I thought to myself, This is background dialogue, the type of things said that gives insight to the day-to-day of the characters, which will make them feel real.
The plates were cleared, another scalding hot cup was fetched for Joan, and then the brothers excused themselves.
Ruth made an attempt to advise me on my novel, but admitted that mysteries confounded her. She preferred to read the last few pages of the book first, and then lost interest some place halfway through the story.
Lucy and I told our hostess and her silent sister-in-law that we were going to sit out in the garden and discuss my latest ideas.
Ruth said something agreeable and then added, “I don’t think I shall join you for luncheon. I’ll have a call placed with my excuse. I can’t see that innocent face of yours turning a lie, so if the vicar’s wife comments on my headache, let Phyllis make the response.”
Lucy and I both penciled a number of observations and thoughts into our notebooks. Miss X hadn’t yet a crime to solve, but she did have a number of clues. The dog that couldn’t manage stairs, the piping hot piece of china, and a deceitful message to the vicar’s wife—these points of interest were rife with suspicion.
As the morning went on, Lucy hinted that she preferred to stay at Pearce Manor and riffle through the pages of Remittance Delayed.
The thought of riding alone in the car with Phyllis did not thrill me, but I suspected that sweet Lucy feared the ashen woman more than I did.
After changing into something suitable for luncheon, I found Phyllis waiting for me in the foyer. Her short black hair gleamed in the sunlight pouring through the open doors. She wore a dark jacket with matching skirt, and a ruffled grey shirt hung loosely from her gaunt frame; it seemed to lean against the buttoned jacket for support.
“What do you say, Mrs. Stayton, let’s get this over with,” she said with dry humor.
I thought it odd that the driver did not assist Phyllis into the car. I was too unfamiliar with the woman to suggest my aid. Once she was settled, I climbed inside. Only after we were moving did she speak. “You aren’t what I had pictured.”
“No?” I replied, somewhat fearful of her explanation.
She shook her lean face. “No, I thought you would have a painted face, wear those stringy flapper dresses, and say annoying things like, the cat’s meow, or some such talk.”
I felt myself shrink a little. “I hadn’t realized that I’d made such a bad impression on the Staytons.”
“Oh, no, I conjured the image of a Ziegfeld girl. Nicholas and Ruth commented after the wedding that you were very sweet. That was really all they said about you. Mostly, they complained about your mother-in-law, but, of course, you know how they dislike her.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to either statement that Phyllis had made. A rebuttal was unnecessary, as she asked, “You don’t smoke, do you, child?”
“No, I never got the knack for it. Xavier gave me a lovely cigarette holder. I use it from time to time at parties, but I just puff them,” I said, sounding very young, very foolish, and I’m sure, very nervous.
“They’re awful things; keep to those cloves I see you sneaking onto your tongue,” she said slyly as she fished her cigarette case from her purse.
I smiled, and tried to remember when she had witnessed this habit of mine. Rarely did I chew on a clove unless melancholy or perturbed.
After a moment of silence, Phyllis asked, “Why do you chew on them? Do they taste good?”
I could have ended the inquiry by agreeing with the woman’s suggestion. However, there was something about Phyllis that told me she would recognize a lie.
“My husband chewed them; it was how his governess broke him of biting his nails. He never gave them up.” I reached into my handbag and pulled out a little silver monogrammed snuffbox that had belonged to him to show the woman. “The taste is both sweet and spicy and was always on his breath. When I chew one, it reminds me of his kiss.”
Phyllis reached out with her good hand and patted my arm. This action surprised me.
Blushing from sharing something so intimate, I said, “I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t have said—”
“Now, don’t be a silly fool with me like you are with the Staytons.” She paused, and a genuine smile cracked her ridged exterior. “He was a very fortunate young man to have found such a love in his short life.”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Despite your misfortune, you are a happy girl, as you should be. There is nothing wrong with that. Don’t think the air at Pearce Manor is normal—it isn’t.”
I gave her a nervous smile and glanced to see that the little window between us and the driver was closed. Phyllis noticed this and said, “Oh, let him be damned for what he thinks. Now, light my cigarette.”
The vicar’s wife was, in fact, an absolute bore. A small woman with nervous fingers and darting eyes, she looked like a librarian just itching to shush someone. She served a strange medley of what might have been two evenings worth of leftovers. My American tongue had taken well enough to the food in London, but the country cuisine offered to me went down rather slowly.
From the get-go, she told me she understood that I was collecting information for a whodunit. Proudly, she pointed at stack of books, and named authors such as Emilie Gaboriau, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Charles Dickens among her favorites.
Phyllis reached for the woman’s copy of Great Expectations and said, “I’ll give you there’s some mystery to this one, but I dare say it isn’t a whodunit.”
Our host seemed uncomfortable with Phyllis. “Do you like that book, Miss Masterson?” she asked, rather cautiously.
“I find some of the passages speak to me,” Phyllis said, and then she quoted, “In a word, I was too cowardly to do what I knew was right, as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong.”
Not sure what to make of Phyllis’s comment, the vicar’s wife invited us inside her cramped dining room, and we suffered through her meal. (The woman did provide me with many interesting facts about the locals, kindly omitting their names, of course. For the sake of pacing, I shall jump over all this; it seems after nearly fifty pages typed, we haven’t a crime, victim, or suspects. Lucy reminds me it is preferred that the murder takes place earlier in the manuscript, so I will be agreeable to the insight of an editor to make alterations. That being stated, I’m not fond of the stories where you come in at the murder and then digress back to what leads up to the crime.)
Running out of gossip, our hostess offered us what she called freshly baked pie. Phyllis rose from the table and said, “I will pass. I need a cigarette.” She held out her good arm and waved at the vicar’s wife. “Yes, I know that you are allergic. I’ll go out to the garden.”
“Asthma and all,” the little woman told me. I could not help but notice that her spirits lightened once Phyllis was away.
I had just stuck my fork into the piece of pie that had been served to me already cut and on a plate, not sliced from a warm pan for me to see, when my hostess’s voice dropped to the tone of a conspirator. “You know, I do so hate to ask, but these past few years it has been such a mystery as to what happened to young Master Stayton, might you tell me?"
I made the smug smile shared by conspirators and replied, “The family doesn't like to discuss the topic; I gather, as the vicar's wife, you can keep this just between us?”
“Of course, child, but of course I can.” She was nearly drowning in ecstasy; the thought of sharing such a secret was like gold to this woman, who traded in gossip.
“I'm sure you knew this already, but my dear Xavier was an explorer,” I began.
Her little head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yes, child.”
“Well, he went to Italy to see Pompeii, that city in ruins.”
“I've heard of it, a debauched place, they say,” she said nearly in a whisper.
“Indeed; so he went sightseeing in the city, and he was enraptured by its beauty. He wanted to se
e the place from a vantage point, so he hiked up to the top of Mt. Vesuvius,” I told the woman.
Her dull little eyes were kindled with dark curiosity.
“He made it to the summit, and then, gazing down at the majestic ruins...he took a step back.” I paused for effect, then dabbed my cheek with a handkerchief. “And by the most horrible of accidents, my dearest love tumbled into the volcano.”
The vicar’s wife let out a little yelp and shoved a white knuckle between her yellowed teeth.
I glanced into the shadow of the nearby doorway and saw that Phyllis was watching me; an amused smile graced her skull-like face.
The car was bowling down the lane at full speed when Phyllis asked me to light another cigarette for her. She took a long drag and said, “Might I ask you a question? You know I'm not like Ruth; I'm very frank, and you can so no.”
I knew the woman's question. I didn't mind answering her. “I don’t mind.”
“Why did you lie to the vicar's wife about your husband's death?”
She was too sophisticated to pry into my business any further, so I felt at ease to respond honestly, “My husband had intended on becoming an explorer; he wanted to travel the world. Instead, he met me and cut his journey short.
“His death was not becoming of his character. When people ask me such a horrible question, such a personal question, they deserve the far-fetched answers I give them.”
Phyllis nodded and replied, “I respect that.” She paused and put her cigarette to her lips. She made some attempt to blow the smoke she exhaled towards the partially open window before saying, “Few people receive the death they deserve.”
I became the people I despised and asked, “Tell me, Miss Masterson, how would you die?”
For an instant, I saw past her near-constant grimace and the coldness that enveloped her soul, as she smiled and said, “How did Julius Caesar put it: swiftly and without warning.”
I refused to make that mirthless laugh that people are so comforted by. Instead, I told her, “If only we each had a glass of champagne to toast your wit.”
Phyllis reached out and grasped my elbow with her good hand, and earnestly, she told me, “Child, I do like you.”
This was a personal triumph. I said nothing more, and we rode on in contented silence.
Chapter Five
Henderson opened the car door and assisted Phyllis. As I climbed out of the car, the butler told the driver, “Go back into town. Mrs. Stayton and Miss Wallace should be done with their shopping soon.”
Curious, I asked, “Lucy went to town with Ruth?”
Phyllis said something in parting and returned to the house. Henderson explained that after taking me and Miss Masterson to luncheon, the driver returned so that Ruth could make a quick trip into town. Lucy had gone with Ruth so she might purchase a thesaurus.
I felt a little lost without my companion. Returning to my room, a blanket of quiet hushed the large home. Standing at the mantel, I looked upon my photographs of Xavier and no longer felt alone.
“He was such a handsome young man.” Joan’s hard-edged voice was unexpected. She had slipped in through the partially open doorway.
Startled, I turned to see her gliding toward me. Taking a deep breath, my heart rate slowed, and I replied, “Yes.”
Joan stepped beside me; she was turned out in riding gear and smelled of the outdoors. The woman picked up a photograph of my husband in his golf attire. “He cut a dashing figure, didn’t he?”
I repeated my simple answer, “Yes.”
She placed the photograph back among the rest and said, “He was quite the sportsman.”
This was a misconception. Xavier was very handsome, and his physique spoke of his attempts at all manner of sport, thus his photographs when in the costume of athletics were very impressive. The truth was different. He injured himself and others more often than he succeeded at the point of the competition. He could scarcely walk straight down a sidewalk, let alone hit a small white ball onto a green, or keep his tennis racket from becoming entangled in the net.
I said something agreeable to Joan. She looked me over and asked, “You survived the vicar’s wife?”
“She was easy enough; her cooking seemed the more obvious hazard.” This was mean-spirited of me, but I thought Joan might become more agreeable with me if I spoke in her vernacular.
Joan barked her ugly laugh. She leaned into me, twisted her head over her shoulder to glance at the door, and then said, slyly, “You managed well enough with Phyllis, I see.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Don’t trust her. She’s a snake in the grass. I’d keep your door locked too. Several years ago, I found her sneaking about our room. My perfume was always missing, and my lipstick was mashed about the tube. She acts disinterested, cool as a cucumber, but she’s rather meddlesome.”
I just nodded, unsure what to say.
“I hear your mouse of a friend ran off on you. Fancy a trip to the pub? Get a chance to see some of the locals waste their Tuesday afternoon?”
I didn’t really want to go off on an expedition with Joan; I doubted that I had the calluses to survive her. “That does sound rather a fun thing, but the car went off to pick up Ruth and Lucy.”
“No matter, we have more cars!” she said sarcastically.
Slipping through the French doors of the library, Joan led me to the little car park beside a long carriage house. A dark red automobile glistened in the late afternoon sunshine.
“It’s a two-seater,” I remarked, concerned.
“It’s an Amilcar, French, quite fast,” she told me as she ran a gloved finger on the radiator cap that was fashioned to look like Pegasus.
Small, with a spare tire mounted to the front of the body just between the drive and the front tire, the thing looked rather dangerous.
“Get in,” Joan ordered me.
“You drive?” I asked, as I followed her command.
“Of course! You don’t?” she said, very pleased with herself.
“No, we’ve always relied on the driver.” I tried to picture my father making his way to the hospital operating his own dark blue Packard. Father was always preoccupied, with what I never knew.
Joan scoffed and said, “I don’t see Viviane being the motoring sort, but you should take it up; it’s a ripping good time!” and with that said, she gave the gear shift a jerk and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
Joan drove like a madwoman. I had to pull my hat tight to my head or it would have whipped out of the topless flash of red metal screeching over the ribbon of black road.
She pointed at the gas pedal, the clutch, and the gear shifter, and kept repeating, “It’s all really easy,” after explaining how each item functioned.
Approaching town, we passed Ruth and Lucy coming from the opposite direction. Lucy and I waved at each other, and I dare say we shared the same pinched smile.
We abandoned the Amilcar in a car park, and with wobbly legs, I followed Joan just down the street to the public house.
She pushed open the door and said, “Here we are.”
From the bright light of day, we crossed over to a shadowy den. Smoke hung in the air, clinging to the smell of spilled beer.
A dumpy man leaned against a counter, preaching to a few parishioners. He eyed us suspiciously and then bellowed out, “Mrs. Joan, is that you?”
She called out that it was her, and then asked me what I wanted to drink.
“A glass of sherry would be nice.”
She called back to the tavern keeper an order of two pale ales, and then, to me, she said, “You don’t have to be all prim and proper with me.”
The two beers were delivered to our table, and the proprietor remarked, “We certainly miss seeing you around here.”
She cast me an awkward glance and said, “As they say, it has been a dry spring.”
The man gave a little laugh and teetered back to those sitting belly to the bar. Joan looked the three men and two women over.
/> “Not much of interest about them.” She leaned very close to my ear. “The little shrew with a scab for a face, she had an abortion.”
I almost spit out my mouthful of tangy beer.
Joan’s speech was quite slurred before she ran out of gossip about the uninteresting company, who had long ago realized that she was discussing them.
When I suggested we depart, she demanded another drink. I paid the bill with the delivery of what would be her final one more.
As she drained the last of the swill, Joan looked into my eyes and said, “I envy you.”
This I knew; she was greedy, and I was well provided for. She was also at that age when beautiful women become fearful of their good looks, and I was just blossoming, no longer a girl but a young woman.
What response might I make? All I could do was arch my brow and stare back at her.
“I wish my Randolph had died in the war, and then it would be me who was the pitied widow.”
This was not the mean-spirited comment that I had anticipated. I rather wished to reach out and slap her. I would have traded all of the Stayton family fortune, and every moment of my youth, to have Xavier alive and well.
Finally taking charge, I stood and barked out in imitation of Joan’s voice, “It is well past time that we leave.”
It was a rough start, but I got the French motorcar off and moving. As the thing jerked and hiccupped, Joan laughed wildly.
Once on the country road leading back to Pearce Manor, the intoxicated woman belched before telling me, “You should get your own automobile.”
I ignored her, as she deserved to be ignored. The fact was, I had my own car, or rather, I still had Xavier’s. It was a handsome German roadster. From time to time, Mr. Jack would take it from the garage and drive me about in it.
Not sure which of the three gears was the correct one to use as I slowed the automobile down, we coasted along the flat driveway to the car park before the carriage house.
Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Page 5
