Bridesmaids Revisited (23 page)

“That’s good. But can’t be expected you’re having a pleasant time of it, not with what happened to Ted.” Tom grimaced. “And there was me saying only yesterday as it wouldn’t be long before someone did away with the miserable bugger. Then look what happens! He does the job himself. There’s none I knows that will shed many tears for him, not even the crocodile sort. But Edna’s different. We all feel sorry for her. I was glad I was able to be with her at the hospital till she got word, and bring her back afterwards. Just as well you didn’t see him, a right bloody mess he was. Gave me the nightmare it did. Don’t know how those doctors deal with sights like that day in and day out. Didn’t take long with Ted, that’s one thing; gone before he got there, is what I gather.” Tom turned the key in the ignition and drove on. “Sorry to have to stop like that, Mrs. Haskell, but I’ve got this new house on my route and couldn’t remember if it was number nineteen or twenty-nine. Ah, here we are.”

He pulled up, bounded out of the van, retreated around the back and reemerged a moment or so later with a white paper-wrapped parcel in one hand. “I’ll just pop this into the customer’s place and I’ll be back to take you to Upper Thaxstead. Won’t take more than ten minutes to get you there. Glad to do it even if there hadn’t been that business yesterday.”

It’s amazing how quickly one can become extremely fond of a man when it becomes clear he isn’t about to murder one’s favorite self. When we continued on our way to Upper Thaxstead he asked me if Amelia Chambers had shown up yesterday.

“Yes, latish in the afternoon.”

“How did the old ladies stand up to her?”

“They refused to come to terms. I believe they’re hoping for another meeting in London with Sir Clifford.”

“Got to give Miss Maywood credit for fighting every inch of the way. Not that it’ll probably do any good. Now”—Tom slowed the car down—“where’s this house I’m taking you to?”

I told him. And after proceeding on for a hundred yards he parked outside the Fiddlers’ residence. “A pleasure,” he said shaking my hand, “and if there’s ever anything I can do, anything at all, to help you out by way of making up for yesterday, you’ve only got to say the word.”

“Actually there is something.”

“Good!”

“It’s going to sound a bit peculiar,” I looked at the self-important-looking house with its plethora of chimney pots. On the way here it had come to me with a return of the prickling fear that had assailed me in the High Street that it might not be such a wise idea to take the box containing the diary, along with the photograph, into Edna’s cousin’s home. It was no use telling myself that I was being stupidly panicky. I told myself it was unlikely, but I wasn’t about to place Mrs. Malloy and the Fiddlers in danger if the penny dropped as to where I had left the diary. I’d just have to wait to read it until I was somewhere safe.

“Out with it, love,” Tom prodded.

“Would you be willing to keep this for me?” I held out the box. “And put it away until I can take it back, which could be tomorrow? I know you must think I’m nuts not wanting to take it back with me to the Old Rectory, and the thing is, I can’t explain.” My voice petered out.

Tom’s face unexpectedly brightened. “You don’t have to. I can guess. It’s got something to do with this business of Sir Clifford wanting to turn Knells into one of his damn Memory Lanes holiday camps. Some papers or documents that the old ladies have dug up that’ll keep Miss Maywood from having to sell him the Old Rectory. And you’re afraid that if you take it there he’ll send those goons of his down to ransack the place before they’re ready to show it to him.”

Whatever I had thought of Amelia Chambers, I wouldn’t have categorized her as a goon, but Tom was well away.

“I expect Miss Maywood wants her solicitor to take a look at this.” He tapped the box. “Just to be sure she’s on firm ground. Don’t worry, I won’t look inside, you have my word on it. I won’t even breathe a word to the wife, let alone anyone else. Can’t risk one wagging tongue, and human nature being what it is, that’s what would happen. People would start walking around Knells looking all cheerful and optimistic and the game would be up. I’ll hide it somewhere the devil himself wouldn’t think to look. You can bank on that, love.”

Looking like a man who has just won the heavyweight championship of the world, Tom drove off and I went up the path to the Fiddlers’ front door wondering if I had just made the worst mistake of my life. Ten minutes ago, I’d been afraid he was going to murder me, now I had entrusted him with my life. But I had to put my faith in someone, didn’t I? And who better than a virtual stranger?

Gwen opened the door before the bell had stopped ringing. She stepped aside and beckoned me into the oppressively overdecorated hall with its portrait of the first Mrs. Fiddler staring myopically down from the wall. Gwen didn’t look too pleased to see me. But I decided she wouldn’t have been thrilled even had I been one of her Cambridge-educated stepchildren. I doubted that this unsmiling woman with a platinum topknot, wearing tighter black pants and an even skimpier sweater than when I had seen her yesterday, would have noticed had I come in carrying the box. She probably would not have noticed had I brought in John the Baptist’s head on a silver platter, except to remark that she had a server just like it, except that hers was an antique.

“How nice of you to come by.” Her lips stretched into a flamingo-pink smile, but she simply wasn’t up to gushing. “Dear Roxie will be so pleased to see you, Ellie. You did say I could call you that? As you must know, we’ve had my cousin Edna overnight.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And it hasn’t been easy—not that I’m complaining—she’s suffered a loss. These things happen; they can’t be helped. But she was in such a state I had to have her in bed with me all night, which meant turning poor Fiddler out. And he hates sleeping in any of the guest rooms. I kept stressing that he was welcome to choose any one of the six that he liked. Except the blue one, because I really can’t have that bedspread rumpled. It’s velvet and has to go to the cleaners. And of course he couldn’t sleep in the rose room because that’s where I’d put dear Roxie.”

“Life does get difficult,” I said.

Gwen pressed a hand to her brow and I watched her grow skinnier and more wan with every breath she drew. “The whole thing has me stressed to the point where I can’t put my mind to getting a three-course lunch on the table.” She swayed on her high heels. “We’ll just have to make do with a madras lamb curry and saffron rice followed by a fresh fruit salad and perhaps some of the Florentine biscuits I get at Harrods.”

“Please don’t think I came expecting to be invited for lunch.” I followed her past one hideous monstrosity of furniture after another down the hall.

“Oh, that is good of you, Ellie. Because I’m just not up to laying another place. I felt exhausted spreading the Irish linen cloth on the dining-room table. Fiddler had to take over for me.”

“Perhaps you can have a nap this afternoon,” I suggested. “And what about Edna. How is she doing today?”

“Still talking about how wonderful Ted was. But it’s early days yet.” Gwen turned the knob on the drawing-room door and pushed it open. “Perhaps by tomorrow she’ll remember what a truly horrible man he was, and what a pity it was that she didn’t marry one of her other boyfriends. I remember there was a young man named Frank that Edna was rather keen on; she was quite upset when he got engaged to someone else. I can’t say if Edna was married to Ted then or not. It was before I moved here and we didn’t write all that often. But she mentioned quite recently that he’s now a widower. So who knows? Love can bloom at any age, so they say. Now you won’t mind if I don’t come in with you, Ellie? I just have to have a few moments to myself, now that Edna’s gone.”

“Back to her own house?” I asked.

“No, to the Old Rectory. She left for the bus about ten minutes ago, so if she isn’t there yet she soon will be. Whatever else she isn’t, Edna’s a good reliable worker.” On these words Gwen vanished like a black moth and I found myself in the drawing room where Mrs. Malloy sat hunched in the chair where she had sat yesterday, her feet on the footstool, her hands folded in her lap.

“Hello,” I said, crossing the carpet to sit down opposite her.

“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. H.” She raised her head and I saw purple shadows under her eyes that matched the powdered ones on her upper lids. “It’s good of you to take the time to come and visit me. I feel like one of those sad little old ladies dropped off at a nursing home when they’re told they’re being taken shopping.”

She could keep right on talking in that lachrymose voice but it wouldn’t alter the fact that I was glad to see her. I felt stronger in the face of her disapproval, more ready to do battle with the forces of evil.

“Rubbish,” I told her, “you seemed quite happy when I left yesterday. You had Barney Fiddler fawning all over you and Gwen about to serve you a scrumptious lunch. But let’s forget them for the moment. I’ve come to tell you that Leonard showed up at the Old Rectory last night and he took some getting rid of. I couldn’t quite convince him that I wasn’t hiding you under my bed upstairs or in the jam cupboard.”

“Is there one?” she inquired listlessly.

“One what?”

“A jam cupboard.”

“I don’t know, it was just a figure of speech.” I was beginning to feel just the least bit exasperated, which was a good thing, much better than allowing my thoughts to take dark turns down tortuous paths.

“And which Leonard are we talking about?”

“Leonard Skinner. Your Leonard. The one who went out to buy the pound and a half of stewing steak and didn’t come back until now.”

“Oh, that one, Mrs. H.” The annoying woman rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. “It’s hard to think about mundane things like husbands when you’re living in a house filled with terrible secrets.”

After all I’d gone through in the space of the twenty-four hours since we had last seen each other, I was now rapidly losing patience. “What secrets, Mrs. Malloy? Does Barney Fiddler wear Gwen’s nighties to bed?”

“I can’t say, I’m sure,” she replied primly, “but I wish he’d think about wearing socks. I don’t know as when I’ve felt anything as cold on my back as his feet when he got into bed with me last night.”

“He did what?”

“Well, he couldn’t sleep with Gwen because she had that cousin Edna in with her. A sad time that woman’s had from the sound of it.” Mrs. M. roused herself to appear moderately sympathetic. “Pruning shears! Imagine having to read that on your hubby’s death certificate. Doesn’t sound nearly as nice as pneumonia, does it? Heart failure’s good, too. Always sounds to me like an admission of product liability and that there’ll be a rebate coming in the post.”

“What did you do when Barney Fiddler got into bed with you?” I had never before used that stern a voice with her.

“I told him if he kept his feet on me like that I’d end up with lumbago.”

“Then? This is your dear friend’s husband we’re talking about.”

“Then I picked up the clock radio and told him I’d smash it over his head if he didn’t bugger off.”

“Exactly right, Mrs. Malloy!” My breathing slowed. “Did he depart immediately with his tail between his legs?”

“No need to be vulgar, Mrs. H.” She was back to being prim. “I didn’t take so much as a peek. Once he was out the door I got up and locked it. But as soon as that was done I felt trapped inside that room with roses climbing all over the wallpaper like they’d been fed too much plant food. A prey,” she added in hollow accents, “to me terrible thoughts.”

“You would have liked Barney to make love to you?” I stopped picturing myself pinning medals to her black taffeta front.

“Not likely!” She shuddered, and in doing so came fully back to life. “Of course I can’t say for certain, Mrs. H., that he was in it with Gwen in murdering his first wife. But if he’s daft enough to have the wool pulled over his eyes, then he’s guilty in my court of law.”

“Hold on a minute,” I said, squeezing out a word at a time. “I know that you hate to be left out of things. Somehow you’ve managed to feel slighted that you weren’t at the Old Rectory when Ted met his end and you’ve worked it out in your mind that it wasn’t an accident, which means it had to be murder. And because” —I was making a great effort to keep my voice down—“I don’t get to have a murder if you don’t have one, you are making up this nonsense about a woman who was an invalid for years.”

“All the more reason to get rid of her.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say!”

“I’m speaking from the point of view of Gwen.” Mrs. Malloy was way up on her high horse. “She could tell herself the first Mrs. Fiddler was suffering, that the poor soul couldn’t be a wife to her husband or a mother to her dear little children, and was aching for someone to put something in her bedtime milky drink, and make her go night-night forever.”

This was not funny. Especially when I pictured myself unsuspectingly drinking last night’s cocoa. What I also saw was that Mrs. Malloy, for all her dramatizing, was in earnest.

Unfair, I thought. I’d just found out that my mother had in all probability been murdered, as had Ted. And that Richard Barttle and Arthur Henshaw were seriously concerned that I wasn’t long for this world. Now any desire I had to share my troubles with Mrs. Malloy vanished.

“What makes you so sure that Gwen killed the first wife?” I asked.

“She told me so.”

“What?” I gaped at her, not one of my more attractive expressions, but this was no time to worry about how I looked.

“Well, not in precise words,” Mrs. Malloy conceded, “but close enough so there was no mistaking what she was getting at.”

Pressing a finger to her lips, she rose onto her stiletto heels, took a look though the archway into the formidably overfurnished dining room, put an ear to the drawing-room door, and returned to her chair. “It was like this, you see. Gwen and I was sitting in here talking while Barney was off in what they call the parlor watching the telly—dirty movies is my guess, but the point is, he was out of the way. It was round about nine in the evening, not late, as you might say, but before that cousin Edna arrived. God rest her husband’s miserable soul! And it was right after getting the phone call that Gwen came over all queer and quiet like.”