The Spring Cleaning Murders

by Dorothy Cannell

  Sort through contents of linen cupboard, checking for any needed repairs. After making these, return to thoroughly cleaned shelves. And put fresh lavender in bags.

  The following weekend saw the kitchen at Merlin’s Court turned into a miniature factory. Ben claimed he was beginning to prefer cooking up batches of furniture cream to whipping up soufflés. Jonas and Freddy pitched in when they weren’t helping out by keeping an eye on the twins. And Mrs. Malloy and Mrs. Nettle also came for a three-hour stint on Saturday afternoon. It wasn’t that we really needed four dozen bottles of silver polish or gallons of mildew remover, but our production efforts made me feel halfway official, instead of like a woman about to participate in the biggest housecleaning scam of all time.

  Ben had certainly voiced objections when I first broached Mrs. Malloy’s plan to him, and I had to admit that I’d had second thoughts myself after the exuberance engendered by being made a member of the C.F.C.W.A. had ebbed a little. But I pointed out to my husband, as Mrs. Malloy had done to me, that I could sit on my conscience and let a possibly innocent person take a murder rap. Or I could put on my pinny and set about helping put the world to rights. The thought of Bunty Wiseman being hurled into the clink was probably the part of my argument that swayed Ben. He found her exasperating at times, but in an adorable sort of way. What man wouldn’t? And he agreed that our Bunty wasn’t likely to take enthusiastically to prison food or to the horrid outfits produced by obscure designers that they make women wear.

  “But I still don’t like the idea of your snooping through people’s personal possessions,” he said when we had the kitchen to ourselves during a momentary lull. “Especially people we know, like the Pomeroys and Brigadier Lester-Smith and even Tom Tingle. He really seemed to enjoy his afternoon in the garden with me and Jonas. And I quite like him. He’s an interesting chap.”

  I was having trouble getting the label to stick on a bottle of silver polish, the duster wrapped around my head kept sliding down over my eyes, and I was feeling just a little testy. “Naturally you’ve become fond of him, Ben. You saved Tom Tingle’s life. That’s bound to create a bond, but at times like this we can’t afford to be sentimental.”

  “And you won’t mind in the least if your pal the brigadier turns out to be a triple murderer?” Ben had now upgraded himself from bottle filler to foreman and was inspecting the products lined up on the kitchen table, making sure that the lids were properly tightened.

  “Dear, Brigadier Lester-Smith has nothing to hide, other than the fact he has taken to dyeing his hair. I know him well enough to be certain of that.” I finally got that label to stick. “And anyway, if he’s a murderer he can’t marry Clarice Whitcombe, and I’ve set my heart on them living happily ever after.”

  “You know hardly anything about her, Ellie.”

  “True, but I like what I’ve seen.” I was sticking on another label. “She likes animals, is eager to embrace life, in a tentative sort of way, and asked my advice on lipsticks, which naturally I found engaging. And she’s very modest—shying away from talking about her piano playing. She’s never mixed much. Her parents kept her at home.”

  “Until she was what? Forty-five or fifty?”

  “It does sound rather gothic,” I agreed. “From what she said, her parents weren’t exactly unkind to her, just completely wrapped up in themselves. It was convenient for them to have Clarice around to run the household.”

  “Her only outlet being to sit in the attic in a white nightgown at dead of night playing mournful tunes on the piano while praying that Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t live forever?” Ben knocked over one of the bottles, sending half a dozen others plonking backwards. Righting them, he continued: “It really wouldn’t come as much of a surprise to me, Ellie, if it turns out Clarice doctored her parents’ heart medicine or whatever they took, and that’s the dirty little secret Mrs. Large uncovered.”

  “Clarice told me they committed suicide together.”

  “Considerate of the old dears.”

  “Perhaps you’re right to be skeptical,” I conceded slowly. “Much as I don’t like to think it, she does present possibilities. But let’s not overlook Tom Tingle. I’ve got to say I found myself taking to him when I went over to his house the day Trina McKinnley and Winifred Smalley were murdered. But I’m not sure I buy his explanation as to what he said on the beach about it being an accident, and I sense he’s always seen himself as a misfit.”

  “Because he’s short, I suppose.”

  “He could have any number of insecurities. Those ears of his, for instance. They really are very pointed.”

  “And Mrs. Large found evidence that bodies tended to pile up everywhere he went?” Ben said even more skeptically.

  “I’m not saying that.” I leaned wearily against the sink. “But he is a virtual stranger, as are Clarice and the Millers. And believe me, those sisters are also high on my list of possibles. Madrid is a slave to her deceased Norfolk terrier’s memory. As for Vienna, sturdy though she appears to be, it would hardly be surprising if she cracked under the pressure of being her sister’s mainstay. Maybe she falsified the dogs’ pedigrees so they will sell for more money, or ... well, it could be anything. Perhaps it’s not fair, Ben, but I find it preferable to suspect virtual strangers rather than people I’ve known for years. Which is why I asked Bunty Wiseman to use her real estate job to find out what she could about the newcomers who were at the Hearthside Guild meeting the day Mrs. Large died.”

  “I understand why you’re focusing on them.” Ben rubbed a hand through his hair, further disheveling his dark curls. “They were on the spot. But it could have been someone else.”

  “Jonas was out in the garden and he didn’t see anyone going into the study through the French windows or leaving the same way.”

  “He wasn’t there the whole time. Didn’t he go into the kitchen for a cup of tea after he had finished the pruning?”

  “Yes, and of course, the murderer could have entered through the front door. After all, Clarice did. She said it was unlocked and no one had come when she rang the bell. But there’s another thing, Ben.”

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Large worked for everyone present at that meeting—the Millers, Sir Robert and Lady Pomeroy, Tom Tingle, Clarice Whitcombe, and Brigadier Lester-Smith. And her only other clients, according to Mrs. Malloy, were a bedridden woman of ninety-odd and a couple who have been in New Zealand for the past three months visiting their married daughter. And Mrs. Large stopped working for Mrs. Barrow at the beginning of the year.”

  “What happened there?”

  “The queen of picketers decided it was morally irresponsible to have someone in to do the housework. So, you see, darling,” I said, “that does narrow the field. And given the fact Mrs. Large thought about presenting her concerns at a C.F.C.W.A. meeting, that being at least part of what she wanted to talk to Mrs. Malloy about on the phone, we know whatever was troubling her had to involve one of her clients. Then there’s Trina McKinnley. The reason she gave for being able to give me only a couple of hours a week was that she was taking on all of Mrs. Large’s people. Which means she went to work for the murderer.”

  “And look what happened to her, Ellie!”

  “Exactly! But you and I will be careful not to blackmail anyone.”

  “Five houses to check out.” Ben shifted me away from the sink to wash his hands. “I’ll go along with that, on condition I make up part of the work team. It’ll help speed things up, and I’ll be able to supply brute male force should we get caught snooping by whoever it is who’s bound and determined to keep his or her secret. Although I’ve got to say, I really don’t think there’s much likelihood of our finding anything. Surely any competent murderer would have gotten rid of whatever it was Mrs. Large discovered by now.”

  “Not necessarily.” I handed him a dish towel to dry his hands. “It could be something the killer can’t bear to part with or now feels safe to keep.”

  Our conversatio
n came to an abrupt halt when Mrs. Malloy and Mrs. Nettle bustled in, the former looking ready to unionize us on the spot and the latter expressing mild disappointment that we didn’t have a conveyor belt on which to transport the product from the bottling station to the labeling plant. Freddy appeared and offered to make one out of a board placed on a pair of roller skates he thought he might have at the cottage, but no one greeted this idea with enthusiasm. So he busied himself making cups of tea that nobody found time to drink and talking hopefully about the millions we could make if we would stop thinking small and buy a proper factory run by robots while we all sat in the executive dining room discussing advertising strategy. Mainly to get him off that topic I told him about Ben’s intention of helping out the C.F.C.W.A., and was immediately interrupted by Mrs. Malloy.

  “My making you a honorary member of the organization went to your head quicker than I’d have thought possible, even of you, Mrs. H.! Asking your hubby to join us without even having the decency to put the invite in the form of a motion! That beats anything I’ve heard in all me . . . few years on this earth! In future I’ll thank you to remember who’s president here,” she fumed. “Betty, I want you to write Mrs. Haskell a letter of censor on our official notepaper. And don’t go putting no kisses at the bottom.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm, Roxie.” Mrs. Nettle went right on mixing up a solution to put the color back in those whitish moisture rings that are the ruin of many a sideboard or table. “And I can see the sense in Mr. Haskell helping out. The more hands and eyes the better, I say, considering we’re looking for a needle in a haystack, so to speak.”

  “Then count me in.” Freddy gave his ponytail an enthusiastic toss. “I’ve always been frightfully keen on this cloak-and-dagger stuff, haven’t I, Ellie?”

  “He’s staked out any number of refrigerators in his time,” I told Mrs. Nettle, “and held up quite a few pantries without being caught.”

  “Lads will be lads,” she responded, looking as indulgent as was possible for a woman who closely resembled a bird of prey.

  “Oh, all right.” Mrs. Malloy endeavored to make the best of finding herself stuck with a suggestion she probably wished had been her own. “But you, Freddy, and Mr. H. have to face up to the fact that you’re just temporary reinforcements; you’re not entitled to no voting privileges and there’s no good hoping you’ll be invited to the annual Christmas do, because the goings-on at said function isn’t suited to mixed company.”

  “Speaking of voting”—Mrs. Nettle wiped up a spill— “the C.F.C.W.A. decided in your absence, Roxie, not to wear armbands for Gertrude; we went with black bows instead, to wear in our hair. What do you think, should we do the same for Trina and Winifred? To me it don’t seem quite enough, but I’ll go along with whatever you say.”

  “Bows?” Mrs. Malloy puckered her purple lips. “I don’t remember as Trina was wearing one when I found her. And she had on one of them white uniforms of hers. That started when she took up helping nurse Frank Large. Liked to look important, did Trina. Power mad, as I’ve said before. But a bow in her hair . . . I’m sure I’d have noticed. But maybe you’d all stopped wearing them by that time, Betty.”

  “No, it was agreed we’d keep it up for six weeks. And then maybe wear purple ones for another month. I just haven’t put mine on since the . . . last two went, because it didn’t seem right to acknowledge Gertrude’s passing and leave them out. And three bows in the hair seems a bit much for women our age, Roxie.”

  Mrs. Malloy did not look thrilled by this observation. She said briskly that the present situation obviously called for armbands, which she would be happy to donate seeing she had a lifetime supply left over from the funerals of husbands number two and three. She went on to say that she’d just telephoned Lady Pomeroy, who said she would be delighted to try out our new service, which meant that Mrs. Malloy had now called all Mrs. Large’s former clients—the ones that counted, that is. And they’d all agreed (without asking any rude questions about my being part of the work crew) to the times and days she had suggested for our first domestic onslaught.

  “I said the first time, four hours each, would be free, so they could see how they liked the products, but really to hook them good and proper. Besides”—Mrs. Malloy assumed a virtuous expression that went well with her purple ensemble—”I thought that was only fair, seeing as we’re up to tricks.”

  “I just hope the murderer doesn’t twig to why we’re being such good sports,” I said, looking from Ben to Freddy and reading the same thought on their faces.

  “And make sure there’s nothing for us to find,” inserted Mrs. Nettle, who was now rinsing out her funnel.

  “It don’t do to overestimate people like that.” Mrs. Malloy waved an airy hand. “Cocky as all get out. Stands to reason, or they wouldn’t think they could get away with their high jinks. Many’s the day we’ve all thought about knocking someone off, but most of us stays humble.”

  No one came up with a quick answer to that, and then Jonas came into the kitchen with Abbey and Tam. It was good to see how Jonas had improved during the last couple of days; all the activity had acted on him like a tonic. Freddy even took me aside to say how well the old man was looking, and Jonas himself mentioned with begrudging pleasure that Tom Tingle wanted to come back for more gardening lessons.

  Evening arrived. Mrs. Nettle went home a little ahead of Mrs. Malloy, and when Roxie got up to leave, I walked her outside, grasping at the opportunity to talk to her about what had happened in London. What had made her decide to come home? How was dear little Rose, and of course, George and Vanessa? But there was no getting anything out of her. After a few noncommittal mumbles her face—not just her mouth—clamped shut. Watching her walk the rest of the way down the drive and through the iron gates, I pondered what could be wrong. Surely if she’d had a blazing row with Vanessa she would have told me. Mrs. Malloy knew my cousin and I weren’t exactly soul mates. What was she keeping from me?

  For a while the murders receded to a back cupboard of my mind. But by Sunday afternoon I was back to thinking about very little else. Even trying to stay busy in the kitchen factory or playing with the children didn’t help, because the morrow hung over everything like a black drape on a coffin.

  Mrs. Malloy, Ben, and I were to go to the Miller sisters at nine and on to Clarice Whitcombe’s at one. Unfortunately, Dr. Solomon had promised he would come and take a look at Jonas on Monday. But the doctor rang early on Sunday evening from his car phone to say he was in the area.

  “Would it be convenient for me to stop by?” he asked, “because tomorrow looks like a tight squeeze.”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  When he arrived, he told Jonas, who was not best pleased, that he had been wondering if his favorite patient had had any more trouble with bronchitis, and brooking no argument, he bustled my friend off into the study. Afterwards, Ben walked Dr. Solomon to his car. Fabulous news.

  “Jonas is in better shape than many men half his age,” was his pronouncement. “Make sure the old boy gets regular doses of the prescribed medicine—moderate exercise, plenty of mental stimulation, and fresh air. And you can tell your wife to stop worrying.”

  At any other time my heart would have sung, but I was feeling more jittery by the minute, which made Freddy’s boundless enthusiasm for our prospective adventure—as he insisted on calling it—hard to take. Even though I was grateful that he and Mrs. Nettle were the ones who would be doing Brigadier Lester-Smith’s house, along with Tom Tingle’s. I wasn’t cut out to be a spy, which surely was a job more suited to skinny people, who are better able to fade into the woodwork or wallpaper if things went wrong.

  It had been agreed that the two work parties would meet at Merlin’s Court at eight-thirty on Monday morning, for a quick cup of tea and a final boost of moral support. Freddy showed up early, looking disgustingly chirpy and eager to know whether he would look more like a proper char if he stuffed his ponytail under a hair
net and wore matronly earrings. Ben was suggesting a floral pinny when Mrs. Nettle arrived. But where was Mrs. Malloy?

  We drank our tea and I went upstairs to see how Jonas was coping with the twins. He was reading to them from one of their favorite storybooks, and I told him there was cereal and a compote of plums, peaches, and figs for breakfast. And a quiche and salad in the fridge for lunch. But it was clear Abbey and Tam wanted to hear more about the little dragon who lived in the time between long ago and right this minute. So after hugging them and reminding Jonas yet again that he must telephone if there were any problems, I returned to the kitchen. Still no Mrs. Malloy. And it was now a quarter to nine.

  “It’s just not like her.” Mrs. Nettle stood looking hollow-cheeked and beaky-nosed, hands clasping her giant bag of Abigail’s Homemade Cleaning Products. “Punctual to a fault, that’s Roxie.”

  “Perhaps she missed the bus,” offered Freddy.

  “Could be.” Mrs. Nettle started tapping her foot, picking up the beat from Ben, who’d been at it for several minutes.

  “We’ll give her another five minutes,” he said, looking, I noticed even in my distraction, like any woman’s dream char. His teeth were as white as the open-necked white shirt he wore under a thin navy sweater, and Beau Brummell’s tailor might have fitted his crisply ironed khaki slacks. My dress was also navy, dug out from the back of my wardrobe, because I’d decided it would make me look serviceable. I’d also twisted my hair into a housekeeper’s bun at my neck. It would have been disheartening to reflect how easily I had succeeded in making myself into the archetypal domestic. But as the clock ticked closer to nine, all I could think about was that nothing short of calamity would have kept Mrs. Malloy from being here.

  “We’ll have to go on without her,” said Ben. “Perhaps she got mixed up and thought she was to meet us at the Millers.”

  “Oh, but she wouldn’t have,” I protested. “We went over the arrangements more than once.”