Ruth, fearing this would effectively write end of story to the life and times of St. Ethelwort, meaning she would be shoved out of the vicarage nest and be forced to find a job in an office with a water cooler outside the door, had biked up the cliff road. And while pretending to be out walking the dog had been the one to waylay Harriet. But even at three in the morning this had struck me as a bit thin.

  A person with a stronger motive to prefer that the saint not be allowed back in his anointed place and in so doing provide a miracle in the person of new heir was Timothia Finchpeck. I realized, of course, that it was possible that she had staged a soliloquy on hearing footsteps coming down the hall yesterday when I was with Ned. She could have hoped that if she was heard accusing someone of murder, she might be crossed off as a suspect.

  But from my meeting with her, I had gained a strong sense that duty to the family was all, and much as she might dislike, even loathe, the present Lady Grizwolde, she would not risk upsetting her Elizabethan ancestress. Then there was Mr. Jarrow. He might have decided to steal the urn after discovering, from Harriet’s demand for increased payment, that it was actually a reliquary that he could peddle for a fortune. Or he might have been motivated by a love for Lady Grizwolde that had survived all odds.

  Risking wiggling one toe to ward off an attack of pins and needles, I shifted my suspicions to Mr. Ambleforth, who was obsessed to the point of mania with St. Ethelwort. There was that letter to Father Bergdorff on his desk. Had they corresponded for years on the subject of the saint? Perhaps the two men had even become friends, making it more than probable that the German priest would confide in the English vicar when the theft occurred.

  Last but certainly not least on my list of suspects was of course Mr. Price. Had word of the reliquary’s theft leaked out despite Father Bergdorff’s best efforts, to be bandied about the underworld? And had he murdered Harriet in one of his botched attempts to get his hands on it?

  The organist struck up a hymn, and Mr. Ambleforth finally ascended the pulpit. “My very dear friends ...” His white hair stood on end, and his gaze wavered before lighting, like a fly that had been swatted once too often, on her ladyship’s bowed head. “My esteemed colleagues of the Society for Monastic Research. I stand before you today humbled by the enormous tribute paid to me in the presentation of this handsome award.”

  He picked up a candle snuffer that we had all seen him previously use for a bookmark. “I am immensely moved by this generous recognition of my work in restoring interest in the Ethelwortian rule. I know there are many worthier recipients whom you might have selected to so honor. That said, I am proud of what has been a life’s work of inestimable joy. I am, however, aware that I have at times neglected other duties—to my wife, Kathleen, and to my former parishioners at St. Paul the Evangelist. And today I make the decision to step down”—he suited actions to words in beginning to descend the pulpit— “from my position of leadership in the S.M.R. and focus all my energies on my roles as husband and clergyman.”

  Before anyone could audibly voice his or her confusion, having thought this was to be a prayer service for the accident victim, people began piling out of the pews. A half-dozen heads in front of me was Freddy, and I was almost sure that the blond curls bobbing along behind him belonged to Aunt Lulu. Then I saw Ben’s profile, and a couple of moments later I spotted Ursel, with Daddy towering behind her. But either I missed Mrs. Malloy or she was not in attendance. Naturally I began to worry about her. Was she bedridden with stage fright? Should I have an ambulance sent to bring her to the church hall, where dress rehearsal for Murder Most Fowl was set to start within the hour?

  Outside in the drizzling rain a substantial number of people headed toward their cars or the bus stop. Those who lived close by, in the houses along Hawthorn Lane and Crescent Moon Close, would probably walk if going straight home. But a fair-sized group put up their umbrellas or turned up their coat collars and shifted over to the hall, a modern building that looked as though it had attached itself to the rear of St. Anselm’s without being invited to do so.

  It had been several years since St. Anselm’s had put on a play. So it was not surprising that those with nothing more enticing to do took the opportunity to get out of the rain, hang up their outer apparel on the iron hooks in the vestibule, and cluster in tongue-clicking groups behind the rows of folding metal chairs. The curtain was due to rise at 7:30 on the dress rehearsal and there was yet a half hour to go.

  Catching sight of Kathleen Ambleforth bustling about below stage checking the footlights, I got the impression, more from the set of the hat on her head than anything else, that she was not delighted by the size of the turnout. I knew from Freddy and Mrs. Malloy that family and friends were encouraged to attend the dress rehearsal so that the cast could get the feel of playing to an audience. But such a large attendance was likely to mean a loss in ticket sales. Unless of course, Murder Most Fowl proved so riveting that its fans turned out for every performance. But from the droop of the feather on Kathleen’s hat, I did not sense that she held out high hopes for such a happenstance.

  Ben went off to fetch me a glass of lemonade from a table positioned along the rear wall of the hall. While he was gone, which was quite a while, since the queue for free refreshments stretched into the vestibule, I searched out familiar faces. There were my friends Bunty Wisemen, the Marilyn Monroe of Chitterton Fells; Frizzy Taffer, proud mother of Dawn, who was playing the maid; and Clarice Whitcombe, a sweet woman newly engaged to Brig. Lester-Smith, Murder Most Fowl’s Major Wagewar. She had a Norfolk terrier with her on a red lead. It was generally known that she took it to church with her, but as it was a good little dog and only barked when the organist struck a wrong key, the Parish Council had refrained from taking action. I was about to cross the highly polished tile floor to chat with some of these people before the curtain went up when a hand tapped me on the shoulder and I turned and found myself looking at the Hoppers, lined up in descending order of height.

  “We had to come for Harriet’s sake,” said Cyril.

  “For our dear Harriet,” said Doris.

  “Our very dear Harriet,” said Edith.

  “We thought the vicar was to say prayers for her.” Cyril made this contribution.

  “It would have been nice if he’d at least said her name.” Doris looked as though tears in the form of tiny wooden beads might slide down her cheeks. I hastened to explain that from what I had heard, the acci
dent victim had yet to be officially identified.

  “Haven’t you notified the police that it was her car?” I was asking them when Ben showed up with my glass of lemonade and, after nodding in their direction, drew me aside.

  “Ellie, I was just talking to Brigadier Lester-Smith, who has been told by someone who got the information from the ubiquitous source, otherwise known as Mrs. Potter, that another body—that of a man—has been recovered from the accident. He wasn’t in the car. The theory is that he managed to crawl out a window, but his injuries were severe, and he was found last night close to where the car was recovered.”

  “A man!” My expression had to have been every bit as blank as that of one of the Hoppers. “Whoever could he be?”

  “It’s only a wild guess”—Ben took the glass of lemonade away from me before I could drop it— “but I’m wondering about Ingo Voelkel, of whom it might be said a crook by any other name is still a crook.”

  “It’s not so wild an idea. Herr Voelkel didn’t just vanish off the face of the earth after his meeting with my father,” I was saying when Kathleen Ambleforth came charging up to us, looking much more the stereotypical vicar’s wife than she had yesterday. Now she was wearing tweeds and the sensible brown felt hat with the feather.

  “Here you are, Ellie.” Her smile was at low beam. “The very person I’ve been looking for.” She completely ignored Ben and the Hoppers. “I’ve been wondering if you’ve seen or heard from Mrs. Malloy this morning?”

  “No.” Out of the corner of my eyes I caught sight of Aunt Lulu talking to a thickset woman in a camel coat who even from a distance looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t hard for me to refocus on Kathleen’s worried face. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “Hasn’t Mrs. Malloy shown up?”

  A demoralized shake of the head. “I’ve been trying to get through to her on the phone for the past fifteen minutes.”

  “Perhaps she went to our house to sit quietly for a while before walking down here. Why don’t I give a ring there?”

  “Would you? You’re so good. Mrs. Potter couldn’t stop talking about your willingness to help out with the props.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “She couldn’t get over how good it was of you to leave instructions with Mrs. Malloy yesterday to let her browse around and take what she wanted. On condition, of course, that everything was returned as she got it.”

  I couldn’t get over it, either. But I mustn’t dwell on the matter. Kathleen now looked ready to fall sobbing into my arms. And who could wonder, given her husband’s performance in the pulpit and now this panic? I also was very uneasy about Mrs. Malloy’s failure to show. Her pride would suffer horribly if she ruined the dress rehearsal. She might even talk of immigrating to Australia. Rather than stand shuffling my feet, I headed back out to the vestibule, where there was a phone on the wall. I was about to pick up the receiver when the outer door opened and my heart leaped. Surely this was Roxie at last. But it was Lady Grizwolde who appeared, with Mr. Jarrow pushing the wheelchair, and I had to take the time to say I was sorry about her sprained ankle.

  “I’m afraid that’s the least of my problems.” Her manner was cool but gracious, as always. “It turns out I also injured my back. And may have to have an operation. The pain didn’t set in until yesterday. You probably heard how it happened when you brought back the car. Ned and Sarah are both chatterboxes.”

  “Ned did tell me you were trying to get Sir Casper upstairs after he was taken ill.” Again I felt compelled to ask, “Is he recovering?”

  “I’m afraid not; the doctor doesn’t hold out much hope that he will last more than a few weeks or months at most.” She could have been talking about the unlikelihood of the rain clearing up by the afternoon. I said I was sorry to hear that and hoped she at least would soon be on the mend. Whereupon Mr. Jarrow dipped his overgrown mustache in my direction and wheeled her into the hall proper. Again my hand went to the receiver, but before I could dial, I felt someone touch my shoulder.

  “How’d you like to have your fortune told by a true Gypsy?”

  Slowly I turned to face her. The voice was the same, as was the face, other than for a trace of red lipstick and green eye shadow. Today she wore the camel coat, and her hair looked as though it has been recently washed.

  “I’m not interested in any more of your predictions.” I was surprised at the firmness of my voice.

  “You should be, lady, because here’s one that’s important. There’s worse in store for you than black cats crossing your path if you don’t persuade your father to hand over that urn.”

  “It’s called a reliquary.”

  “So it is.” She reached into her pocket for a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches and lit up. “Isn’t it lucky that we understand each other?”

  “And who’s my father to hand it over to?” I was shaking, but only on the inside.

  “Why, me, of course, lady.” She dropped the match on the floor and puffed smoke in my face.

  “And just who are you?”

  “I’ve got lots of names. I have one for every day of the week.”

  “Would one of them be Harriet?”

  “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?” Her smile was genuinely amused. “It seems to go with platinum-blond hair and blue silk frocks and sapphire earrings. But don’t you go worrying your head about details. I’m sure you’ve had your hands full these last few days with your dear Daddy spilling tears everywhere he goes, ranting on and on about his grand passion. All you need do is to see sense and be ready when I get back in touch. It will be soon. And remember, it won’t be you that gets hurt if you don’t play by my rules. It will be that handsome husband of yours or one or all of those adorable kiddies. For now you can just sit nice and quiet watching the play. Not a squeak out of you or you’ll be sorry. I can see it in my crystal ball.”

  Before I could pry my lips open, the outer door opened once more, and Mrs. Malloy came clicking in on those ridiculous heels of hers. When I turned my head, the woman in the camel coat was walking back into the church hall.

  “What’s got you by the throat?” Mrs. Malloy demanded in a voice steeped in something stronger than tea.

  “Kathleen Ambleforth was afraid you weren’t going to show up.”

  “Well, that’s no excuse for you to look like you’re getting ready to fall to pieces, Mrs. H. You know me, always the professional. Just point me to the stage and I’ll be Malicia Stillwaters come to life.”

  She was now standing at a most peculiar tilt. “Wish me luck!”

  She went to go back out the door, but mercifully Kathleen appeared and airlifted her through another one at the far end of the vestibule. Somehow I found my way back to the rows of folding chairs and sat down in the nearest one before my legs gave out. What, I wondered in numb terror, did the Gypsy woman have in mind for this evening’s performance? How could she be Harriet if Harriet had died in the car crash?

  While I was still batting this question around inside my head, Kathleen stepped onstage to announce that because this was a rehearsal there would be no intermission between the second and third acts. And almost immediately afterward the curtain parted. The audience was treated to the sight of Mrs. Malloy seated at a writing desk, wearing my missing pink nightie and negligee.

  “How am I supposed to be writing a poison-pen letter?” She swiveled around to glare at the audience. Her voice was slurred, and even in my dazed state I realized she wasn’t just tipsy. She was drunk. “Look what I’m given to do the job. A Biro”—she was waving it wrathfully— “with not a drop of arsenic or cyanide in it! If it isn’t enough to make you spit. As I tell Mrs. H. every day of the week, if you want a job done right, you’ve got to have the tools. Now what’s that blinking noise?”

  It was Freddy knocking on the set door. He came into view when it fell down before he could open it, but luckily it was only made of cardboard, and he stepped over it with commendable aplomb.

  “Greetings, Mrs. Stillwat
ers!” His voice projected to the back row of the tombstones out in the churchyard. And Freddy continued to enunciate every syllable as if it might be his last. “Or may I have the rare privilege of addressing you as Malicia?”

  “You can call me what you damn well like so long as it’s not Mother.”

  “And I am Reginald Rakehell, a hero to my valet ...”

  “Go on with you!” Mrs. Malloy snorted. “You’re Freddy Flatts. And if I was your mum, I’d smack your behind, big as you are, for telling lies with all them people sitting out there listening to you.” She swiveled around again and stared down at the audience. “Don’t you lot go encouraging him by snickering, especially after you just come from dancing into church to watch the vicar nod off in the pulpit!”

  I was able to sit in my seat and on some distant level absorb the disaster in progress even though the questions kept hounding me. If Harriet hadn’t perished in that accident on the cliff road, as the Hoppers claimed to believe was the case, who was the woman who had died? Did it still make sense to think Herr Voelkel might have been her fellow victim in the crash?

  How many rows of chairs separated me from Ben? How long would it take me to reach him after the curtain came down? Was Kathleen Ambleforth so stunned by Mrs. Malloy’s reconstruction of her part that she was physically incapable of calling a halt to the proceedings?

  The second act started, and I became fixated on the books lined up on the fake mantelpiece. There was such a compelling familiarity to them, especially one with a blue-and-white dust jacket. It was the cookery book Ben had written shortly after we were married. I sat mulling this over in a deadened sort of way until the obvious solution slid into place. Mrs. Potter had taken it from Ben’s study along with the other volumes when she came to see what props I could contribute. And because I wasn’t there, Mrs. Malloy, intent on boning up on her understudy role, had left Mrs. Potter to wander at will, taking whatever props she needed. What did it matter? What did anything matter given the warning I had been issued in the vestibule by the woman who had called herself a true Gypsy? Would she now be true to her terrible words?