The Widow's Club (45 page)

Reggie shoved the cigarette to one side of his mouth and spat out the window. “Me, I was all for torching the shop but Dad said if I did, we was through. The arcade boys would smell a rat and call the whole deal off. It was me, the numbskull, who could see what he couldn’t, that it didn’t do no good threatening old man Haskell himself. The way to get to him was through his old lady. So I starts hanging about, watching you, letting him know that if he didn’t sign on the dotted line his missus was like to disappear.”

I stared straight ahead. “She disappeared all right, but at Mr. Haskell’s instigation. You dithered too long, Mr. Patterson. My guess is that for all your brave talk, you were afraid of Paris, the Magnificent, afraid that he might step on you and not notice.”

“No, I ain’t.” Reggie’s eyes disappeared between lash-less folds. “And I ain’t afraid of no dogs.” A scowl slid over his face like slime. “I just don’t like the way they bark and set up the alarm. And in that buggering big house of yours, someone could creep up behind me and I’d have wasted me time.”

I felt better but I was worried about Ben. I had to stay alive. I must take care of him. Keep Reggie talking. Try to get him to see the futility of his schemes. We were approaching The Aviary; there was the low buff wall, the gate,
and the arthritic tree with its crippled branches supporting a huge bird’s nest. But no sign of Mr. Digby.

“I suppose,” I said to Reggie, “your plan is to detain us until my father-in-law agrees to sell his shop to you and your father. But where does that really get you? The minute we are free he can cancel the agreement and stroll down to the police station.”

Reggie turned a blackened smile on me. “No, he won’t. Not if he’s given his bleedin’ word not to. Ain’t it known from Crown Street to Buckingham Palace”—he flicked more ash at Magdalene—“that old man Haskell never breaks his word, not even if it breaks his heart?”

We were coming to a stretch of road I hadn’t travelled before. The lighthouse rose up from a serene sea, the wind dropped. What better place to keep us prisoner than in a disused lighthouse? “Magdalene,” I said brightly, “how long have you known, fully, what was going on?”

She sighed. “I suppose I’m not as quick as some. When I first came down here and saw Sid, I wondered if he might be the one, out to even some old grudge. I didn’t figure out the truth until the night of the party at the restaurant. I don’t suppose you remember, Giselle, but I was looking out the window, and I saw Reggie across the road under a streetlight, staring his weasel stare, and suddenly all was made plain.”

The Raincoat Man tossed his cigarette overboard and scratched at his greasy sideburns with the muzzle of his gun. “I was halfway up the stairs of the bloody restaurant when two waiters chucked me out, the sods, otherwise I would have nabbed you that night.”

“You wouldn’t,” snapped Magdalene. “I had my watchdog with me.” She tapped me on the shoulder and Heinz’s bumpers grazed against a jut of rock in rounding a curve. “Giselle, I know you won’t understand why I didn’t tell Eli how I’d finally seen through his pretense of being keen on Mrs. Jarrod. But after him being so strong and splendid in driving me away to the safety of the convent, I wanted him to go on thinking he’d spared me.”

“I do understand completely,” I said.

“What I don’t understand is how I could have been so simple as to believe that he and Mrs. Jarrod were … you know.”

“You mean because she was taller than he?”

“That, and Eli doesn’t like pickled herring.”

“What is this?” sneered the Raincoat Man. “Schoolgirl confessions?”

We ignored him. Magdalene sighed. “Just to make sure I wasn’t going peculiar in my old age, I wrote to Paris and asked him to tell me, was I right—was I wrong? I got a letter back saying that Eli had decided to face up to the inevitable. Sometime this idiot was bound to get up his courage and kidnap me. So, best to get it all over and done with. Eli would pay the ransom, get me back, and then go to the police. They couldn’t talk about idle threats then, could they?”

“Yeah! Well, the brain here outthought your old man.”

I took another curve. The letter that, according to Roxie, had come for Magdalene from abroad must have been the one from Paris. Ben started to snore, which comforted me; the sound was noisily healthy. The same could not be said of Heinz’s emanations.

Reggie’s hateful currant eyes turned toward me. His dirty fingernails grabbed at my sleeve. “Why are you slowing down?”

“I have the thing floored,” I pacified. The purr was still nice and even, but sleepy. We were coming to an elbow of land directly in line with the lighthouse. The Heinz slid a few more yards, then stopped. I gripped the steering wheel. “Sorry, Reggie, this is as far as we go. Something must have died.”

“Something is going to die, sister, if you don’t think again.” His voice came silky quiet as his fingers closed around my knot of hair.

“You wouldn’t kill us. You’d lose your bargaining edge.”

“I could kill one of you.”

“And then the arcade boys might decide not to do business with you.” A gull winged it overhead. The scent of hawthorn on the grassy incline to our left and the distant swish of the waves made the place cruelly peaceful.

“Giselle, far be it from me to interfere,” came Magdalene’s plaintive voice, “but I think, for the sake of my son, you might start the car.”

“Spoken like a first-rate mum.” Reggie licked his scaly lips. “Benny boy mightn’t love his wifey anymore if her nose came out the back of her head.”

I explained and continued to explain until the message sank in that the car, not I, was the one playing games. Reggie sat picking his teeth and thinking, something clearly at which he wasn’t too handy. At last he snarled, “You two out. Benny stays where he is.”

To be preyed upon by wild dogs and the elements? Now I had to stall. “What are we supposed to do—thumb a lift?” The last words came out in jerks. I was half out of the car. Reggie and Magdalene were already in the road and I was hearing the loveliest sound on God’s earth. And, what was more, a sound that was endearingly familiar. Creeping toward us was the hearse. I recognized Butler, who was driving, but the other two occupants were strangers. Both wore leather riding helmets and goggles, but then I saw a flutter of lavender shawl and a beaded carpet bag being flagged out the window. Spitting fury, Reggie waved the hearse on. Perhaps he had forgotten the gun in his hand.

The hearse stopped. Nipping out of the vehicle, Butler glided around to open the other door, but Primrose was already trotting toward us, the ends of her shawl blowing in the breeze. “Ellie, my dear! Hyacinth and I are out on a scenic drive. How very pleasant encountering you! Surely this must be your mother-in-law, of whom we have heard
so
much. Have you also stopped to admire the view?” Primrose peered into the Heinz. “Why, poor Mr. Haskell! Carsick I see.” Deliberately, she looked at Reggie and the gun. “Young man, were you never told it is rude to point?”

Snickering, Reggie chucked Primrose playfully under the chin with the gun. “Hey, old girl, was you born when brains was rationed?” He sucked in a fetid breath. “You got a choice. Get back in the death wagon with the other ugly sister, or come for a little walk and spend a naughty weekend with me. Only it won’t be just the two of us, sweetheart, I’ll have me other prisoners along.”

Butler amazed me. He stood immobile in front of the hearse, his eyes fixed on the puffy little clouds, his expression one of mild amusement. It was Hyacinth in a Sherlock Holmes cape who now whapped past Magdalene, me, and Ben, still mercifully prone and oblivious in the back seat.

“How dare you!” She swept her sister aside and fixed her goggles on Reggie. “How
dare
you address my sister
as sweetheart! I demand satisfaction, sir! And choice of weapons.”

Her arm swung out in an arc, her hand cracked Reggie on the chops, her elbow caught the gun, sending it spinning over the cliff edge. It was probably imagination overload, but I swore I heard a small gulp from the sea.

From the Files of
The Widows Club

Saturday, 16th May

The Whist and Crocheting Groups both cancelled meetings on the evening of the above date, on account of several members not feeling up to light-hearted socialising as a result of the immensely disappointing cookery demonstration in the church hall. When it next meets, the Board will consider whether to withdraw our annual contribution to the Policeman’s Benevolent Fund. It will also discuss whether the club feels it would be immoral to serve the recipe provided by Mr. Bentley Haskell at the Midsummer Potluck.

Also to be discussed at the next Board Meeting—1st June—is the matter of membership badges lost or misplaced by owners. Suggestions for penalties for this infraction will be voiced. In the past, offenders have been banned from participating in trips for a three-month period, but with the rising cost of badges, it is felt that this censure is insufficient.

“I always hoped I would get to meet the Raincoat Man.” Primrose pushed her goggles up on her forehead as, with cowardice aforethought, Reggie decided against taking on four women bare-handed. Away he went, slithering over brambles and boulders to the flat land above the road, hurling down stones and threats.

“I ain’t done for! I’ll be back!”

“I shall pray for you,” Magdalene called after him triumphantly. I would have cheered for her if my throat hadn’t squeezed shut.

Butler coughed deferentially. “A very small world this is, madams. That cove … person is none other than Reggie Patterson; he and I were partners once upon a time in a pickpocketing h’enterprise.”

“Really, Butler, you should be ashamed,” reproved Hyacinth.

“Agreed, madam. I should have known better than to work with someone so incompetent.” Butler flexed his fingers. “I’ll see to your car, Mrs. Haskell. There’s nothing I can’t start, not h’even if the motor’s missing.”

“Where the hell am I?” came a drowsy growl from the back seat. It began to rain, a few drops at first, then a gauzy blur, like curtains blowing at the window. The Tramwells were talking to Magdalene, their exclamations of concern laced with professional excitement. Finally, the full horror of the afternoon’s events clobbered me. I took Ben’s hand, glad he couldn’t see my face clearly. “We’re on our way
home, darling. There was a little accident with the pressure cooker.”

Strangely, he looked more pleased than not. “Really! Well, you know what I think of those things. I’ve been having the most awful dreams, fraught with menace. I dreamed I was dying.”

“You’ll live,” I promised fervently.

I was alone in the drawing room. Magdalene had led the Tramwells to the bathroom so they could freshen up. Butler was in the kitchen. And Poppa was with his son. Ben had insisted he was fine. His face and hands were only slightly reddened and sore from the steam, and his headache was negligible. Poppa had gone the colour of putty when he learned about the pressure cooker, and although he quickly rallied, saying that a mishap of that nature was preferable to rotten eggs being thrown by the audience, it wasn’t hard to persuade him to take a little rest himself and keep his son company.

The women were back.

“Yes, Giselle does have everything nice and clean; my son won’t have it any other way.” As I got up from the sofa, Magdalene paused behind me and whispered, “These are your friends and this is your house, but you won’t encourage them to stay long, will you?”

Both sisters heard, but gave no sign of taking offence. As we settled ourselves, Butler entered with a loaded tea tray.

“I can highly recommend the cherry cake,” he informed the Tramwells. “Should anything further be required, kindly knock on the wall with the poker—this h’establishment lacks a bell.”

As he padded from the room, Hyacinth adjusted her chair and drew out the familiar green notebook. “Where”—she flexed an orange-lipped smile—“do we begin?”

I handed out cups of tea. “Magdalene, the Misses Tramwell are private detectives. I want you to tell them about the Pattersons, after which they will have something to tell you.”

Abigail watched from her portrait.

“My dear Ellie.” Primrose clinked her teaspoon into her saucer. “Naturally, Flowers Detection will be delighted to do everything possible to assist Mrs. Elijah Haskell
against the forces of evil; indeed, we regret that more pressing matters placed the Raincoat Man low on Butler’s job list. As for …” she floundered, “I am not sure it is wise to discuss a certain organisation …”

“It isn’t only wise, it’s morally right,” I said firmly. “Ben is Magdalene’s only child and she nearly died three times having him. Besides which, I think she may unknowingly have the answers to some questions of mine.”

“I don’t know about that.” On the edge of the seat, her feet tight together, Magdalene tugged at her cardigan. “And before I say anything about the Pattersons’ persecution of Eli and me”—her eyes nipped from one sister to the other—“I do need to know if you charge by the hour. Otherwise I won’t know whether to talk at a run or a walk.”

Butler replenished the teapot twice during Magdalene’s story. The Tramwells commented and exclaimed. They expressed sympathy and a willingness to assist, but I knew that their curiosity having been appeased, they were anxious to discuss Ben’s close call.