Withering Heights (10 page)

“Your cleaning woman seems brighter than most.” Betty pointed a finger at the purple taffeta figure now entering the house. “She’s come to see her sister, she said.”

I had to stop grinding my teeth to reply. “That’s right, Melody Tabby. She’s secretary to a Mr. Scrimshank.”

“We went to him for some advice about the money we . . . came into. But he won’t be handling our investments.” Betty stepped through the open front door. “We feel quite capable of doing that ourselves.”

“Do accountants often perform that service?”

“He did for the Gallaghers who owned this house. But that may have been because they were friends. Perhaps Ariel told you”—she gave me a speculative look—“that Mr. Gallagher disappeared, just upped and vanished, about a year and a half ago. And no sign of him since.”

I hedged. “I heard what she said to you and her father, about a murder and a ghost.”

“All these months I’ve thought she, like Tom, didn’t believe me.”

“The police?”

She shrugged, a gesture so akin to Ariel’s it might have been genetic if they had been blood relatives. The hall in which we stood was vast and thick with shadow. Given the lack of light, it could have been any time of day—from early afternoon, which was the case, to dead of night. The vast chandelier was unlit and too closely resembled the branches of a gallows tree to suit my sensibilities as a designer. The window high on the staircase wall resembled a leper’s squint. The rest of the group, though standing just a few feet away from us, were mere silhouettes in monkish robes. Ever since picking up my first gothic romance, I had yearned to enter a house such as this.
The sensation I had experienced when looking at the exterior was now heightened. The dark wainscoting, somber furniture, and looming paintings in heavy frames issued a hushed warning that Death could be lurking behind a door or crouched down on some hidden step. I shivered, despite a muggy warmth that was oppressive in itself.

Betty flicked a switch and the chandelier burst into light. No longer did it look like a gibbet. It glinted with gold and sparkled with crystal. The paneling was revealed as a richly mellow walnut, the staircase a graceful curve of banisters and broad steps, exquisite in its simplicity. Regency, I thought. Or more likely Queen Anne, my favorite period. There was an Aubusson carpet underfoot, its colors faded by time to possibly even greater beauty than originally present. A grouping of Empire chairs with black gilded frames and yellow silk seats occupied one corner, along with bronze-topped tables. To my right stood a magnificent long case clock of Beuel design and on my left a Chinese chest whose period I could not even begin to guess at.

My foolish panic evaporated. Perversely, I found myself wishing for a more Tudor atmosphere: dark oil portraits of Elizabethans in ruffs staring censoriously down at me, pewter tankards on a trestle table, rush mats on the floor. This was all very lovely but too suggestive of an ultra-expensive hotel.

“I don’t know why you don’t leave that light on, Tom,” Betty called across to him. “It’s not like we have to worry these days about meeting the electricity bill.”

Had things been tight for them financially before the big win? Had the stress of pinching pennies made her snippy? I paused in the general movement toward an arched doorway to glance sideways at an assortment of porcelain snuffboxes on the Chinese chest. A cobalt blue and gold one caught my eye. It was a lovely thing with birds delicately painted on the lid.
But it would not do to dally. As it was, I made up the rear in entering a drawing room that possessed two superb marble fireplaces.

Although the leaded front windows did not admit an abundance of light, this was more than compensated for by wall-to-wall glass doors at the rear, leading into what appeared to be a conservatory. The furnishings were an elegant eclectic mix of antiques and the contemporary. There were groupings of gold damask sofas and chairs covered in black and cream toile. I spotted an art deco table, a William and Mary secretary desk, and two Venetian glass lamps by an artisan whose name was currently being spoken with awe. The artwork was an interesting juxtaposition of abstracts and meticulously detailed etchings. I gave the Hopkinses’ decorator top marks. A major name, I supposed, from a London firm. I couldn’t have come up with anything this good.

“What a wonderful room,” I told Betty.

“That’s a real compliment, seeing you’re in that field. Tom’s mother mentioned it. We were very close.” She ushered me toward a chair positioned across from the front fireplace and took the one beside it. The others were already seated and engaged in conversation, save for Mrs. Malloy, who, with her handbag on her lap, appeared to be soaking up her surroundings, the better to report back to her chums in the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Society. It would be something to fall back on if she returned with her tail between her legs after a failed reunion with Melody. “I had a friend help me with the details,” Betty continued. “Well, not a friend exactly, more of an acquaintance living at the Dower House. Val gave up her job at a travel agency in London to come and look after her great-aunt, Miss Pierce, who was once Mr. Gallagher’s nanny.”

“What a good niece. She’s obviously enormously talented.”

“Never took a decorating class in her life.” Although she
was perched on the very edge of her chair, Betty’s feet didn’t touch the floor. “It’s just something Val’s interested in. We were talking one day and she made a couple of suggestions that sounded all right. Tom didn’t offer any opinions. That’s how he is, but I knew he liked yellow.” She looked to where he was sitting with Ben on one of the gold damask sofas. “We tried to get Val to let us pay her, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I’ll have to come up with an idea for a present. I thought of flowers, but it doesn’t seem enough. She’s certainly been a big help.”

That was apparent. I looked around the room that had been brought to life and beauty by an amateur and felt more than a twinge of envy. I was not a nice person. Hadn’t I all too readily bought into Ariel’s negative opinion of Betty? Looking at her now, I saw that the pale blue of her designer suit might be to blame for her plastic appearance. She needed warmer colors, softer lines and subtler makeup than the dark eyeliner and cherry lipstick that clashed with her red hair. What a pity the otherwise helpful Val hadn’t offered these suggestions—and allowed Betty and Tom to infuse something of their own personalities into the house. There I went again! My nasty side creeping in.

“Lucky for us Val came to look after her great-aunt,” said Betty.

“She could be hoping to inherit the old lady’s money,” Ariel responded direly.

“Who’s Val?” Ben inquired sleepily from his chair.

“You’ll meet her. She’s always here.”

“I don’t think she’s out for what she can get from Miss Pierce,” protested Tom mildly.

“She’s not always here!” Betty shot back at Ariel. “Sometimes we don’t see her for days on end.”

Hardly surprising if Val was poring over decorating books,
along with taking care of Auntie, whom I was picturing as partially bedridden and in need of nourishing little meals on trays and lengthy talks about what Mr. Gallagher was like as a small boy. Such a one for objecting to wearing his neddy when taken for a walk in the grounds! And, oh, the naughty fuss he made about eating his tapioca pudding! All highly entertaining, no doubt, but time consuming.

“Life do get so busy,” Mrs. Malloy remarked, in the plummy tones befitting a woman who had twice been chairwoman of the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association. “I can state without a word of a lie that I work me fingers to the bone at Merlin’s Court. I’d expect me head to land on the chopping block if the kitchen wasn’t shipshape when Mr. H gets to trying out one of his fancy recipes.” She patted her two-tone hair and inflated her bosom, I hoped without a poke from a dislodged underwire.

Betty eyed her narrowly before looking at Ben. “I’d forgotten you’re a professional chef.”

“It’s work I enjoy.” He smiled at her, and she turned her attention back to Mrs. Malloy.

“Mavis, our daily woman, is pretty much useless.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Betty.” Tom bestirred himself to remonstrate. “Lady Fiona seemed to think she was okay.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, coming from someone as vague as she is.”

“I thought you’d decided that was just an act, to cover up the fact that she’s a ruthless killer.” Ariel kicked the legs of her chair.

Betty flared back at her. “Don’t stick your nose into the conversation. You should be locked in your room, hoping we’ll let you eat again.”

“I’m already starving.”

“Don’t talk back, dear.” Tom got to his feet. “I’ll go down to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Cake to rustle up some lunch.”

This sounded good to me. It seemed an age since Betty had made the welcome offer of a cup of tea.

“And how’s she going to manage that, stuck in a chair as she is with her sprained ankle propped up on a stool?” Betty inquired sarcastically.

“I’d forgotten.”

“The best she can do is sit with a bowl in her lap shelling peas.”

“Perhaps she could whisk up some eggs instead.”

“And sit with the toaster on her lap, popping up slices of bread?”

Ariel looked from me to Ben and Mrs. Malloy. “Mrs. Cake’s a wonderful cook when she can be on her feet.” Sentimental sigh. “She makes the loveliest scones and things. Although not as good as that chocolate cake of yours, Ben.”

Life has its lively twists and turns. Heroes have a way of popping up when least expected. From the expression on Betty’s face, it was clear our visit was no longer entirely unwelcome. Ben was offering to accompany his cousin into the kitchen and prepare a meal, if that would be helpful.

“We don’t like to impose, do we, Tom?”

“No, dear.”

“If you’re sure, Ben?”

“It will be my pleasure.” His smile was directed at Betty, but I knew with secret wifely knowledge that it was meant for me.

Betty practically sparkled. “Thank you, and take Ariel with you. Put her to use with the washing up.”

This produced the requisite scowl in return.

“Now, then, no need to bother the child. Surely that’s what I’m here for.” Beaming fatuously at one and all, Mrs. Malloy
converted instantly into trusted family servitor. “Got me pinny right here. Never without it in case it’s needed.” She opened her handbag and withdrew a scrap of white nylon trimmed with lace. To my knowledge it had never put in an appearance at Merlin’s Court, but the washing up there is not very grand on a daily basis. Our humble soup bowls, earthenware casserole dishes, and stainless steel cutlery deserve no more than a tea towel tucked in at the waist. Here, if Val’s revamping included the kitchen, it would be a different matter.

“Ariel!” Betty pointed a finger.

“Don’t you want me to stay and tell you about the lovely surprise?”

“I told you I’m not interested.” The green eyes flashed. “Something has to be done about your escapade, but I can’t concentrate on that now, or even Mr. Gallagher’s murder. I’ve a huge calamity on my hands.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, as Ariel pirouetted out the door. “And here you are with three extra people on your hands.”

“I’ve been frantic.” Betty gripped her tiny hands. “My first social engagement as lady of the manor is coming up, and I was sure it was doomed! But perhaps there is a way to salvage the situation if Ben and Mrs. Malloy would agree to help me out.” She eyed me with the desperate appeal of a woman trapped on a cliff ledge in a storm equal to the one we’d had yesterday. “It seems a lot to ask, Ellie, because it would mean your all staying on here for a few days.”

I
told Ellie about the awful fix we’re in regarding our upcoming social engagement,” Betty informed Tom a half hour later.

Our merry bunch was in the dining room, grouped around a large, beautifully polished oval table set with Royal Derbyshire china, sterling silver, and sparkling crystal, all a delight to the eye. The wallpaper was a watered raspberry silk, the carpet centered on the parquet floor a prize from the Orient, the chandelier dazzling, the William and Mary display cabinets a repository of treasures. Val of the Dower House had again performed her magic. I could only wonder if the Hopkinses had stretched their multimillions too thin, forcing them to cut down on milk and eggs in the coming weeks.

So far there seemed to be no shortage of provisions. Ben, with some assistance one presumed from Tom, Ariel, and Mrs.
Malloy, had produced a sumptuous feast, making it hard for me to decide what to dig into first. The spinach salad with cilantro, garlic shrimp, and toasted pecans, the golden-crusted French onion quiche, or the little sausages simmered in a Bordeaux sauce?

“You told Ellie what, Betty?” Tom scrunched in his fair eyebrows and focused his protuberant blue eyes on his wife. Mrs. Malloy and Ariel picked up their knives and forks. Ben passed me a silver basket lined with white damask. Admiring the artfully arranged slices of crusty French bread, I wondered if it would appear piggish to take two.

“Come on, Tom, you know what I’m talking about!” snapped Betty.

Puzzlement faded; light dawned. “You mean the vicar, Mr. Hardcastle, bringing a retired clergyman over for Sunday tea tomorrow? Something about the old chap having visited Crag-stone as a boy and wanting the see the place again before he cops it. And here we are with Mrs. Cake off her feet and no possibility of putting on a decent spread.” Apparently satisfied that he’d answered well enough to avoid being sent to his room, Tom applied himself in an absent manner to the quiche on his plate.