The Widow's Club (41 page)

“It’s young Mrs. Haskell, isn’t it? I’ve seen you about in the village.” My companion’s voice spoke into the darkness.

“Yes, and you are …?” The smoke, the close quarters, and the possibilities of the situation were all combining to suffocate me. The lighter flared and I was looking down at a face that might have belonged to a kindly middle-aged sheep.

“Beatrix Woolpack. This is such an unexpected pleasure.
Although, come to think of it, you are the second person I have bumped into in this very cupboard. The other was a man named … now what was it? Butcher? Baker?”

“Butler?”

“That’s right.” The fiery tip of her cigarette danced. “He was so interested when I told him about my late husband being a locksmith and how I had worked shoulder-to-shoulder with him all our married life. Sad, isn’t it. To think that all I got out of marriage, other than two quite nice children, was the know-how to get me out of my room here for a change of scene and a Players.”

“Very sad.”

“The same tired old tale, isn’t it, my love. A woman living for her husband by his rules, staying home to raise the children because he said a woman’s place was in the home, and then being slapped with the news that he’d found someone younger, better-looking, and with the gumption to be her own person. The wonder isn’t that I joined The Widows Club, but that more women don’t pawn their engagement rings to have their husbands killed.”

“Quite.” I backed against the wall. One of my feet landed in a pail; a pole rapped me on the head.

“What will you be thinking of me?” came her voice. “I haven’t asked if you mind me smoking.”

“Not a bit.”

“His car went over the cliff, if you remember. Relatively quick and painless. I wouldn’t have wanted him to suffer. He wasn’t a bad man, just a bad husband. So often the case, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” My ears were on the alert for more footsteps.

The red dot vanished. Mrs. Woolpack must have stubbed out the cigarette. “This has been so nice, Mrs. Haskell. We must do it again some time, mustn’t we? But now I shall be getting back to my room. It’s quite cosy, you know. I have photos of my dog George and my cat Minx; my daughter has given them a temporary home. I shall be out of here soon.”

“That will be lovely. Mrs. Woolpack, before you go, do you know the name of the person who founded this Widows Club?”

“I don’t, my love.” She was inching the cupboard door open. “But if I did, I wouldn’t say. To thine own club be true, isn’t that right? As it is, I can never make it up to my
dear friends for my wickedness in rescuing that wretched Mr. Daffy from that train.” She picked up her cigarette stub from the floor.

We tiptoed to her door. Drawing a knotted wire from her pocket, she deftly inserted it into the lock. I was halfway down the stairs when it struck me that she hadn’t asked what I was doing in her cupboard.

The hall seemed to have doubled in size since I left it. Could I get across to the waiting room and my invalid couch without being discovered by my least favourite nurse? Maybe. Things looked hopeful as I came off the last stair. Not a twitch of a uniform or any other sign of human, make that inhuman, activity. I traversed the black-and-white tile without hearing a sound save my own footfall.

“Mrs. Heinz, where have you been?”

Pivoting toward the accusatory voice, I gripped my balloon stomach in a last sympathy pitch and heard a
thuwpp
! I could feel myself deflating, feel water gushing down my legs. Eyes glued to the face of the nurse, that same sweet soul who had admitted me, I wondered if I looked as aghast as she.

Her voice shook. “It appears that your water has broken.”

“Oh, is that the problem?” Mesmerized, I studied the spreading puddle. “I felt a bit odd and came to find you. I should never have attempted the stairs, I know, but—could you please telephone?”

“A Dr. Padinsky, I believe you said, but perhaps Dr. Bordeaux has returned to the Dower House.”

“No. Absolutely not. I won’t see anyone but my own doctor.”

“Very well.” She looked relieved. “I will make the phone call immediately after I take you back to the waiting room.” She reached for my arm.

“No.” I shook her off. The situation permitted extreme agitation. “I will go and lie down. You phone Dr. Padinsky immediately.”

I was within a couple of yards of the waiting room. I grabbed the door, closed it behind me, then raced for the French windows. Could I make it around the side of the house to my car before Nurse got off the phone? Was she suspicious? Was she even now speaking to Dr. Bordeaux, listening to his instructions, preparing to arm herself with
a poisoned syringe and pursue me at full tilt? Or had she swallowed the situation because she had let me into the building, and Dr. Bordeaux might be very, very annoyed with her if anything were amiss?

Ducking across the lawn, I felt weighed down by hopelessness. The doctor could appear at any moment, the dogs panting at his heels. And menace there already was aplenty. The wind dragged at my hair like an outstretched hand and sucked in gloating breaths. The trees kept breaking through the tattered mist to stand directly in my path. My hip whapped into a bench. Inside the house, the dogs Virtue and Sin began to bark.

Immediately ahead now was the Dower House. No sanctuary to be found there even if the doctor were absent. Jenny was only a child, her mother helpless, and the nanny ancient. Dr. Bordeaux was their patron, probably respected. Possibly loved.

I was now level with a set of French windows similar to the ones I had just exited. Panting, I peered through the glass and saw two people. Clinging to a web of ivy, I strove to catch my breath. The couch was empty, unlike the time when I was in this room and the invalid lay there. Jenny was in the middle of the room with her back to me, her hair—more auburn than sandy under the electric light—spilling loose about her shoulders. It struck me that something was different. Her dress, a green silk sheath, was for once not too young, but too old for her. The other person in the room was Dr. Bordeaux. I couldn’t see much of his face because Jenny kept moving, blocking off my view, her gestures angry. Clearly some sort of altercation was in progress. Good for me, but I was sorry for Jenny.

Nipping past the window, teeth chattering, I slithered around the side of the house and raced towards the gravel semicircle. Virtue and Sin waited, bowlegged, muzzles at the ready, directly in front of the Heinz. I expected to freeze with stupefied terror, but the stupefying part was, it didn’t happen. Perhaps life with Sweetie had toughened me or perhaps as adversaries I would take the dogs over the nurse. Teeth bared in a playful smile, I hurled a shower of pebbles into the air. With canine shrieks of glee, they leapt into the air, tongues lapping, paws flapping, while I made the last desperate hustle toward the Heinz. Would a hand reach out from behind me and twist my neck into a rope?

I jabbed the key in the ignition, my eyes riveted to the door of The Peerless. Foot on the accelerator, I begged, “Heinz, don’t fail me now.” Then I rammed into reverse and whizzed backward down the avenue. I couldn’t risk the precious minutes necessary to turn the car around.

Not only had I to get away from here, I had to get to the Tramwells. I had to tell them that my visit to The Peerless had convinced me, as nothing else could have done, that The Widows Club was a matter for the police. Yes, the men in blue had been unreceptive at first, but I would accompany the sisters to the station house and offer all the information I had garnered. But I couldn’t—wouldn’t—play amateur detective any more. The risks were too great. I wasn’t going to end up in a broom cupboard, and I wouldn’t have Ben involved. I couldn’t shake off the feel of the nurse’s hand on my arm or the look in those pebble eyes. And if such a woman was afraid of Dr. Bordeaux, God help us all.

I sat shivering in a maroon leather chair in the reception room at The Pebblewell Hotel from four that afternoon until six in the evening, drinking countless cups of coffee and whiling away the time by counting people going up and down the red carpeted staircase. Soon they all wore grey woolly coats, had faces like Mrs. Woolpack, and talked in sheep’s voices. When I awoke, the Tramwells still hadn’t returned. What if they didn’t come back? What if they had decided they were not equipped to handle a murder investigation and had returned to their pastoral village? Panic broke in icy waves through my skin. What if Ann were hit by a car? Her belongings would be examined by someone in authority who would find the damning note I had written to Dear Felicity Friend. What precisely had I said in that note? Forget the police! What if Ben somehow got hold of it? I began pacing the space between the two couches, bumping every third step into the oversized coffee table. The receptionist had her eyes on me. Mine kept time with the onyx clock on the mantel. Still the sisters did not return. When two elderly gentlemen, newspapers tucked under the arms, invaded my territory with talk of grouse shooting, I had waited long enough.

The Heinz, marvel of marvels, started right up. I drove through the dark blanket of evening into Chitterton Fells
and along Market Street. I had to get that piece of paper back. A streetlamp spread a silvery sheen outside Delacorte’s Antiques. I drew up at the curb, opened the door to step out and jumped when something brushed against my calf. Looking up at me was Mother. She honked, eyes bright with hope. Mine scanned the street but I could see no sign of Mr. Digby. He must be swilling it back at The Dark Horse.

“Unlike you, old faithful, to leave your post,” I said to Mother. “Seen someone you know?” I stroked her head. “Some people don’t deserve to have geese.” She looked defensive, then forlornly scooted away.

The shop sign said Closed, but Ann might not yet have locked up. She hadn’t. I entered to greyness, dramatised by shadowy humps of furniture and the
William Tell
Overture.

“Ann,” I called, fumbling for the light switch. The room sprang to eye-smarting brightness. “Ann!” No answer. The shop looked different at night, less cosy, but something was wrong … no, more like—missing. And why not! After all, everything here was for sale except the cash register. I shook myself, but the day’s events crowded in on me. Would there be repercussions to my visit to The Peerless? What would I say to Ann? Could I persuade the police that Bunty might be in peril if the widows were prepared to bend the rules? I crossed the shop, telling myself that I would walk up those stairs and knock on that door. My hands reached for the amber velvet curtains and pulled them apart.… I would say, Hello Ann, I’ve been thinking about that little charade we played.…

Something brushed against me and I was so startled I toppled over. When I opened my eyes and grovelled to my feet, I found myself looking at Ann. Her eyes were opened wide, her hair and fortyish clothes as elegant as when I had seen her that morning.

There was only one real difference. She was dead. Two arrows pinned her jacketed shoulders to the wall under the left-hand curtain. A third was punched into her chest.

I had been right: there was something different about the shop. The crossbow was missing from the wall behind the register.

I was standing there looking at this woman who had
been my friend when I heard again the tinkle of the
William Tell
Overture.

From the Files of
The Widows Club

Minutes of Board Meeting, Monday, 11th May

The minutes of the March meeting were approved as read. Treasurer, Mary Ellis, reported a current balance of £139.71 and fended off an accusation by Betty White that £2.13 had been misappropriated for the purchase of fertilizer for the gardening committee. Activities Chairwoman, Martha Grub, made a motion that a trip to Hampton Court be made an annual event. Motion seconded by Mrs. Shirley Daffy and unanimously approved by the Board. Mrs. Agnes Levine, Membership Committee, circulated copies of the updated standard Telephone Approach To Prospective Members. Two spelling and three typographical errors were called to the Board’s attention, but the document passed by a two-thirds vote for immediate implementation. Corrected sample attached. Refreshments of currant buns and cocoa were served. The meeting concluded abruptly at 9:36
P.M
. when the news of Ann Delacorte’s death was received.

Respectfully submitted,

Millicent Parsnip,    
Recording Secretary

The Widows Club
Telephone Questionnaire

Membership Committee Member:

Good day, Mrs. Jane Smith (fictitious name). I am telephoning at the request of a mutual friend who tells me you may seriously be considering the possibilities of becoming a widow.

Mrs. Jane Smith:

a. I am indeed.

b. Is this an obscene phone call?

(If the response is
b
, pretend you have the wrong Jane
Smith, on whom you are playing a practical joke, and hang up. Otherwise proceed.)

M.C. Member:

Let us be sure we fully understand each other. You
do
dream of having your husband murdered?

Mrs. J.S.:

I can’t think of anything nicer.

M.C. Member:

Well then, Mrs. Jane Smith, you are exactly the sort of woman we want in The Widows Club, a local organisation that offers a vast assortment of social and cultural activities along with its guilt management services. Your sponsor will be happy to discuss them with you, if you decide to join us.

Mrs. J.S.:

When may I be admitted to your ranks?

M.C. Member:

That I cannot tell you. The admittance procedure varies anywhere from a few days to a few months. We do ask that you begin preparing yourself emotionally. Get plenty of rest and exercise to control nerves. Endeavour to treat your husband as though you were readying him to go away on his holidays. A little kindness now is an investment in both your futures.

Mrs. J.S.:

I cannot wait to begin.

M.C. Member: