The Spring Cleaning Murders

by Dorothy Cannell

  This sounded sad to me, but maybe most breeders housed their dogs in outside quarters and didn’t attempt to make pets of them. Tom Tingle must have overheard at least part of our conversation because I heard him say he wouldn’t have a dog or cat if they offered to pay half the household expenses.

  “Really?” Clarice gently observed. “And I’ve always longed for a pet, but it just wasn’t in the cards. My mother was afraid of animals, even goldfish. I remember bringing one home from school, and Mummy almost went into convulsions and Daddy had to ring the doctor. But now”—her voice brightened—”I’m free to start up a zoo if I like. A cat from down the lane comes round for afternoon tea most days and ...”

  “How fortunate that you have your piano for company, Miss Whitcombe.” Brigadier Lester-Smith had to clear his throat several times between words. “I was something of a loner growing up, and I often think that if I had been taught an instrument I’d have had a happier time of it.”

  “The only thing I ever learned to play,” Vienna said briskly into the resulting silence, “was the record player, and I can’t say I was very good at that.” The group acknowledged this sally with a round of chuckles.

  Madrid returned with a plate of scones, moved over to Vienna, and gave her a wan smile. “How lucky I am to have you for an older sister. I feel sorry for people who have to manage life alone, especially in times of tragedy.”

  Sir Robert again took center stage on the hearth rug, thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets. “I say we’re lucky, damned lucky, if you ladies will pardon the forceful language, to discover that Clarice plays the piano. You’ll have to give us a couple of solos at the summer pageant, m’dear, and delight us with carols at Christmas.” He was at his most expansive. “Have a word with the vicar. Our current organist, Mrs. Barrow, is hopeless. She gallops through the hymns, keeping the choir always at least one verse behind, and if the sermon goes on too long she bunks off without doing her final number, to go picketing—which seems to be her thing.”

  “Oh, I don’t think . . . Really, I’m not all that good.” Clarice sounded more flustered by the word. “I’m sure there are people far more musically gifted than I—"

  “Mustn’t hide your light under a bushel, m’dear.” Sir Robert puffed out his chest. “One of the seven deadly sins, false modesty.” Another awkward silence followed this indictment, with Maureen Dovedale looking especially embarrassed. Rallying, she asked Clarice what sort of music she particularly liked to play.

  “Not much of anything at the moment, because I’ve got tendinitis and I’m not to strain my wrist. Well, so the doctor says.”

  The remainder of what Clarice had to say on the subject got lost as Vienna’s deep voice boomed directly into my ear. “I understand, Ellie, you are an interior designer.”‘

  "That was my job before I married,” I told her, “and I am getting back to it, a little at a time on a part-time basis.”

  “Then if you wouldn’t think it imposing”—she was eyeing Madrid, not me, apparently gauging her reaction—"I’d like to show you the study and hear your suggestions on making it more inviting. I know you’ll want to leave with the others and not keep Mr. Phipps waiting, so perhaps we could slip down the hall now, just for a couple of minutes?”

  So saying, she ushered me out into the hall and I told her how much better it looked, now that the walls were painted white and the stairs brightened with that red carpet.

  “You’re right, it was rather grim—like living inside a trunk until we tore out the old wainscotting.” She trotted ahead of me past the dining-room door. “But the poor old girl who lived here was past looking after the place—if she’d ever done any decorating in forty years. It is important to me to make changes quickly, Ellie, because as you might guess, Madrid is tremendously susceptible to atmosphere. We moved from our former home because our neighbours let their garden go to rack and ruin and it depressed Madrid to the point where she couldn’t get out of bed.”

  “What a shame,” I answered ineptly, catching a glimpse of Jonas seated at the kitchen table through the open door. He appeared to be asleep, and I became annoyed all over again about the chain saw.

  Obviously reading my mind, Vienna explained. “Mr. Phipps looked at the apple tree and, in addition to providing general advice on pruning, pointed out a dead branch that he said could break at any time. When he saw how worried Madrid was, because that tree overhangs one of the kennels, he asked if we had a saw and insisted on doing the job at once. I gave him five pounds. Such a nice old man.”

  “He’s the world’s best.”

  “And here’s the study.” Vienna turned to our right. “Even though it has French doors it never seems to get much sun—it’s always such a cheerless room.” She pushed open the door. Standing behind her, looking in, I was overwhelmed by the urge to agree with her. The words, however, stuck in my throat. It wasn’t the dark brown paint or poorly constructed bookshelves that depressed me. It wasn’t the dustpan and the scattering of fireplace ashes left on the floor or even the overturned stepladder that made my spirits sink. The focal point of unpleasantness was Mrs. Large, who was lying dead on the floor with a feather duster still cupped in her limp hand.

  Chapter 5

  The windows (sash and all) must be washed. A little soda dissolved in the water will improve appearance.

  Driving down the cliff road that afternoon, on my way to tell Ben what had happened, I relived every shiver of that ghastly moment. Unlike me, Vienna hadn’t stood rooted to the spot; she’d bent down to feel for a pulse. A ritual gesture, for it was brutally apparent from Mrs. Large’s staring eyes and slack jaw that all hope was flown. Yet however badly I felt, Vienna must have felt even worse. Mrs. Large had died in her house, not mine, after all.

  Now as I drove along, scenes from the last few hours kept replaying themselves inside my head: Vienna saying she didn’t know how to break the news to Madrid, while looking like a woman who could cope with flood, famine, and pestilence at a go if duty called. Madrid going into hysterics. The shocked faces of the other members of the Hearthside Guild. Paramedics charging down the narrow hall. My talking with a kindly policewoman.

  Somewhere in the middle of all this I phoned my friend Frizzy Taffer. One of her children went to the same play school as the twins. I hastily explained what had happened and asked Frizzy to take the twins to her house, to which she just as hastily agreed.

  As soon as I was able to leave Tall Chimneys, I took Jonas home and made him lunch before setting off for Abigail’s. I didn’t plan to fall sobbing into Ben’s arms, but I needed to be with him. Perhaps if I had known Mrs. Large was at Tall Chimneys, doing her half day or whatever it was, the shock wouldn’t have been quite so great. But of course it wasn’t to be expected that either sister would have mentioned her presence. Probably they had told Mrs. Large company was expected and to leave the hall and rooms at the front of the house until everyone left.

  It was now early afternoon, and a glorious one at that. The pink and white loveliness of blossom was just appearing on the trees and a lazy-hazy drift of clouds tinged with gold drifted in a pale blue sky. There was not a hint of the rain that had seemed likely earlier in the day. No sharpness in the air to suggest Mother Nature had taken Mrs. Large’s passing to heart. Turning onto Market Street, I looked for a parking place. If I’d been thinking sensibly I would have realized that the one I found wasn’t big enough to accommodate a child’s tricycle.

  I had the nose of the car against the curb and the back end jutting out into traffic, much to the annoyance of a passing Jeep, who gave me a distinctly four-letter honk. That’s the trouble with driving a convertible, it’s very easy to make a public spectacle of oneself. Worse was to come. Just as I was attempting to go into reverse and bounced forward instead, who should appear alongside but my dear cousin Freddy!

  “Don’t gloat,” I told him.

  “I never make cracks about women drivers,” he responded smugly. “Do you want to get out and let
me straighten up for you?”

  “Thanks, but no. Just tell me when I hit something.”

  Being Freddy, he had to play traffic cop, jerking his thumb this way and that, looking as though at any moment he would give a blast of a whistle. After but one harrowing moment—when I thought I was about to collide with a lorry—I turned off the engine and dropped my hands from the wheel. Safely double-parked.

  “This is just fine,” Freddy informed me blithely, “because if you’re thinking of crossing the street and going around the corner to Abigail’s you might want to change your mind. Ben’s got a lot going on at the moment.”

  “Is business picking up?”

  “We’ve got people knee-deep at the door.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said as my heart sank. The news about Mrs. Large would have to wait. If I barged into Abigail’s now with my tale of woe, the distraction might be sufficient to cause Ben to curdle the hollandaise sauce and over-steam the asparagus, thus ruining his chances of winning back his customers’ hearts.

  “Yes, it’s all very exciting.” Freddy didn’t sound as jubilant as might have been expected. But I didn’t pay much attention. Neither did I consider telling him about Mrs. Large—Ben mustn’t get the news at second hand. Surely—I was wavering—there wouldn’t be any harm in looking in at Abigail’s, just in case he had a few minutes free. Even to catch a glimpse of my husband’s reassuring back would be something. “I really do have to see Ben.” I started to open the car door, but my cousin poked his head through the opening.

  “Ellie, don’t you have to pick up Abbey and Tam from play school?”

  “Frizzy Taffer’s getting them.”

  “Then why don’t you go off and have a day to yourself, coz?” Freddy gave the car bonnet a pat. “Think of all that lovely spring cleaning waiting to be done. Or better yet, you could take a drive along the coast and commune with old Mum Nature.”‘

  “You’re being awfully thoughtful, Freddy.”

  “I know.” He tossed his ponytail. “When I looked out the window and recognized the car, I came at the run to save you from putting any more dents in this dustbin on wheels.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said.

  Had I not been so preoccupied by the nightmare of finding Mrs. Large’s body, as well as weakened by hunger—having skipped breakfast and eaten only one scone at Tall Chimneys—I would have realized that my cousin was up to something. I’m not usually quite as dense as he thinks I am.

  “If you really think my timing is bad,” I said, deciding I was being immature and selfish, “I’ll wait to talk to Ben until he gets home.”

  “That’s the ticket,” Freddy didn’t actually give the car a push, but close. Turning my head at the traffic light, I saw him cross the road, dodging nimbly between cars, ponytail flying, and turn the corner of Market Street and Spittle Lane. But since I was heading in the opposite direction I didn’t get to see the march of customers entering and exiting Abigail’s.

  Still in a woolly state of mind, I thought about picking up the twins from Frizzy’s, but decided to wait. I needed to get myself together. I hadn’t driven more than a few yards past the traffic light when I spotted a parking place directly outside Bellingham’s, Chitterton Fells’s attempt at Harrods. Usually one had to park one’s car on top of at least two others to get anywhere close to the entrance. So I decided the gods were telling me something and my insides rumbled in agreement. Bellingham’s has a cafeteria on the second floor where they dish up good old British cooking in large quantities at reasonable prices.

  As I came level with the perfume and cosmetics counter on my way to the escalator, a saleswoman caught my eye and I returned her smile. Unfair! I probably set her heart racing at the prospect of selling me a lipstick. Passing the home furnishings department I slowed and found myself holding a fringed velvet cushion. Given the fact that the study at Tall Chimneys had been a gloomy room to begin with, would the Miller sisters ever be able to cheer it up with enough cushions and lap rugs to banish Mrs. Large’s ghost? Would any amount of redecorating enable Vienna to plaster over the memory of the dead woman’s look of bulgy-eyed, slack-jawed surprise? Or rid herself of the feeling that somewhere inside that still body was a mind frantically trying to blink itself back to life, so Mrs. Large could sit up and explain how she had come to fall off that stepladder?

  I realized, getting my feet moving again, that I was projecting my thoughts onto Vienna. And the last one was rubbish. Because why would it be important for Mrs. Large to have a final say? Unless ... —I came to a halt in Bellingham’s aisle—unless she hadn’t misjudged her step or turned suddenly dizzy while dusting the bookcases. Unless (feeling wobbly myself) the reason she had taken a fatal tumble was that someone had given the stepladder a shove. A saleswoman stopped folding bath towels to inquire whether I needed assistance, and I found myself buying a couple of facecloths while trying to figure out what had got into me. People have accidents. They keel over all the time from heart attacks. Mrs. Large’s abrupt passing was sad, but there was nothing sinister about it. Was there?

  What I needed was lunch, but after gathering up cutlery and pushing my brown plastic tray along the chrome railing of the cafeteria counter, I couldn’t decide between the Cornish pasties or the turkey with sage and onion dressing. The server stood trying to look patient while swinging her giant serving spoon like a clock pendulum between the metal pans.

  Then someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Mrs. Haskell?”

  “Yes,” I turned to face a tiny elderly woman clutching a very large handbag with both hands.

  “I’ve just heard the awful news.” Her face was pinched with distress. “I mean about poor Gertrude Large.”

  “Oh,” was all I could get out. The cafeteria server huffed in the background.

  “You see, I clean for Mrs. Taffer, and I was there when you rang. Me and Gertrude was friends.” The tiny woman dropped her handbag and wiped at her eyes as I picked it up for her. “So naturally Mrs. Taffer told me what you’d told her, and I fair broke down. Just couldn’t help it. And now here I am talking away without saying my name.” She reached into the bag for a hanky and blew her reddened nose. “You did meet me once at a bus stop when I was with Roxie Malloy, but you wouldn’t remember that.”

  “But I do,” I said, the light finally dawning. “You’re Mrs. Smalley.”

  “And a member of the C.F.C.W.A.” A tinge of pride crept into her voice even as she continued to dab away with the hanky. “We’re a close-knit little group, but Gertrude was always closer to Roxie than the rest of us, which has me thinking she might have spilled the beans to her.”

  “About what?” I asked, finally sliding my tray down the counter to the sandwiches and salads covered in plastic wrap where I could help myself.

  “That’s just it.” Mrs. Smalley squeezed up close to me and lowered her voice to a whisper. “She wouldn’t open up to me, nor Betty and Trina. Not one to pour out her troubles, was Gertrude. Kept a lot inside. But it was clear she was worried about something—she was almost sick about it. I did think she might have mentioned something to Roxie.”

  “But Mrs. Malloy is in London,” I said stupidly, adding a bag of crisps to the tomato and cheese sandwich on my plate.

  “Gertrude could’ve gone and seen her,” suggested Mrs. Smalley helpfully, “and there’s always the phone.”

  Of course there was, and instantly the foggy feeling of unease underlying the shock of Mrs. Large’s death crystallized. Now I knew why the thought had entered my mind that she might have been pushed off that stepladder. It was that phone call from Mrs. Malloy the other morning. As I added a cup of tea to my tray and the girl at the cash register rang up my bill, I tried to remember exactly what Mrs. Malloy had said. But what I recalled most was how upset I’d been at Mrs. Large’s breaking Jonas’s mirror.

  “Why don’t we find a table and talk?” I suggested and Mrs. Smalley gratefully agreed. We were soon settled in a corner by the window overlooking Market
Street.

  “It’s kind of you to talk to me, Mrs. Haskell.” Mrs. Smalley took a birdlike sip of her tea and set the cup back in its saucer with a rattle. “You see, it’s been playing on my mind ever since I got the news. About Gertrude’s being that worried and upset, I mean. She was never what you could call jolly-like, but this was different. All fingers and thumbs she got to be, which she never was. Told me she broke a teapot washing up at Brigadier Lester-Smith’s, one that belonged to his mother, an ugly old thing Gertrude called it, but all the same ...”

  “Mrs. Large broke a mirror at my house.” I hastened to add that I wasn’t saying this to tell tales. “And I remember she arrived late that morning, which says something, I suppose, seeing that it was her first time working for me. She mentioned having had a bad night. But she did a wonderfully thorough job. And while she was still there, Mrs. Malloy phoned.” I was about to repeat what I remembered of the conversation relating to Mrs. Large, but stopped myself in time. It was up to Mrs. Malloy to do the talking, or not, as she chose.

  “Roxie knew Gertrude would be at your house that day?” Mrs. Smalley nodded to herself. “That tells you something, doesn’t it, about how close they was?”

  “Mrs. Malloy was the one who put in a good word for me with Mrs. Large. So it’s only natural that they may have discussed days.” I took a bite of my sandwich and a swallow of tea, waiting for my companion to sort out her thoughts.

  “Mrs. Taffer said that Lady Pomeroy—Maureen Dovedale that used to be—was one of them there at Tall Chimneys when it happened. I’ll bet she took the news bad,” Mrs. Smalley had to resort to the handkerchief again.

  “Everyone was shocked, but yes, I think Lady Pomeroy seemed the most upset,” I said.