Withering Heights

by Dorothy Cannell

  “There was that other man you told me about, Ariel,” I said.

  She gave one of her characteristic shrugs. “Betty would know about him too, if she’d ever bothered to talk to Mrs. Cake.”

  “Oh, please! Just for five minutes can I not be the wicked stepmother?”

  “The first marriage could have took place on the sly if her ladyship’s family was against it.” Mrs. Malloy handed me a tea towel to dry the cups and saucers. “Sounded that way, from how Mr. Tribble talked about its just being the bridal couple. There’d have been witnesses, of course, but they could have been anyone: people off the street. Yes,” Mrs. M mused, “it should have been easy to hush things up when the marriage turned out to be a mistake. Better to do nothing perhaps than bother with a divorce, as would have got in the papers.”

  “There you are!” Betty drew in a breath. “When Nigel discovered he’d married a bigamist, he must have been so outraged he threatened to go to the police and press criminal charges.”

  “Perhaps he said he would keep quiet only if she signed the house and all the money over to him-what was left of it.” I looked at Mrs. Malloy. Did the possibility ripen that Mr. Scrimshank and Lady Fiona had joined forces in murdering the man everyone assumed to be her husband? Had they each seen themselves facing imprisonment for different reasons if Mr. Gallagher remained on the scene? The likelihood of Lady Fiona’s being slammed up for bigamy struck me as slim, but she might have panicked or, even more, disliked the thought of being embroiled in a scandal. Mr. Scrimshank’s situation was more dire. If her ladyship had discovered he’d embezzled her money, agreeing to help her out of her difficulties by way of recompense might have struck him as a good alternative to the realistic prospect of spending a considerable portion of his declining years behind bars. What was one small murder between friends? Now, if Mrs. Malloy and I were to believe Betty, there had been a second.

  “Before we convict Lady Fiona in absentia”-I dried the last of the cups-“we need to find out if indeed there was a prior marriage and, if so, whether or not it was legally terminated.”

  “And how do we go about that?” Removing Ariel’s half-chewed sandwich, Betty tossed it in the trash bin.

  “Well, what I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Malloy, “is that tomorrow morning me or Mrs. H should phone Milk Jugg and ask him to see what he can track down.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A private investigator we know. Its being Sunday, he won’t be in his office today, but I’m sure we can talk him into lending a hand, seeing as we did him a favor recently and got no thanks in return.”

  I wasn’t convinced that Milk would be ready to forgive our interference in one of his cases, but Mrs. M knows far more about the male psyche than I do.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Betty said, after a moment’s thought. “I only hope it’s what Nigel would want.”

  “Can’t you stop talking about him?” Ariel pounced up from her chair. “I’ve never seen you go all silly about Dad. I wish I had run away for good.”

  “Oh, Ariel, I am sorry,” Betty said surprisingly, as the doorbell rang.

  “Why don’t I get that?” I hurried out into the hall, but Tom was there ahead of me to let the doctor or the undertaker, whoever he was, into the house. They disappeared into the drawing room and I stood thinking about what had transpired in the kitchen. Poor Ariel! Had motherhood taught me nothing? The focus should have been on her reaction to Mr. Tribble’s death, rather than a discussion of matters better left until she was not present. Guest in her house be blowed, I ought to have cut Betty off when she got started. How likely was it anyway that Lady Fiona was responsible for the old gentleman’s dropping so abruptly off the twig, to use Mrs. Malloy’s phrase? Betty had talked glibly about sleight of hand, but her ladyship, so far as I knew, was not a professional magician. What would she know about misdirecting the eyes of her onlookers? Or had she got lucky in that regard with the water dripping from the ceiling? Could it be Lady Fiona who had crept upstairs earlier after Ariel admitted her to the house and subsequently left her alone? Had she entered the bathroom above the conservatory, put the plug in the basin sink, turned on the taps, and left it to overflow? Someone had done this, and Ariel had been vehement in her denials. Who better than her ladyship would know how to make Cragstone a conspirator? And yet somehow, I couldn’t see it. Perhaps I didn’t want the lovely young woman in the portrait transformed into a demon.

  There was something else I couldn’t see as I remained in the hall, looking down at the Chinese chest with its exquisite display of snuffboxes on top. The cobalt blue and gold one I had particularly admired on first entering the house was missing. Had it been stolen or merely moved to another location? According to Betty and Tom, their kleptomaniac friend Frances Edmonds had never helped herself to any of their possessions. But the relationship had altered. The Hopkinses were now filthy rich and hadn’t rushed to be generous. Had an already resentful Frances snapped this afternoon after discovering that Mr. Scrimshank was one of the guests for tea? Had she, however unreasonably, considered this another act of betrayal on Betty’s part and taken the snuffbox in retaliation?

  “What are you thinking about?” Ben came up beside me.

  “This and that.” I continued to stare at the chest.

  “You look troubled.” His gaze was intent.

  “A man dropped dead less than an hour ago.”

  “It was sad and startling, but-”

  “Betty thinks Lady Fiona poisoned his brandy.”

  “Don’t tell me you believe her? Mr. Hardcastle was just saying that the poor old gentleman was well over ninety, making it unlikely he had the heart of a twenty-year-old. His doctor is amazed he’d kept on ticking this long. That cupful of brandy alone might have been enough to finish him off.”

  “That’s the sensible view,” I agreed, wishing that I didn’t sound so stilted but not able to help myself. Had Ben swept me into his arms I would have felt he brought Val in tow. Perhaps sensing this, he put his hands in his trouser pockets and began talking about Betty.

  “You can’t go by what she says, Ellie, she’s dealing with a lot of issues: the lottery win, her problems with Ariel, and… whatever else she’s got on her mind.”

  “Such as?”

  “Tom. You could see how he reacted to her behavior at that ridiculous séance.” This was the moment to tell him about the false Madam LaGrange, but I didn’t. Childishly, I decided that if he could have secrets so could I. Receiving no response, he continued. “There’s always stuff going on in any marriage that outsiders aren’t tuned in to.”

  “Are you speaking about them or about us?” It was out. I told myself I felt better. Nothing was worse than the distance growing between us. I saw the hesitation in his eyes, waited for him to say something-anything-but when he did I wished I’d left things alone.

  “Ellie, I’m caught up in a situation that I would have given anything to avoid. But it was flung at me, and there it is. I want to talk to you about it, but that might complicate things even more. Also I gave my word to-”

  “Val? Or, as you call her, Valeria?” I almost choked on the words.

  A muscle tensed in his cheek, but he kept his hands in his pockets. “She feels so guilty. Ellie, you’ve probably come to your own conclusion and think I’m behaving like a cad.”

  “Heaven forbid! You’re my knight in shining armor!”

  The drawing room door opened, making an end to our tete-a-tete. All at once there was activity. By the time the body was removed and its entourage, including Mr. Hardcastle, had departed, I was not the only person looking less than cheery when we gathered in the drawing room. Ben and Tom stood in silence; Mrs. Malloy said her feet were killing her and sank into a chair. Only Betty displayed an interest in chatting about the death, and even she gave up on this idea when Ariel flung herself down on a sofa and began sobbing uncontrollably. Galvanized into unexpected speed, Tom knelt at her side, patting her heaving shoulders and looking ar
ound in accusatory alarm at his wife.

  “Betty, what’s set her off?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You’re always getting at her.”

  “That’s not true.” The green eyes flashed. “Most often it’s the other way round. Oh, move over, do!” Betty knelt down beside him. For that moment they looked like a set of concerned parents, thinking only of their child.

  “What’s the matter, Ariel love?” Mrs. Malloy asked from her chair, while Ben and I hovered in the background.

  “It was so sad! His eyes were open and he was looking at me, like he was asking me to tell him he wasn’t really dead. He was such a tiny little old man, not big enough to look after himself properly.” Ariel raised a tear-drenched face. “It’s different talking about death when you’ve never seen it. I wish I’d never made cracks about wanting people out of the way.” She turned away from Betty and her father. “And I never again want to hear about murders. It’s like tempting fate to come up with another dead person.”

  “You see, Betty!” Tom got to his feet. “What have I been saying for weeks about this nonsense of yours regarding Lady Fiona? It was bound to lead to trouble, and now it has! You’ve filled my daughter’s head with fear. If she doesn’t have a nervous breakdown, it won’t be your fault!”

  It was time for Ben, Mrs. Malloy, and myself to clear out. Seeing that Mrs. M wanted to talk and not feeling up to a heart-to-heart, I said I had a headache that would only cure itself if I went for a lie-down in a darkened bedroom. Ben started to say something, but I waved a hand and headed upstairs.

  I rarely get headaches, but I was not fibbing about this one. A couple of aspirins later, I crawled under the bedclothes and willed myself to sleep. It took some doing, but finally Val’s triumphant voice stopped telling me she was an Irish rose and I was a dandelion growing where it wasn’t wanted. Ben reduced his pleas for my forgiveness to an incoherent muddle. Blessed oblivion.

  When I opened my eyes and looked groggily at the bedside clock, it was several hours later. I would still have benefited from taking off my head and putting it on a hat stand, but that was mostly because doing so would have made thinking more difficult. The physical pain had eased considerably. For several minutes I contemplated the advisability of getting up. I was thinking that perhaps I had better do so when Ariel stuck her head around the door and asked if I would like something brought up on a tray, everyone else already having had dinner. Her eyelids were still puffy and she looked in need of a good night’s rest.

  “Or perhaps you’d rather just go back to sleep, Ellie.”

  “I think I’ll do that. Good night, Ariel.” Suddenly the best possible move seemed to be total inaction. No thanking anyone, especially Ben, for bringing me a heartening bowl of broth; no being drawn back into the Hopkinses’ emotional turmoil. Tomorrow would be better or worse. Either way it would be there. For now I would burrow back down and hope to be asleep when my husband came to bed… or didn’t.

  When I awoke the next morning, the other side of the bed was still warm. Ben had come and gone, like a visitor showing up when no one was home. I was filled with a wild longing to run and find him, to tell him the business with Val was madness and when we got back to Merlin’s Court he would realize it had been no more than a midsummer night’s dream. But I realized, as I set one foot on the floor, that I couldn’t bring myself to grovel. Pride balked at the idea, and fear raised the ugly possibility that he had no wish to be saved from his folly.

  After taking a hot shower that did nothing to warm me, I went downstairs in the wake of Mrs. Malloy, who had just come out of her bedroom.

  “How’s the head, Mrs. H?”

  “I’m still wearing it.”

  “Now, don’t go getting snappy with me.” She eyed me severely.

  “Sorry.” I folded my arms.

  “You should see yourself, standing there all defensive. Come on, what’s the bother?” She can always get to me when that kindly light beams from her eyes, like the last hope for a drowning sailor. “Trouble with Mr. H over that Val woman?”

  “However did you guess, Mrs. Private Detective?”

  “From the soppy way she was looking at him at tea. If you ask me, he looked downright embarrassed.”

  “An awkward situation for both of them.”

  “Yes. Well, don’t go thinking yourself into trouble, like Tom accused Betty of doing. Just you cling to the thought that it’s always darkest before dawn.”

  “It is dawn.” I looked at the long case clock. “In fact, it’s nearly ten.”

  “You’re right.” She followed my gaze. “Unless it’s telling wicked falsehoods, as wouldn’t surprise me in this house, where-present company excluded-taking what anyone says for fact could be a big mistake.”

  “Does that include Mrs. Cake?”

  “Why?”

  “Breakfast doesn’t have its usual appeal. Ben and I aside, Tom and Betty could benefit from some time with Ariel without our looming presence. Why don’t you grab a slice of toast and come with me to talk to Mrs. Cake?”

  “I’ve already had several chats with her. That’s what I wanted to bring you up to speed on, Mrs. H, when you went and got your headache. Have a word with her on your own, and afterward you and me can decide if anything she has to say about Mr. Gallagher’s disappearance is important. As for now, I’m off to ring Milk Jugg and ask him to find out whether her ladyship forgot to untie the first knot, so to speak.”

  “You brave soul! I’ll keep my fingers crossed that he doesn’t bang down the phone.”

  “Look for Mrs. Cake in the room next to the butler’s pantry. That’s where she sits most of the time, resting her foot and doing a bit of mending.”

  “Should she be hobbling downstairs each morning?”

  “I suppose she feels she’d better. The things some women do for fear of losing their jobs!” Mrs. Malloy sighed heavily. I assured her that under similar circumstances I would hire an around-the-clock nurse for her who looked like Cary Grant and sang like Elvis, and we went our separate ways: she to the library, where she could telephone in privacy, and I down the passageway to the left of the kitchen. No sign of anyone else about. No footsteps hurrying to catch up with me. No anguished male voice begging me to turn around and fall into his arms. It was a relief, I told myself staunchly. Ben could at least have left a note on the pillow. No, scrap that thought! Pillows, like mantelpieces, are rarely the deposits for good news. They are for missives that begin: Forgive me for leaving you destitute, pregnant, and with the pox…

  It was pleasant to remind myself that I was none of those things as I entered a cozy parlor. Maybe it was the quarry-tiled floor and deep windowsill that made me feel more at home than I had yet done since coming to Cragstone. There was a feeling here that reminded me of my kitchen. Instead of copper pots and pans hanging from a rack above the cooker, there were equally well-polished kettles and platters on shelves around the walls. I stood in the doorway drinking in the atmosphere as if it were a life-restoring elixir. The most comforting sight of all was the woman seated in a worn easy chair with her feet on a hassock, the left one was bandaged to the ankle. She was stout and cheerful-looking, with a rough red face and gray hair permed to last.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I expect you’re that nice young gentleman’s wife. Such a relief, him taking over the cooking, especially with the caterers letting Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins down for Thursday.”

  “Yes, I’m Ellie Haskell. I do hope your ankle is better.”

  “On the mend. You sound a bit choked up. Coming down with a cold?”

  “I don’t think so.” But was it something to consider? It could be my excuse for holing up in my bedroom. I could claim that the headache had been the precursor. Thank goodness I had gone straight to bed! How wretched I would feel if anyone, especially Ben-with the Hopkinses so dependent upon his help-were to catch what might even turn out to be the flu! And-I didn’t grind my teeth because it might have frightened Mrs. Cake-w
hat anguish for my once-devoted husband if I should pass from this world without ever telling him I forgave him and that venomous woman… I returned to what senses I had left. Death was out. Ariel had said she couldn’t take any more of it. And, most important of all, there were my own children to consider.

  “I’ve been wanting to meet you, Mrs. Cake.”

  “Sit yourself down in that chair opposite mine. It’s right pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Haskell.”

  “Thank you.” I did as directed. “Ariel speaks of you fondly.”

  “The little lost lass is what I call her.” The voice was kindness itself. “She doesn’t know what she wants and takes it out on Mrs. Hopkins; then around they go with the dad in the middle. And now they’ve had that poor old vicar drop dead in the conservatory, adding fuel to the fire.” She picked up a pillow slip from the table next to her chair and began stitching up a seam.

  I didn’t pretend not to know what she was getting at. “You’re talking about Mrs. Hopkins’s idea that Lady Fiona murdered her husband.”

  “I wouldn’t have brought it up if your friend Mrs. Malloy hadn’t broached the matter in our talks. It’s upsetting, and not just for Ariel and her dad. Mavis has got wind of Mrs. Hopkins’s suspicions. She’s not usually a gabber, but she hasn’t taken to Mrs. Hopkins, and if there was to be a real blowup she might do some repeating of what she’s heard in this house. I’d hate for Lady Fiona to be upset.”

  “You like her?”

  “Yes, I do. She’s odd, there’s no getting round that. She and Mr. Gallagher made quite a pair that way. Eccentric wouldn’t be putting it too strongly. I suppose that’s why they got along.”

  “They were happy?”

  “Very, I would say. And I’ve worked for them these twenty years or more.” Mrs. Cake rethreaded her needle and started on another seam. “They weren’t the sort to show their feelings, not in a public way. But it was clear they meant the world to each other. Surprising, you might say, because from what I’ve heard theirs didn’t start off as a great romance. But they each knew how the other thought, and in my book that’s a good foundation for the sort of love that grows and lasts.”