Then I saw something that squeezed the breath back into my lungs-Ben was near the front door, talking to a uniformed policeman.
He glanced round and spotted me. “Ellie, it isn’t surprising you couldn’t reach Mum on the phone earlier. She’s been missing for three days.” He sounded quite-ordinary.
The constable, young, fresh-faced, and eager, rifled through his notebook. “I have here some pertinent details. A Mrs. Beatty Long of Eleven Crown Street, states she grew concerned when failing to see Mrs. Elijah Haskell leave the house for church services on Wednesday morning, as was the lady’s custom.”
“Mass,” corrected Ben. “My mother is a Catholic.”
“No offence intended, none taken I hope, sir.” Constable Beaker scratched with a diligent pencil and continued. “The aforementioned Mrs. Long also states that she had been uneasy for some time, having noticed the Haskells’ curtains being closed at odd times of the day.”
“Beatty Long always was a meddlesome old woman.” Ben ran a hand across his brow.
Someone grasped my elbow. It was Mrs. Malloy.
“Not now, please,” I said.
“As you like, mum,” she huffed, “but it is a matter of life and death.”
Constable Beaker stiffened with professional interest. I grabbed Ben’s hand. “When did Mr. Haskell report his wife missing?”
“That’s the thing Miss-Mrs., he didn’t.”
Mrs. Malloy folded her arms. “Believe you me, I’m not standing here wearing polish off the floor for me own amusement. Seems to me someone should be told there’s a young bloke up in one of the turrets, threatening to jump out the window and-”
“What?” The constable made for the stairs.
My legs wouldn’t move, Ben looked ready to laugh. The dancers had frozen. But the jolly strains of the music flowed on and on…
“And I’m telling you straight, mum.” Mrs. Malloy’s bosom heaved. “I don’t do ceilings, I don’t do drains, and I don’t wash blood and guts off the pavements.”
From the Files of
Telephone conversation reported by member of Calling Committee, 1st December
“Good evening, Mrs. Thrush, so glad to find you at home. You don’t know me, but…”
“Excuse me, perhaps you would telephone another time.” (Sound of hanky being used.) “You’ve caught me at rather a bad time. My beloved husband was buried this very afternoon, and I really cannot think of buying anything or subscribing to a magazine.”
“I understand. But do let me explain that I am from The Widows Club and have been assigned the role of your special confidante during these first difficult weeks. May I leave my name and phone number and urge you to get in touch with me, day or night, if you feel the need to have a good weep or just talk?”
(Smothered choking sound.) “What about laugh? Oh, my dear, I can’t tell you how glad I am you rang. The hardest part of this whole business has been keeping a straight face. The only moment when I did feel a bit down was when we were going into the church and collided with a bridal party. That poor young woman-so elated at tying the knot-to the noose around her neck. Oh, chatting to you is going to be marvellous. But I am afraid I do have to go. I see my best friend Vera coming up the path. She does need consoling. They-she and my dear husband-were unofficially engaged!”
(Responsive laughter.) “Mrs. Thrush, I cannot wait to get to know you better. Are you interested in ceramics by any chance? Splendid. I am also on that committee. My name is Millicent Parsnip of Honeysuckle Cottage. My phone number is in the directory.”
“Thank you so very much.”
“My pleasure. And Mrs. Thrush, one teensy hint: spray a little ammonia on your hanky. Brings on red eyes and sniffles wonderfully.”
7
… “And did Cousin Freddy leap from the turret?” Hyacinth inquired.
“Of course not,” I scoffed. “He was on his way downstairs as Constable Beaker hurtled up them. Claimed the police car parked outside the house had killed the mood. He was let off with a warning against breaking the peace. What peace! All those gawkers in the hall! And Freddy ranting on about his broken heart, relishing every minute until Jill sent down a message, via Dorcas, that if she allowed herself to be blackmailed by a temper tantrum she would be at Freddy’s beck and call all of their unmarried life.”
“My dear, I couldn’t agree more,” chirped Primrose. “But what of Mrs. Elijah Haskell?”
“According to Constable Beaker’s notes, Mr. Elijah Haskell stated that his wife told him she was going on a spiritual pilgrimage.”
“Dear me,” sighed Primrose. “Ever since reading Canterbury Tales, I have thought one tends to meet some very peculiar people on that sort of tour…”
The honeymoon, officially speaking, was off. Ben and I, now in pedestrian dress, were seated on the six-thirty-three train, due to depart for London in eight minutes. There were only a few other passengers in the long compartment, all at the far end from us, which was just as well because Ben had lowered our window. His claustrophobia was acting up.
Chitterton Station looked seedy in the white flare of its lights. A poster of a glamourous blonde with a black handlebar moustache drinking the right whiskey peeled off the concrete wall. I suppose it was my mood, but the thin man in the grubby raincoat lounging against the station-house door, dragging on a fag, looked positively menacing.
One question kept going around in my head. Had the prospect of gaining me as a daughter-in-law driven Mrs. Haskell to suicide? Ben claimed to be convinced that Constable Beaker had simply dredged up any excuse to see inside a house of local interest. And Constable Beaker had admitted that no inquiry of an official nature was underway.
By chance, so the constable said, he had that afternoon been chatting with a friend assigned to the Crown Street beat, and one thing leading to another, they had discovered that one Magdalene Haskell, aged seventy, had absented herself from home to the concern of the neighbors. And said woman had a son, name of Bentley T. Haskell, living in a mansion on the cliffs above Chitterton Fells. Put that way, it sounded plausible enough.
We had decided against driving to London because Ben’s Heinz 57 (it was part Austin, part Rover, part Vauxhall, part bicycle) convertible was growing increasingly unreliable in its old age. Sid Fowler had driven us to the station. Our troubles seemed to restore Sid mightily. He had carried the luggage, and while Ben was buying the tickets, Sid had chatted cheerfully.
“Magdalene was-no, do think positive-is a wonderful woman, Ellie. Never felt dressed without her rosary and always dampened her ironing with holy water. Did Ben tell you she wanted him to marry a girl named Angelica Brady? As for Eli, don’t take it personally if he dislikes you. Eli thinks women over five-foot-two take hormone tablets and despises all people who inherit money. Comes from his having worked his way up from being a barrow boy to owning Haskell’s Greengrocery, lock, stock, and pavement.” I wasn’t sorry when Sid went off to play bingo.
Accepted as a daughter-in-law or not, I was going to have to enter the flat above the greengrocery shop. We were bound for London to see Ben’s father. My husband stared out the window, brows furrowed. “Ellie, see that chap with the cigarette dangling out of his mouth? I feel I know him from somewhere, but the where eludes me.”
“I hate that feeling,” I said, and warmed to the stranger in his grubby raincoat with the upturned collar. He was a bridge back to ordinary conversation. With the advent of Constable Beaker, Ben’s past life on Crown Street had closed around him, separating us in a way that nothing had since we first met.