The Spring Cleaning Murders

by Dorothy Cannell

  The sitting room looked different from when the Lady in Black had lived at Tall Chimneys. The once-dark walls were now painted an off-white. The dingy net curtains were gone from the windows, letting in a view of the front garden. There was new furniture: a red carpet and a comfortable-looking sofa and chairs; a secretary desk and several sets of nesting tables. But what really caught my eye was the life-size portrait in an ornate gilt frame above the mantelpiece. It was of a Norfolk terrier with lilac bows in her hair and a shilling-sized red stone flashing on her left paw. Jessica, I presumed.

  I was so busy looking at it that for a few seconds I rudely ignored the fact that several members of the Hearthside Guild were grouped in front of the fireplace like a bunch of candlesticks. Sir Robert Pomeroy, who was inclined to hold forth if given half a chance, was talking about the flower fund and how, if he were not very much mistaken, there had been a misappropriation of money. His wife—the former Maureen Dovedale being a new bride—was naturally paying close attention to his every syllable. Brigadier Lester-Smith appeared to be studying the design on the hearth rug. The fourth member of the group was Tom Tingle, who had moved to the village a couple of months previously. He was a gnome-like man with a large forehead accentuated by a receding hairline. He looked crabby. But being stuck with a name that made one sound like a storybook character who was three inches tall and lived among the hollyhocks could not be easy.

  Finally Sir Robert drew breath and looked my way. He was a man well into his fifties, red-faced and bulldoggish in his country tweeds with a mustard-and-maroon cravat tucked into the neck of his shirt. “Come along, Ellie.” He waved a pudgy paw in my direction. “Doesn’t do to stand around like a lamppost, you know! We need your opinion on what should be done about the church secretary’s behavior.”

  “But Miss Hardaway is in charge of the flower fund.” I looked from one face to another. “Isn’t she supposed to send a plant or a bunch of daffs when someone is ill?”

  “Only when that someone is a faithful St. Anselm’s parishioner.” Sir Robert wagged a remonstrating finger. “She sent flowers to her cousin. A Mrs. Rogers who only comes to services at Christmas and Easter.”

  “But, dear, the poor woman almost bled to death after a hysterectomy.” It was the baronet’s wife speaking. I had always liked her. A pleasant-looking woman with softly waving grey hair, blue eyes, and a strawberries-and-cream complexion, she looked as comfortable in her elegant lady-of-the-manor outfit as she had done standing behind the counter of her grocery shop on Market Street.

  Brigadier Lester-Smith turned pink all the way to his forehead. His crinkly hair, perhaps because of the bright sunlight breaking through the windows, already looked redder than usual. Clearly he was afraid her ladyship might elaborate on Mrs. Rogers’s gynecological problems. There had always been something sweetly innocent about the man, making me wonder if even at age sixty he understood exactly where babies came from. He was now staring down at his shoes. Both were polished to their usual mirror gloss, but I was stunned to see that they weren’t a matched pair.

  “The point is”—Sir Robert’s face puffed out like a blowfish—”Miss Hardaway had no business dipping into the flower fund to send that plant. You may all”—his eyes swept the group—”think me harsh, but I have never been able to abide anything that is sneaky, underhanded, or devious!” His voice was lost in a harsh buzzing sound coming from outside the house, commingled with a frenzied barking. After a minute or two the dogs quietened down, but the other noise continued.

  “Are the Millers drilling for oil in their back garden?”

  Tom Tingle cocked a gnome’s ear.

  “It’s like having all my teeth drilled at once.” Lady Pomeroy attempted a smile.

  “Someone’s using a chain saw,” supplied the brigadier.

  “It’s Jonas,” I snapped. “They’ve got him pruning that tree.” I was angry enough to have stormed from the room, demanding that the Miller sisters explain why they had put Jonas to work when all they had supposedly wanted was advice on what branches to lop off. But suddenly there was silence. The room stopped vibrating. The brigadier wondered aloud without raising his voice what could be keeping the Misses Miller from joining us.

  “I expect they’re busy in the kitchen,” said Lady Pomeroy. “You know how it is when you have people in for the first time. You want everything perfect, even down to the cherries on the cakes. Why don’t I go and see if I can lend a hand?” She had always struck me as a kindhearted woman, but I now wondered if Sir Robert’s spiel had upset her. Was she grasping at the chance to get out of the room and sort out her feelings?

  For several minutes after Lady Pomeroy had left the room the remaining four of us chitchatted about Hearthside Guild matters. Sir Robert, restored to amiability—perhaps because he no longer felt the need to flex his masterful-man muscles for his wife’s benefit— expressed regret at the morning’s small turnout. We usually had twice today’s number present. He voiced the hope the Millers would not feel that they had opened up their home for no good purpose. Brigadier Lester-Smith put in the odd word now and then about holding youth-club meetings on the second rather than the third Thursday of the month, but he was clearly distracted. His eyes kept straying to the windows, with their view of the front garden and the path leading out to the wooded lane. Every time the dogs barked, which they did with unpleasant regularity, he would stiffen as if being told to hold his breath for a chest X-ray, and afterwards exhale slowly. Tom Tingle also appeared on edge, but this was explained when he announced with considerable urgency that he needed to “pay a visit.” I told him that if I remembered correctly, there was a bathroom directly at the top of the stairs.

  “I had two cups of coffee before leaving home”—he scowled as if this were my fault—”so if you will excuse me.” The door clicked shut behind him.

  “Odd little chap.” Sir Robert caught my eye and cleared his throat. “Mean that as a compliment, of course. Understand Tingle’s retired, from the family firm. Came down here for the peace and quiet, I suppose. Funny how people think nothing ever happens to rock the boat in a place like Chitterton Fells.”

  The brigadier wasn’t listening, but I knew Sir Robert had to be reliving the day, not so very long ago, when his first wife was murdered. I’d heard it suggested he’d married Maureen Dovedale on the rebound. I hoped not, because she had been in love with him for years; she deserved some happiness after struggling to make a go of things following her late husband’s death. It pleased me, therefore, when Sir Robert checked the clock on the mantelpiece and pondered aloud whether his wife had got lost looking for the kitchen.

  “No sense of direction, most women!” He was back to flexing those masculine muscles. Giving his cravat a tug, he ambled over to the door. “Better go and see what’s keeping the old girl. Definitely beginning to seem peculiar, our being left kicking our heels this long. Don’t suppose the Millers are trying to put out a grease fire? Or chasing down burglars? What! What!”

  Left to ourselves, the brigadier and I settled into a couple of arm chairs. I remembered I hadn’t brought his raincoat, and uncharacteristically, he said that it didn’t matter. He had also left Ben’s behind. He returned to looking out of the window, while I fixed my eyes once again on the portrait of the Norfolk terrier. The expression in the eyes was soulful, almost saintly. Had it been painted after her untimely death, if indeed this was Jessica? I was wondering how her orphan puppies had fared when the door opened and Vienna came bustling into the room wheeling a wooden trolley crammed with a coffeepot, cups and saucers, and a couple of platefuls of scones and fruitcake. Behind her came Madrid, hands clasped and wearing the otherworldly look of a nun taking her morning constitutional in the convent grounds.

  She flinched when Brigadier Lester-Smith got to his feet, as if shocked to find the room occupied. Her sister apologized for the delay without offering any explanation, and I wondered if the two of them had been having words about the problem Madrid had mentioned on my
arrival. It most likely had been something extremely trivial, but Vienna had lost her temper. That strong jaw and firm mouth suggested a woman who didn’t mince words. And I could readily imagine her sister getting unhinged and having to be soothed back to coherence with a thimbleful of brandy.

  “What happened to the others?” Vienna demanded in her deep voice, which tended to vibrate around the edges as if run on a motor implanted in her throat. She glanced from me to the brigadier. “Hope they didn’t give up and scoot off home. I’ve made enough scones for an army and we don’t want to be left with too many, do we, Madrid? Not when we’re both trying hard to watch our diets.”

  She smiled at her sister, a bracing smile, filled with an affection that lit up her no-frills face. I decided it was unlikely they had quarreled. Vienna handed Madrid her cup of coffee without first serving either me or the brigadier. She even stirred in the cream and sugar and afterwards plumped up a chair cushion before Madrid sat down.

  “Comfy, dear?” Vienna asked before turning and explaining to me and Brigadier Lester-Smith that her sister had been feeling a little under the weather.

  “Oh, dear!” The brigadier sounded alarmed. “Not that I ever catch anything myself, but we can’t know who will yet turn up; members of the Hearthside Guild sometimes arrive after the refreshment stage.” He again stared, this time in mingled hope and anxiety, towards the windows. “And some people are susceptible to the least thing going around.”

  “It’s nothing physical.” Madrid shifted the curtain of hair that had fallen forward over her granny glasses. “It’s just that I am”—her voice faltered—”of a melancholy nature and ...”

  “And the scones not turning out as well as she had hoped upset her.” Vienna supplied this information along with a cup of coffee for me and another for the brigadier. I took a couple of tentative sips of the brew; it was only lukewarm and tasted as if it had been stewed for a week. Sir Robert and his wife returned, followed shortly afterwards by Tom Tingle. No sooner were they seated with cups and saucers and plates of scones on their laps when the sitting-room door inched open and Clarice Whitcombe poked an inquiring face into the room.

  Suddenly the brigadier glowed like a schoolboy as he sprang to his feet, his plate leaping off the arm of his chair. So it was Clarice he had been watching for, I thought happily.

  “The front door was ajar, so I just came in,” she apologized, stepping further into the room, her eyes riveted to the brigadier’s, the flush on her cheeks matching his as she fiddled with her cardigan buttons. She was wearing lipstick inexpertly applied in a shade that was a little too bright, and she had obviously taken great pains with her hair, although one side was curled a little more tightly than the other. “I suppose I should have knocked. But I thought”—tearing her eyes away from the brigadier and addressing Vienna—”that you might not want people setting the dogs barking. I could hear them woofing as I came up the path.”

  "I must have left the door open,” Lady Pomeroy confessed. “I stepped outside to. . .”—she was clearly racking her brains to come up with a reason—”to . . . see what changes you’d made in the garden.” She smiled at the sisters, a wasted effort where Madrid was concerned. That lady was staring fixedly at the portrait of the dog on the wall.

  “We’re glad you’re here, Miss Whitcombe.” Vienna bustled forward to shake hands. “As you can see, we’re a small group, but the welcome is large.”

  “Yes, delighted, my dear lady.” Sir Robert extended a well-bred hand to the latest arrival, and even Tom Tingle bestirred himself to do likewise.

  “It would really make me feel at home if you’d all call me Clarice.” The lady was trying extremely hard not to look at Brigadier Lester-Smith, who was rooted to the spot, incapable of speech.

  “What a pretty name,” Lady Pomeroy said. “I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone else being called that.”

  “My father’s name was Clarence and my mother was Doris, so they just put them together.”

  “‘That’s interesting,” I said. “And how did your parents come to name you Vienna and Madrid?” I asked the sisters.

  “They were very fond of both cities.” Vienna sounded slightly irritated, but that might have been because she had started to pour Clarice a cup of coffee and discovered that the coffeepot was empty. “I’ll have to go and refill it,” she began, but the brigadier rushed forward, sending a couple of occasional tables wobbling in the process and offered to do the honors.

  “I may be a bachelor,” he said, only half looking at Clarice, “but I do know my way around a kitchen.” I wouldn’t have been surprised had he added the information that he didn’t drink or smoke, possessed a healthy bank account, had been good to his mother, didn’t object to pets, and enjoyed entertaining in moderation. But he left the room without another word, after bumping into only one chair. Clarice took a seat on the sofa.

  “I’m sorry I was late.” She accepted a scone from Vienna and moved it around her plate. “My clock must have been wrong.” She wasn’t even close to being a good liar. I could guess what had kept her from getting to the meeting on time. She had rifled through her wardrobe, emptied out half her bedroom drawers, and spent half an hour sitting among the rubble on the bed regretting the fact that she had nothing to wear—nothing at any rate that would make her look ten years younger and five times more attractive than her mirror bluntly informed her was the case. I thought she looked very nice in her paisley wool frock, but I doubted she had any idea that she had knocked the socks off the brigadier.

  He seemed to be an age coming back with that coffeepot. Had it taken him five minutes to steady his hands sufficiently to fit the plug in the socket to brew up another batch? Or was he even now primping in front of a mirror, smoothing down his crinkly auburn hair, sucking in his tummy and straightening his tie? The dogs started barking again and Lady Pomeroy asked if they spent most of their time in the kennels.

  “Damn fine chaps, dogs,” her husband put in. “But I prefer the working sort m’self. Got a black lab, Daisy--going on fourteen, she is, and still the best bird dog I’ve ever had.” He thrust his face round to eye Tom Tingle. “Do you shoot? I’m also master of hounds, don’t you know, and could provide you a decent horse. Or are you one of those bleeding hearts who’d like to see fox hunting banned?”

  Torn Tingle drew himself up so that his head reached the top of the mantelpiece. “I dislike all sports. I know it’s un-English, but there you are.”

  Silence settled heavily on the group. Was I wallowing in melodrama? Or was there really something unsettling about this house? Something dark and depressing, despite the freshly painted white walls? I shivered even though there wasn’t a hint of a draft, only half listening as Lady Pomeroy tried to get the conversation back to Hearthside Guild business, with the suggestion that we hold a bring-and-buy sale in August. I moved closer to the fireplace, pretending to pay attention, but really looking at the portrait of the Norfolk terrier.

  “There will never be another like Jessica.” Madrid touched my sleeve and I almost jumped out of my cardigan. “So good! So beautiful! We had absolutely no trouble finding a suitor for her paw in marriage. We held an engagement party for her and the Baron Von Woofer. He was best of breed at Crufts two years in a row, but even so”—Madrid’s voice cracked—”he wasn’t good enough for her. There wasn’t a dog alive who would have been. Madrid and I had to provide the ring. It was a ruby, our angel’s birthstone. We had the artist paint it on her paw, but she wore it on a little chain around her neck.”

  “Did they have a wedding?” I focused on Brigadier Lester-Smith, who was back at last with the coffeepot.

  Madrid parted her flowing hair to peer at me through her rimless glasses. “We had it in the garden of our old house, under the rose arbor. Vienna had made Jessica the sweetest little veil with an orange blossom wreath and she woofed in all the right places when the clergyman— who specialized in pet ceremonies—read the service. The Baron wasn’t nearly so cooperative. �
��Uncouth’ is the word I would use, which just goes to show the best pedigree in the world doesn’t always make for a gentleman. He kept sniffing around Jessica’s dear little rear and even tried to climb on top of her when she was woofing ‘I do!’ He couldn’t wait to get down to the honeymoon suite.”

  “Which was?” I had to chew on a smile.

  “A precious little silk canopy, with a Persian rug inside and tapestry cushions with ‘His’ and ‘Hers’ embroidered on them. I’ll always remember”—Madrid shifted the granny glasses to dab at her eyes—”how frightened Jessica was when the moment came, wrapping her sweet paws around my neck so that Vienna had to pry her out of my arms. Just like any other poor little virgin.”

  I wasn’t so sure about the universality of such moments, but was saved from having to reply by Vienna’s approach. She gave Madrid, who was gulping down sobs, a concerned look and squeezed her shoulder. “Why don’t you go and see about more scones,” she suggested as gently as her deep voice would allow, “and in the meantime I’ll have a word with Mrs. Haskell.”

  She sat purposefully down beside me. “Ellie, I’ve been hoping for the opportunity to get to know you better. We’re quite close neighbors, after all, and Madrid rallies a little when she’s around people. She’s always been sensitive and inclined to brood. A job was out of the question. Madrid couldn’t have sat in an office pounding a typewriter with phones ringing right and left. So I came up with the idea of breeding Norfolks. Jessica was our first.” Vienna lifted her eyes to the portrait. “Sadly we lost her because we didn’t know enough at the time to recognize the symptoms of eclampsia. It came on so suddenly and I’m afraid I talked Madrid out of calling in the vet. I thought it was normal for Jessica to be a little poorly after giving birth.” Vienna shook her closely cropped head and squared her broad shoulders. “Luckily we did manage to raise three of the puppies. Madrid could never bring herself to hold any of them, but one of us had to be practical! We’d invested in a house with enough land to build the kennels and I finally convinced her we must continue as planned, although I did agree that no other dog would ever live in the house.”