Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse

by Nancy Atherton

  Myrtle sniggered, but Minnie ignored her.

  “The stars were plenty bright enough to see by,” she assured Bree. “And I saw Annabelle, plain as day, in her dressing gown and gum boots, tipping a rolled-up rug into the trench she’d dug for her roses.”

  An unpleasant sense of recognition made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Minnie’s description of the rolled-up rug and the trench matched Annabelle’s exactly.

  “It was the rag rug she made special for her foyer, wasn’t it, Minnie?” said Mildred.

  “It was,” Minnie confirmed. “She shoveled a bit of soil into the trench to cover up the rug, then went back into the house. The next morning, she planted her roses. When I called on her later in the day to borrow a cup of sugar, the rag rug was nowhere to be seen. She made up some tale about Zach abandoning her, but she and I knew what she’d done.” Minnie took a deep breath and concluded dramatically, “Like I told the police: I heard Zach Trotter come home that night, but I never saw him leave.”

  Bree, who was much braver than I, said, “Hayley Calthorp believes Annabelle’s story.”

  “Did Hayley see what I saw?” Minnie demanded. “No, she did not! Her gran had a soft spot for Annabelle, and Annabelle took advantage of it, just like she took advantage of that bird-witted constable who came to question her. Why they sent such a dunderhead to investigate a murder, I’ll never know. He couldn’t see past her blue eyes and blond curls.”

  “Be fair,” Myrtle protested. “The police had their hands full with the robbery at St. Leonard’s.”

  “The robbery that never happened,” Minnie scoffed. “It was a false alarm, but it kept the police from sending their best men to look into Zach Trotter’s murder. I told that fool of a constable what I saw, but he seemed to think the rag rug walked away by itself. He didn’t even open his notebook, much less dig up the roses. He let Annabelle twist him round her little finger. Just like the others.”

  “The others?” Bree and I chorused. Bree’s arrested expression told me that she, too, remembered Francesco’s mysterious words.

  “There were bound to be others,” said Minnie. “A curse came upon her the moment she pushed her husband down the stairs. The only way she could free herself from it was to stop pretending that she was a helpless, abandoned wife and to confess that she was a widow—a self-made, murderous widow.”

  “Which she never did,” said Myrtle.

  “The widow’s curse blackened her heart and twisted her mind,” Minnie continued. “Annabelle may have had the face of an angel, but she had the soul of a devil.” After an ominous pause, Minnie pointed at Mildred and said affably, “Your turn, dear.”

  Fourteen

  Mildred Greenham seemed to be in no hurry to take her turn. She wiped a smear of cream from her lips with a cloth napkin, took a long sip of tea, and patted her thinning hair, as if to reassure herself that her hair net was still in place, before she turned her rheumy gaze on Bree and me.

  “Annabelle Trotter may have evaded the law,” she said portentously, “but she could not escape the widow’s curse.”

  A lonely cloud drifted across the sun and the temperature seemed to plunge. The old ladies’ shadowed faces seemed suddenly sinister. A shiver would have slithered down my spine if Myrtle’s querulous voice hadn’t broken the mood.

  “Oh, stop showing off,” she scolded as the sun came out of hiding.

  “I’m not showing off,” Mildred protested.

  “Yes, you are,” Myrtle insisted. “There’s no sense in bringing up the widow’s curse now.”

  “Minnie brought it up first,” Mildred pointed out.

  “Yes, but she was introducing it,” said Myrtle. “You’re putting things back to front.”

  “Myrtle’s right,” Minnie agreed. “They’ll think we’re batty if you tell things out of order, Mildred.”

  “It’s Minnie, then you, then Myrtle, then me,” Mabel said to Mildred, ticking the names off on her fingers. “Then we all tell the last bit, but I get to tell most of it because of my cousin Florence.”

  The old friends bickered among themselves for a few more minutes before Mildred caved in to peer pressure.

  “All right,” she grumbled. “I’ll say my piece and let you say yours.”

  “I should think so,” said Mabel, eyeing Mildred indignantly.

  Mildred took another sip of tea and started again. “Before I was married, I worked as a receptionist at the Old Cowerton Dairy. A young man named Ted Fletcher worked there, too.”

  “Hayley Calthorp told me about Ted Fletcher’s accident,” I said hastily, hoping to head off a graphic account of his dreadful death. “She also told me that Annabelle and Ted were good friends.”

  “Good friends.” Minnie clucked her tongue scornfully. “It’s just the sort of mealymouthed rubbish I’d expect to hear from Hayley. The truth is, Annabelle set her cap at Ted Fletcher.”

  “Annabelle wanted to move up in the world, didn’t she?” said Myrtle. “Wanted a husband with a steady job. Wanted one who didn’t spend his pay packet at the pub.”

  “It’s what we all wanted,” Mabel acknowledged, “but we went about it in the right way.”

  “I warned Ted about Annabelle, but he wouldn’t listen to me,” Minnie said. “He couldn’t see past her blue eyes and blond curls.”

  “He adored her,” said Mabel. “Couldn’t do enough for her. He was always stopping by to oil a squeaky hinge or to hang a picture for her.”

  “Annabelle didn’t know a hammer from a spanner,” Minnie said bluntly.

  Everyone jumped as Mildred rapped the table with her knuckles.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said heatedly. “Is it my turn or not?”

  Chastened, Minnie, Myrtle, and Mabel apologized to Mildred and nodded for her to go on.

  “My desk faced the big windows in the front office,” she explained, redirecting her attention to Bree and me. “It was part of my job to keep an eye on everyone who came and went at the dairy.”

  An ideal position, I thought, for one of Minnie’s inquisitive cronies.

  “On the fatal day,” Mildred continued, “I saw Ted Fletcher walk toward the slurry pit. But he wasn’t the only one I saw.” She paused dramatically, as if awaiting a response.

  Bree obliged. “Who else did you see, Mildred?”

  “Annabelle Trotter!” she replied triumphantly. “I saw her as clearly as I see you. I watched her come up the dairy’s drive and follow Ted to the slurry pit.” Her eyes narrowed as she added, “She was carrying a picnic hamper.”

  “She was carrying a picnic hamper to a slurry pit?” I said doubtfully, recalling Aunt Dimity’s remarks about poisonous fumes. “Seems like an odd place for a picnic.”

  “A very odd place,” Mildred agreed. “The next thing I knew, there was running and shouting and the whole dairy was in an uproar. Poor Ted had been missed, you see, and the head cowman had found him floating facedown in the slurry. They pulled poor Ted out and tried to revive him, but it was too late.” She sighed heavily. “The kiss of life can’t save a dead man.”

  I set aside a half-eaten madeleine and tried not to replay the image Mildred had conjured in my mind.

  “The coroner ruled it an accidental death,” Mildred continued, “but there was nothing accidental about it.”

  “Hold on,” said Bree, frowning. “Are you suggesting that Annabelle pushed Ted Fletcher into the slurry pit?”

  “There were no eyewitnesses,” Mildred allowed, “but it was easy enough to put two and two together.”

  “It’s not easy for me,” Bree said. “Why would Annabelle kill a man who adored her?”

  “Why would she bring a picnic hamper to a slurry pit?” Mildred asked in return. “Because she needed an excuse to go there. Why did she need an excuse? Because she wanted to get rid of Ted Fletcher.”

  “By then
, a cowhand wasn’t good enough for her,” Minnie interjected. “She’d set her sights on someone higher up the social ladder.”

  “But why would she murder Ted?” Bree pressed. “There are less drastic ways to break up with a guy.”

  “Not for Annabelle,” said Minnie. “Her mind was poisoned by the widow’s curse. You’ll see.”

  “My turn!” Myrtle chirped.

  “Go ahead, dear,” Mildred said graciously, popping another cream puff into her mouth.

  Myrtle’s deep-set eyes shone with a gossip’s gleam. Considering the dark turn our conversation had taken, the gleam seemed a bit out of place, but it was familiar to me. I’d seen it in my neighbors’ eyes often enough, just as they’d seen it in mine.

  “There’s no moonless night in my story,” Myrtle began. “Mine happened in broad daylight, about a year after Ted Fletcher died.” She rested her forearms on the table, as if to relieve the strain on her hunched back. “It started when Annabelle took on sewing work for the big house.”

  “The big house?” I queried.

  “The manor house,” Myrtle clarified.

  “Halfway up the valley on the other side of town?” I said, envisioning the enclosed property I’d noticed as we’d driven toward Old Cowerton from the Oxford road.

  “That’s right,” said Myrtle. “They always had work for Annabelle at the big house—repairing tapestries and damask tablecloths and other fancy stuff.”

  “Say what you will about Annabelle,” Mildred commented, “she was an expert needlewoman. The vicar wouldn’t let anyone else mend his vestments, and you could scarcely see her stitches when she repaired the town hall’s flag after the windstorm shredded it.”

  The other ladies began to voice their views on Annabelle Craven’s sewing skills, but Myrtle cleared her throat peremptorily and they subsided.

  “Annabelle was in and out of the big house all the time, picking up projects or dropping them off,” Myrtle continued. “She had to walk there because she couldn’t afford a motorcar. That’s how she met Jim Salford.”

  “Poor Jim,” Mabel murmured.

  “Jim was the gamekeeper at the manor house,” Myrtle explained. “Annabelle met him one day when she was walking up the drive. He was a big, strapping fellow, as good-looking as you please and more dashing than any cowman.”

  “I’ll wager he smelled better, too,” said Mildred.

  “I’ll wager he did, but there’s no need to say it out loud,” Myrtle scolded. “The main thing to remember is: Jim made more money than Ted.” She raised her hands, palms upward. “Why would Annabelle settle for a cowman when she could have a handsome, well-paid gamekeeper?” She folded her arms on the table again and shrugged dismissively. “Oh, she let a few months go by after Ted Fletcher’s death, for appearances’ sake, but all the while she had her sights set on poor Jim.” She shook her head. “He never stood a chance.”

  “Blue eyes, blond curls,” murmured Minnie.

  “Jim fell for her, hook, line, and sinker,” Myrtle said with a puckish smirk.

  Her friends chuckled appreciatively, but I didn’t get the joke.

  “What’s so funny?” Bree asked.

  “What’s funny is, Jim really did fall for her, hook, line, and sinker,” said Myrtle. “Jim was teaching Annabelle how to fish when he fell into the river and drowned.”

  “No,” I said, aghast. “Not another drowning.”

  “And another fall,” said Myrtle. “It makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  “It must have been terrible for Annabelle,” I said.

  “It was worse for Jim,” Myrtle pointed out.

  “I warned him,” Minnie intoned.

  “Jim’s death was ruled accidental as well,” Myrtle informed us, “but since Annabelle was the only eyewitness, who knows what really happened?”

  “We do,” said Mabel.

  “Let me guess,” Bree said, with the faintest hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Annabelle had set her sights on another man.”

  Myrtle gave Mabel a significant nod. “Your turn, dear. Tell them about William Walker.”

  Mabel made a small adjustment to her hearing aids, then sat up primly and launched into her part of the story. “William Walker’s full name was William Walker May, but we called him William Walker on account of his dad being known as William.”

  “We have the same problem in my family,” I told her. “Too many Williams.”

  “We have too many Richards in ours,” Myrtle piped up. “Richard, Rich, Dick, Dickie—”

  “That’s as may be,” Mabel interrupted impatiently, “but I’m talking about William Walker, so you can be quiet about your Richards.” She folded her veined and knotted hands and carried on. “William Walker was as fine a man as ever you’ll meet. He wasn’t as dashing as Jim Salford, but he was well-spoken and dignified. Never a hair out of place, always a crease in his trousers. When his dad retired, William Walker was ready to step into his shoes.”

  “What did his dad do?” Bree inquired.

  “He was the butler in the big house,” Mabel replied.

  “I’ll bet William Walker May made more money than Jim Salford,” Bree said drily.

  “He made lots more,” Mabel confirmed, “and he was a step up the ladder, so to speak.”

  “Why would Annabelle settle for a gamekeeper when she could have a butler?” Bree asked.

  “She wouldn’t,” said Mabel. “She caught William Walker’s eye while she was still seeing Jim. Chatted him up, bold as brass.”

  “How do you know?” Bree asked.

  “My cousin Florence was a live-in parlor maid at the big house,” Mabel answered. “Not much went on there without her knowing about it. She saw Annabelle draw William Walker in.”

  “I imagine you warned William Walker,” Bree said to Minnie.

  “I did,” she said sorrowfully, “but he—”

  “Wouldn’t listen,” Bree finished for her. “Blond hair? Blue eyes?”

  “William Walker grew Amazon lilies as a hobby,” Mabel said, taking back the reins of her tale. “Won blue ribbons for them at the flower show. When he took over his dad’s job at the big house, they let him have a little greenhouse all to himself. On his days off, he brought Annabelle there.” She leaned forward until her chin was nearly touching what was left of the Victoria sponge, her keen eyes fixed on Bree’s face. “One winter’s day, just over a year after Jim Salford’s death, William Walker went into his little greenhouse and died.”

  “Did he drown?” Bree inquired with a transparently false air of innocence.

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Mabel, undeterred by Bree’s tone. “The coroner ruled that the heater in the greenhouse malfunctioned. William Walker died of carbon monoxide poisoning.” She tapped the table with a finger as she added, “He suffocated.”

  “Which is a lot like drowning,” Mildred pointed out helpfully.

  “Can you guess who was at the big house on the day William Walker died?” Mabel asked. Instead of waiting for a reply, she tapped the table again and exclaimed, “Annabelle Trotter!”

  “You can’t think that she—” I began, outraged, but my protest was cut short by a soft moo.

  Bess was awake.

  Fifteen

  It was just as well that Bess woke when she did. I needed a break from the tea party. Though I did not for one moment believe in the widow’s curse, the litany of deaths connected to Annabelle Craven had unsettled me. The deaths of even two suitors would have been tragic and terribly unlucky . . . but three? What were the odds?

  While it was true that Minnie seemed to be enjoying herself a bit too much, her eyewitness account of Annabelle burying the rug was virtually identical to the story Annabelle had shared with me. Then, too, there were the unavoidable implications of Sunnyside’s floor plan. I was no longer certain that Hayley Calthorp’s
version of events was the only one worth considering.

  Since Sunnyside wasn’t furnished with toddlers in mind, I used the Rover’s cargo area as a changing table. It wasn’t the first time I’d done so, nor was it the first time that my daughter’s smile had soothed my troubled mind. When I carried her back to the garden, I thought I was ready to take whatever Minnie and her cronies could throw at me. Unfortunately, I was mistaken.

  After the cronies had cooed and billowed over Bess, I left her, Moo, and a few favorite toys among the saucepans and reclaimed my place at the table.

  “Did I miss anything?” I asked brightly.

  “I made a fresh pot of tea,” said Bree, “and Minnie gave me her recipe for Melting Moments.”

  “Bree told us about her young man as well,” Minnie informed me.

  “We told her to marry him,” said Mildred.

  “What did she say to that?” I asked, grinning.

  “She told us to mind our own business,” Myrtle said admiringly. “You’re a pistol, Bree!”

  “It takes one to know one,” said Bree, bowing to Myrtle.

  “Well,” I said, nodding cordially at the old ladies, “it’s been an interesting and informative, uh, get-together. Thanks for taking the time to—”

  “We’re not done yet,” Minnie interrupted.

  “You’re not?” I said weakly.

  “Far from it,” she said. “We’ve saved the worst for last.”

  My heart sank as I murmured, “Oh, goody.”

  Minnie had evidently eaten her fill because she removed her teeth, swirled them in her water glass, and wiped them dry with a napkin. After slipping them into her pocket, she smacked her lips a few times, as if savoring her liberation.

  “You may be wondering,” she said, “why Annabelle got rid of William Walker.”

  “Something tells me that there was another man on her horizon,” said Bree. She put a hand to her brow like a psychic receiving a message from the Great Beyond. “A man who earned more than William Walker, who was higher up the social ladder, and who couldn’t see past her blond hair and blue eyes, despite your warnings.” She dropped her hand and raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Am I close?”