Femmes Fatal (31 page)

“Please don’t cry,” I begged. Absolutely useless. I might as well have pleaded with a bat to stop batting its wings. We sat in the pew immediately outside the confessional, taking great gulps of stale air that tasted as if it had been there since the eleventh century. High on their pedestals, cloaked in shadow, the stone saints waited breathlessly for something new in revelations.

“Miss Thorn?”

“Yes?” The soggy handkerchief was lowered an inch and the mushroom eyes met mine. Flinchingly.

“You’re really you?” I couldn’t go on. My tongue had turned to dust and ashes.

“Who else?”

“But you’re dead!”

“Oh, dearie me, no!” The tittering laugh almost sent me over the edge of the pew. “You must be confusing me with my sister Gladys.”

“You mean …?” I had to hold on to my head to keep it from flying off.

“I am Gladiola Thorn.”

“Her twin?”

“Actually”—the tip of her red nose twitched with pride—“we are … 
were
 … triplets.”

“Three of you! All identical?”

“Not exactly. There was Gladys, myself, and our brother Gladstone, with whom I believe you are currently acquainted.”

“I—”

She didn’t give me room to finish. “Gladys and I … if you will pardon my mentioning so delicate a subject … we were hatched, so to speak, from the same egg—making us identical twins. But all similarity ended with our looks. In the days of our girlhood I was the wild one, breaking with the C. of E. to join the Methodists.”

“I remember Gladys mentioning … So it was
you
Mrs. Melrose saw entering Unity Methodist—providing the vicar with an excuse to give your sister the push.”

The new Miss Thorn stared through me into the past. “My parents disowned me and I regret to say I quite relished being the black sheep until that distinction was wrenched from me by Gladys taking up a life of … slime. One man after another. There was no keeping count—except of the price paid by dear brother Gladstone. His anguish was terrible to behold. He had, at the time Gladys’s lifestyle came to light, begun paying his addresses to Eudora. Could there be any doubt that a woman bent on entering the Church would spurn his proposal of marriage if she found out about Gladys? My poor brother! He came knocking on my door one day, and never a word about my harbouring Wesleyan sympathies. He begged for advice and I gave it.”

“You told him to change his name to Spike?”

“It was the closest we could come to Thorn. And men are the sentimental sex, so I have been told. I personally know nothing of them—in the biblical sense. Unlike my sister, may her soul … not burn in hell … I am entitled to be addressed by that noblest of titles: Miss.” Noble words that seemed destined to end in a flourish of heavenly music. Which indeed proved the case. From somewhere in the musty swirls high above our heads came the discordant
plonk, plonk
of organ keys.

“Oh, my God!” Miss Gladiola Thorn dropped to her knees, hands clenched in prayer, making it clear that far from blaspheming, she was paying her respectful addresses. I would have liked to have done the same, just on the off chance; but I had this nagging suspicion that we might be contending with God’s creation. Not the Almighty Himself—pardon me, Fully Females—Herself.

“Miss Thorn,” I said, tugging at her arm, “I think we should get out of here on the double.”

“But Mrs.—Oh dear, I never asked your name?”

“Ellie Haskell.”

“And you are suggesting?”

“That we have an intruder in the dusk.”

“Then I’m doomed!” Miss Thorn’s squeal blew her hanky out of her hand. “This can only mean that Gladys’s murderer is after me, too!”

“Shush!” I took her hand and we tiptoed into the aisle.

“Do you really think—”

“Without a shadow of doubt.”

She stumbled over my feet. “Gladys was healthy as a horse, apart from the occasional”—her voice descended into a whisper—“constipation, which she brought on herself by refusing to take her syrup of figs as a child.
I was always the delicate one. Forever at the doctor’s. Surely you remember seeing me at Dr. Melrose’s office the other day. I noticed you because of the babies.”

“So that explains why you passed me without saying hello!” Ridiculous as it sounds, the conversation had become so fascinating that I stopped midaisle, momentarily forgetting that the object of the exercise was to escape the clutches of the Ill Wisher Above. Gladiola rammed me from the rear, booting me into the pew across the way, and I made a grab to save myself, with the result that a stack of hymnals fell to the floor. O Merciful Father, save us! The noise that went shuddering every which way was worse than the walls of Jericho tumbling down. I was having trouble breathing—let alone moving—when a voice boomed out of the twilit upper regions.

“What the bloody hell’s going on down there?”

Gladiola Thorn got ready to swoon, but I blocked the path to the floor. Unless my ears deceived me, there was no need for histrionics.

“Come on, out with it! Why all the bloody rambunction?”

“Mrs. Malloy?” By straining my neck and cupping a hand over my eyes, I was able to make out someone, who could have been my household employee, leaning out from the choir loft.

“Well, who else would it be? I come in here to do me good deed for the day buffing up the place, not asking for pay, just a bit of peace and quiet, and what do I get? All this argy-bargy! It’s enough to make me throw in me duster! Really it is!” Whether she suited the action to the words or whether the polishing cloth took a leap of faith, I have no idea. It came fluttering down, causing Gladiola to cower to her knees and hug the edge of the pew.

“Mrs. Malloy, it’s me, Ellie Haskell!”

“I know that, Mrs. H.” Heavy footsteps. “I may be blind as a bat up here, but I’m not deaf nor ever was.”

“So silly of me! I should have guessed someone was working here when I found the church door open and some of the lights on. But never mind the confusion …” Stepping around Gladiola, I saw the familiar figure break through the gloom. “I’m just so glad to see you, Mrs. Malloy. After last night with what happened at the Wisemans’ party, I’ve been a little jittery and when I couldn’t get in touch with you …”

Unlike Mrs. Malloy to let me rattle on this way! Perhaps it was the sanctified atmosphere that kept her mum. But her face spoke volumes. I saw her mouth sag open. I saw her eyebrows vanish into her hair. But it wasn’t until she slowly lifted her arm and pointed a shaking finger that I realized she was looking over my shoulder at Gladiola Thorn, who had risen up behind me.

“It’s all right,” I cried. “It’s not what—
who
—you think.” But Mrs. M wasn’t listening. She plunged forward and would have ended up like her duster, a crumpled heap on the floor, but luckily … 
grunt, grunt
 … I managed to catch hold of her in the nick of time.

“Oh, deary me!” Miss Thorn clutched at my arm, nearly bringing all of us down. “If only she had given me a moment to introduce myself. I could have explained that I only came to these parts to be near my brother in his hour of need. And I would never have darkened the doors of this church had it not seemed the proper place to bid my sinful sister adieu.”

“Could we discuss this later?” I gasped. “If you will help me settle Mrs. Malloy in this pew … That’s the ticket. I will fetch some water from the font. Surely there’s a dispensation for works of mercy. After we bring
her round, perhaps you would help me get her out to my car. Hush there, Mrs. Malloy!” She had opened a terrified eye a crack. “I’m taking you home with me for the night.”

The Windows of Merlin’s Court were blurred with morning mist, or maybe they only looked that way because my eyes were blurred with tears. I had been asleep—well, almost—when Ben had arrived home the night before. But now we faced each other across the bedroom and I was saying things I didn’t want to say, stiff words poked into awkward sentences that turned him speechless.

“Please!” I cried, when I couldn’t stand the silence hanging over my head like a sword any longer. “Don’t just stand there! Tell me you understand.”

“But I don’t!” He paced the hearth rug, head down. “You’re asking me to leave …”

“Not for always!”

“Ellie, this isn’t the way to solve a disagreement.”

“But this isn’t all about Fully Female.” I was clinging to the bedpost as if it were the mast of a sinking ship. “It’s about my needing a day or two alone. There’s never any time just for
me
. Not since the babies came along, and I need time—now, today. I want you to take Abbey and Tam to visit your parents. You know how your mother’s been on and on about seeing her grandchildren. Give her this treat. She’ll love you for it and so will I.”

“There’s more to this—”

“You’re wrong!” Fingers crossed behind my back.

“It would be difficult for me to leave Abigail’s at a moment’s notice.”

“Where there’s a will!”

“I suppose,” Ben said as he rubbed his harried brow, “Freddy could squeeze by for a couple of days.”

“You’re not thinking,” I said. “You’ll have to take Freddy along. You couldn’t possibly drive up to London with the twins without a backup. They’re bound to get fussy at times and you might have to stop en route to feed or change them.”

“So who runs Abigail’s?”

“I’m sure the staff would pull together.”

“You make this whole business sound simplicity itself.”

Then I was more of an actress than I knew. Mustn’t spoil things by letting Ben see the tears in my eyes. Ridding the house of my adored family was a horrible task. But it had to be done. For their sakes. A sense of unreality took over as I went along to the nursery and packed up the babies’ supplies while Ben got them dressed and ready to go. Freddy, true to form, put up no resistance to being practically kidnapped. The way he looked at things, Ben would be
his
captive audience for several hours. And I had high hopes that his reading from
Norsemen of the Gods
would lull the babies to sleep and keep them that way till journey’s end.

At a little before nine o’clock I stood in the courtyard waving the little party bon voyage.

“Ellie …” Ben stuck his head out the car window for the third time.

“Go!” I whispered. And because I wanted to make things easier for both of us, I turned and walked toward the house. When I looked back just before going inside, the gravel drive was empty and what I thought was the distant throb of the engine might have been the sea. Heading up the stairs I heard the
plip plop
of raindrops on the windows. But my face was dry. I’d got so chilled out there that maybe I would have to thaw out a bit
before I could cry. Besides, there was still one person remaining in this house whose feelings had to be considered: Mrs. Malloy. She had suffered a great shock last night and did not need to be awakened by the face of gloom and doom.

I knocked on her door. “Good morning!”

“Enter!”

Well, that sounded perky enough! I walked in to find her dressed in the black taffeta frock with the jet beading which she had worn last night. Every hair and beauty spot was in place.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. H, I wasn’t forced to wear my knickers inside out. I found a pair of men’s underpants in one of the drawers. Good wool ones, and not a sign of moth.”

“Splendid.”

“No need to go patting yourself on the back.” She bustled over to the bed with a pile of woolies. “I was never more shocked in my life. Haven’t you heard of mothballs?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Malloy, I’m forever letting you down.”

“Bloody hell!” She dropped the woolies on the bed in a slow-motion bounce that would have done credit to a fabric softener advert. “What’s wrong with you, my girl?”

“Well …” I sat down on the bed and began pleating my skirt. “I’ve been feeling a bit hemmed in lately. The upshot being that Ben just left with Freddy and the twins to visit my in-laws for a couple of days and …”

Mrs. Malloy lowered her neon lids and smacked her butterfly lips. “There’s more here, ducky, than meets the ear. My guess, Mrs. H, is that you wanted the coast clear because you’re cooking up some scheme to catch Miss Thorn’s murderer.”

Springing up from the bed, I cried, “What choice do I have? It wouldn’t be right to leave such a person
on the loose. He or she might strike again. In keeping quiet to protect Bunty, I prevented the police from doing their job.”

“And you have to bloody do it for them?” To my amazement, Mrs. Malloy looked close to tears.

“I don’t see I have a choice.”

“Very well, Sherlock,” she said resolutely, her shoulders back, her chest out, “just call me Watson.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mrs. H, I don’t do ceilings, I don’t do drains, and I don’t walk out on a friend who needs me. Now”—she marched me by the elbow to the bed—“tell me The Plan.”

I sighed. But experience had taught me there was no sense in arguing with her. “As simple as ABC, really. Last night at Miss Thorn’s prayer service I made a public confession. I said before running out of the chapel that I was guilty of keeping silent about a murder. Of course the villain may not have been present, but Chitterton Fells is such a small place that things get buzzed about in a hurry. And I am counting on the murderer acting quickly to silence me. That’s why I had to get Ben and the babies out of the house. I couldn’t take risks with their safety, and really, Mrs. Malloy, I would feel lighter of heart with you gone, too.”

“Never heard such twaddle! You subdue this murderer?” she said, choking on the words. “All on your lonesome?”

“Certainly!” I sat up taller on the bed. “I have your gun. Lionel Wiseman gave it back to me after I mislaid it at his house and it’s … let me think … still in my raincoat pocket.”

“Have to hand it to you, Mrs. H, you’re brimming over with competence.”

A put-down to be ignored. “My plan is to produce my trusty weapon, hold the Evil One at bay while I
telephone the police. By the way, the gun
is
loaded, isn’t it?”

“There you have me.” Mrs. Malloy looked quite crestfallen, and I hastened to assure her that it didn’t matter a whit. I wouldn’t be called upon to fire the thing, just brandish it about and look as though I knew one end from t’other.