Withering Heights (28 page)

“Where’s Ariel?” Tom asked sharply.

“In the little parlor with Mrs. Cake,” I told him.

“Thank heaven for some normalcy,” said Betty.

“Ariel isn’t feeling normal,” Tom retorted, “she’s all to pieces. She was sobbing and crying when I saw her after breakfast. She’s got it in her head that Miss Pierce’s death is her fault because she’s been thinking nasty thoughts about the woman. I did my best to settle her down, but I don’t think I was successful.”

“Then why don’t you . . . we . . . go to her and start acting like parents?” Betty said.

It was another of those times when I found myself sliding out the door. I would have given anything to go into the kitchen and seek the safe harbor of Ben’s arms, but he didn’t need me chewing up his time. The garden party was due to begin at one o’clock and would continue until four. I wandered out into the grounds to survey the umbrella tables and the two marquees that had sprung up earlier as if because of the heavy rainfall. The clouds were white and fluffy, the sky a guiless blue, the breeze a gentle caress. What a festive scene, what a place for merriment and childish laughter while their elders sipped tea or lemonade and sampled the delicacies that would be provided!

I was about to go back into the house when Mrs. Malloy came out to stand beside me. It was my hope that she wouldn’t pick up where she had left off, about how the real Madam LaGrange’s vision of a woman going under a bus had tragically come to pass. It had made me feel intensely creepy when she brought it up the first time . . . and the second. Fortunately, she brought up the subject of her sister, Melody, instead.

“She’s disappointed like you’d expect that she can’t be here this afternoon. I told you how good she always was at the egg-and-spoon
race, and it would have been nice to see her win another ribbon to add to her collection. But with Mr. Scrimshank planning to attend as always, she’s decided this is her best opportunity, while the cat’s away, so to speak, to have Mavis’s husband come to the office and try to open that safe. If all goes well, she’s going to copy what’s in the Gallaghers’ file, put the originals back, and take her set home with her to go through this evening, to see if she can discover how Mr. Scrimshank managed to diddle them.”

“I wonder if he was at that bus stop when Nanny Pierce took her spill.”

“It’s a thought, isn’t it?”

“Did you talk to Melody about Nanny’s death?”

“Some. But she wasn’t listening. Her mind was on whether Ed could open the safe.”

“No word yet from Milk Jugg?” We reentered the house by the side door.

“Not a dicky.”

“At least you can fill in the time, Mrs. Malloy, by writing another eulogy: this one for Nanny.”

“The one I did for Mr. Tribble never got going. I couldn’t get past the first few lines.”

I awaited the recitation, and it was forthcoming:

“No one could call him tall,
In fact he was quite small,
With a religious bent,
And gentle, kind intent,
To stand him in good stead,
Now that he’s dead.”

“The laureateship awaits,” I said.

“Oh, bugger that,” replied Mrs. Malloy. “I’m all out of poetry.
If I was to meet the Queen herself this afternoon I couldn’t come up with a verse.” Luckily, she teetered off on her high heels before I could come up with a reply.

To my surprise, the next couple of hours passed rapidly. I showered and changed into the best of the few dresses I had brought with me, a simple sheath in a buttery yellow. Despite a lack of enthusiasm, I took pains with my hair and limited makeup. Ariel had said that no one would be looking at her, and the same could be more truly said of me. There would be few people present that I had yet met or would be likely to get to know much better. Ben came into the hall as I came down the stairs and caught me in his arms.

“You look delectable, sweetheart.” He kissed my mouth and my throat, his hands making their wondrous way down until I laughingly pulled away.

“Will I see you out and about?” I asked.

“As soon as Tom and I have supplied the necessary replenishments after the five thousand have worked their way through what we’ve already set out. He’s been a great help this last couple of days. He can’t seem to stay busy enough. Every time there’s been a lull he comes up with something else for us to cook. You’d think he was providing against an oncoming famine.”

“Betty’s been toying with the idea of their turning the west wing into a restaurant and gift shop. Maybe you could give Tom some ideas on how to go about it, if you think he’s on board.”

“It would be a good career solution, given the size of this place. He could hire a chef to get them started and learn as he goes. Now that the shock of winning the lottery has passed off a little, it might be the right time for him and Betty to come up with a plan to save them from the void they’re now in.”

Ben returned to the kitchen and I went forth into the garden
party. At first I thought I was in a maze of people. Every time I put out an elbow I was afraid I would never see it again. But after a few minutes I was able to separate the adults from the squealing squalls of children. Girls with flying hair raced past; boys in T-shirts, blue jeans, and sneakers bumped into me. Their faces continued to blur, but occasionally I found myself returning a broad smile, some minus front teeth and others a silvery flash of braces. I eased my way between two women holding cups of tea and talking their heads off. They were raving about the sausage rolls, mini-Cornish pasties, and wonderful little cakes with fondant icing.

“Have you tried the salmon patties with the lemon dill sauce?” one woman, in a dwarfing broad-brimmed red hat, asked another.

“Not yet,” floated the reply. “I’m devouring my fourth chicken wing. The fresh ginger glaze is divine. And I’d have two seafood tartlets left on my plate, if some fiend hadn’t snatched them in passing.”

“The food’s much superior to what was served in previous years. I wonder who did the catering.”

I stopped in my tracks but had no time to do more than draw a breath before Lady Fiona drifted up to me. Today she was attired in misty gray chiffon and a marvelous hat in the same shade. She was sufficiently tall that the wide brim accentuated her height rather than diminished it, as had been the fate of the woman in the red straw hat.

“Good afternoon, your ladyship.” I held out my hand and she took it in a surprisingly firm clasp.

“How pleasant to see you again, Mrs. Honeywood. I remember, you did ask me to call you Edith. If you would be so kind, please mention this sad business about Nanny Pierce to your aunt when you next communicate. I am sure she would wish to know.”

“Certainly,” I murmured, catching sight of Betty standing with Mrs. Malloy.

“Not that they got on particularly well. Nanny once made a rather tactless remark to her, saying that Gibraltar was a rock even a seagull wouldn’t land on willingly. I regret to say, not too many people liked her very well—not your aunt; I am referring to Nanny. I’m afraid being fond of her fell almost entirely on my husband’s shoulders. It really is amazing he didn’t run away from home more often, and why I never thought I could remonstrate with him about it when he did.”

“How very awkward.”

“We all have our trials. Nanny Pierce was ours. I wonder if that great-niece of hers will object to my moving into the Dower House? It was always Nigel’s and my dream to retire there. A change of scene for people our age . . . a new beginning, so invigorating.”

“Absolutely.”

“My dear, you are so like your aunt. I do hope her hair stopped falling out. Ah, I believe I see Mr. Scrimshank; I want to ask him if he’s had any more phone calls from Nigel. If you will excuse me. . . .” She ebbed away and I cut a path through the throng toward Betty and Mrs. Malloy. In getting to them, I passed Frances and Stan Edmonds, whose smiles had the determined sheen of people who have had their feet trodden on once too often. My impression of Stan was the same as formerly. He did resemble a weasel. But that meant nothing; looks can be deceiving. Although I doubted that was the case with Mr. Scrimshank, whose dead brown eyes were on Lady Fiona as she talked to him.

Reaching my targets, I asked Betty if Ariel had changed her mind about joining the madding crowd.

“I just saw her flit by with a couple of children her age.”

“Her hair looked nice.” Mrs. Malloy swallowed lemonade as if wishing it contained something stronger.

“She let me do it for her. She even agreed to wear the dress I bought her at the beginning of the summer, which hadn’t been off the hanger. I’d be celebrating if I weren’t scared half out of my mind, wondering who’s going to end up dead next. It’s not about playing detective anymore. It’s a matter of how Tom and I are going to sleep at night, worrying whether Ariel is safe in her bed.”

I could have said she was worrying about that unnecessarily; there was no reason to fear the girl was in danger, she being no threat requiring removal, even if Lady Fiona had murdered both her husband
and
Miss Pierce. I could have added that Mrs. Malloy and I were convinced, had her ladyship done so, it had been with Mr. Scrimshank’s collaboration. But I didn’t open my mouth. I hesitated a moment too long. Mrs. Malloy was complaining about her bra.

“It’s that blasted underwire poking at me again. I didn’t mean to wear this one again. It was for the ragbag when I got home, but I picked it up by mistake.”

No time for commiserations; we were interrupted. A man came up and held out a spoon containing an
egg
to Betty, who was nearest.

“Would you mind taking this?” he said. “Some child just palmed it off on me, saying she’d be back in a minute, but I’ve seen someone I need to speak to, so if you wouldn’t mind. . . .” He was there, and then he was gone. I had that nudging feeling you get when trying to place someone. His dark hair was threaded with silver, and I associated him somehow with the wild outdoors. He was Heathcliff in conventional clothing. Except for one thing. There was something sadly amiss with his ears. The left one was twice the size of the right one. Some
afflictions, as in Lord Darkwood’s interesting limp and noble scars, add to a man’s heroic appeal. But, unfairly, mismatched ears didn’t cut it.

“There’s a piece of paper under that egg,” said Mrs. Malloy.

“There is?” Betty stared down.

I removed the egg and set it in a saucer on a nearby table and, when Betty picked up the small folded square, did the same with the tablespoon.

“Go on, open it up. See what it’s got written on it.”

“There may not be anything.” Betty’s hand was shaking. “Maybe the child wanted something to hold the egg better in place.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Mrs. Malloy. “That’d be more hindrance than help. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s egg-and-spoon races. Like I’ve told Mrs. H, if they was ever to put them in the Olympic games, me sister, Melody, would get a gold medal.”

Betty unfolded the paper. After standing stock-still for the count of ten, she said she couldn’t show it to us. “It’s the message Nigel spoke about at the séance. He told me not to tell anyone.”

“That doesn’t mean us, we’re Johnnies on the spot,” retorted Mrs. Malloy. “Anyway, if that voice was from the spirit world, the man had his head in the clouds and can’t be counted on to talk sense.”

Betty held the paper as if afraid it would explode; then in a trembling voice read the words aloud: “
You’ll find what you’re looking for in the priest hole, main room upper west wing, fifth panel on left, third rose on right, top carving. Turn clockwise
.

“My goodness!” Mrs. Malloy’s taffeta bosom heaved. “Should we take that to mean that’s where we’ll find—”

“No,” I said, “because we won’t go looking. Mr. Gallagher’s grizzly remains can wait for the police.”

“I won’t!” Betty flared. “I gave Nigel my word and I intend to keep it.”

“Let’s at least find Tom,” I urged.

“And waste time while he tries to talk us out of it? He’s a wonderful man in many ways, but action has never been his forte. Besides, Nigel’s instructions were specific. I’m to go alone.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. “Like it or not, Mrs. Malloy and I are coming with you.”

“If you insist.” I glimpsed relief on Betty’s face before she turned on her heel, weaving between and around the clusters of people still capable of enjoying the afternoon.

“I hope this isn’t Ariel’s idea of a practical joke,” I said to Mrs. Malloy, as we followed closely behind. “Somehow I can’t believe she’d pull something this unkind. She seems to have been making strides in her relationship with Betty, but that girl is so unpredictable.”

“Only one way to find out, Mrs. H.”

“If not Ariel, why the roundabout way of passing the note to Betty?”

“Maybe Nanny had a premonition that something would happen to her and left instructions with someone to get the information to Betty without Lady Fiona’s knowledge, and whoever it was didn’t want to be involved any more than possible.” Mrs. Malloy marched ahead of me.

We caught up with Betty in the passageway between the two parts of the house and went up the back stairway and into the west wing through the heavy door. The unease I had experienced on my first visit returned in full force when we stepped into the wainscoted ballroom. Betty turned on all lights, but no amount of electricity could push back the crouching darkness. I glanced nervously at the wardrobe
looming in the corner ahead of us. Was that where the menace hid? Were we being spied upon by some long-dead entity or something—someone—wickedly alive? The door appeared to be cracked open, and I braced myself to creep across the floorboards to take a look. Anything was better than this quivering uncertainty. But at that moment, Betty exclaimed that she had found it.

“This is the fifth panel, and here’s the third rose on the right. I’m turning it clockwise as instructed. Oh, my God! Look!” At her touch, a rectangle of wainscoting swung open to reveal a shadowy void within.

“Why didn’t we think to bring a torch?” I bemoaned.

“We’ll have to feel our way around.” Betty stepped heroically inside.

“Smells musty,” said Mrs. Malloy, teetering after her, “but not unbearable, the way you’d think if there was a body.”