“Indeed,” said Ben. He was doodling on his railway ticket.
“A motor accident?” Mine was vulgar curiosity; it helped take my mind off my missing mother-in-law.
“Why, Mrs. Haskell!” The chins shook with astonishment. “Didn’t you read about poor Alvin Thrush in The Daily Spokesman? The story was right below ‘Dear Felicity Friend.’ The man was electrocuted in the bath. He was a do-it-yourself electrician and had wired, or miswired, a heated towel rail.”
I had overheard one of the mourners say, “His death was a terrible shock.” Edging closer to Ben, I silently vowed we would always hire professionals to replace light bulbs.
The train hurtled through Snaresby Station. Opening her large handbag, Amelia Bottomly pulled out a gold compact and began flouring her purplish nose. “How I envy you two young people that wonderful old house. You adore it, too, don’t you, Millie?” In turning, she almost smothered the other woman.
A muffled, “Yes, indeed.”
“Marvellous stories are told about the place and some of the characters who have lived there. Quite the equal of anything in Mr. Digby’s books.”
A familiar refrain. Ben was pretending to be asleep.
“I feel uncivic-minded admitting I’ve never read an Edwin Digby book,” I said.
“You do know he writes under the name Mary Birdsong?” Amelia Bottomly dropped the compact back into her bag. “The Vegetarian Vampire. Marvellous! I won’t give the whole thing away, but the premise is one can’t get blood out of a turnip!” After a great burbling laugh, Mrs. Bottomly speared Ben with her eyes. “I understand we have another author in our midst! A cookery book, no less!”
Ben pretended to be deeply asleep.
Millicent Parsnip leaned forward as far as she was able, her soft, whiskery face eager. “Perhaps Mr. Haskell would enjoy doing a little cookery demonstration for the Hearthside Guild.”
“Splendid idea! I am on that committee as well as a few others.” Mrs. Bottomly straightened the blackbird brooch, then began ticking off on her fingers: “Secretary of Lighthouse Preservation, board member of Active Women Over Forty, chairperson of the Historical Society. Have I missed anything, Millie?”
“I thought you joined Bunty Wiseman’s aerobics class.”
“I did, but dropped out before I passed out.” The chins compressed into a great ruff.
“Would you nice young people”-Mrs. Bottomly’s eyes again shifted to Ben-“agree to the Historical Society doing a tour of your home? A marvellous fund-raiser, don’t you agree, Millie? Viewing the dungeons would be worth the price of admission.”
Ben opened his eyes as the train pummeled through another station to a blaze of white light. “Merlin’s Court doesn’t boast dungeons,” he said.
“What do you mean?” No longer beaming, Mrs. Bottomly enunciated each word with surgical precision. “Surely Mad Merlin did not seal them up!”
“Amelia,” bleated Mrs. Parsnip, “Mrs. Haskell was related to the late, lamented-”
“I’m not blaming her for that-”
We entered a tunnel, diving through its blackness with an anguished howl. I grabbed for Ben’s hand and found it clammy with sweat. This was torture for him.
“I’m afraid of slugs,” I confessed in a whisper.
All clear. The light was murky grey again, pinpricked by houselights and street lamps. Mrs. Bottomly heaved up from her seat.
“I fancy a couple of meat pies from the buffet. Coming, Millie? What about you, Mr. and Mrs. Haskell?”
“No, thank you,” said Ben, which would make a yes from me sound piggish. And I was hoping to lose another half-pound before donning the pink nightie.
Millie Parsnip smiled her nice smile, reminding me so much of Tobias. “Are you sure?”
Mrs. Bottomly interrupted, chins jostling each other in excitement. “Why, Millie, if that isn’t Dr. Bordeaux! I would recognise that classic profile anywhere. At the far end of the carriage, yes, in the black cashmere coat. He’s with the sandy-haired girl. She must be the daughter of the paralysed woman who lives in the Dower House on the nursing home grounds. Yes, I can see now-she’s with them.”
I kept my shoulders pressed against the back of my seat. I would not gawk… Dr. Bordeaux!
“People say such wicked things.” Mrs. Bottomly swelled with intensity of feeling. “But the B.M.A. thought the charges ridiculous. Why shouldn’t he specialise in rich people if that is his forte? What is so sinister about sick old women dying? And what, I ask you”-her baleful gaze forced me back into my seat-“is so suggestive about a mere half-dozen such women altering their wills in his favour, hours before their deaths? Devotion should be rewarded.”
“And greedy friends and relations should get what is coming to them-nothing,” supplied Millicent Parsnip.
She would be told about interrupting later. Mrs. Bottomly swept on.
“Oh, I have heard all the snide remarks-that he has saved more lives than he has taken. But The Peerless is thriving. The patients all get such personalized care! Only the one doctor-” She stopped suddenly. It was the train. Something was happening to the train…
We had been hurtling toward Pebblewell Station, lights zooming toward us like Olympic torch bearers, when came this shuddering jolt. The walls gyrated; the carriage threatened to tear apart. Shrieks, moans from other passengers. My mind became a screen blazing with the words The End.
When I opened my eyes, everything had gone quiet. Ben’s arms encircled me like a safety belt. Millicent Parsnip, tam-o’-shanter askew, lay across her seat tugging at her skirt to cover her splayed legs. Scared voices queried, “What happened?” Two middle-aged men in bowler hats clung to each other. Mrs. Bottomly was wedged in the aisle. Never was obesity more stalwart, more magnificent, more inspiring.
Ben said, “Ellie, are you all right?”
I nodded. There was a turmoil of people on the platform. The train wasn’t moving. The passengers pressed toward the exits. A guard threw a door open, leaned in and yelled in a voice guaranteed to escalate alarm, “No need to panic! Everything under control!”
“What happened?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Is it the I.R.A.?”
The guard leaped back onto the platform. “A man fell on the line but it’s-”
His voice was cut off by one even more authoritative than Mrs. Bottomly’s. “Let me out! I am a doctor!”
And as I watched, the man with the poet’s face stepped down and swiftly followed the guard down the platform. I was glad the British Medical Association had been merciful. I hoped Dr. Bordeaux could do something for the poor man, whoever he was.
8
… “Let me guess!” Primrose pressed a finger to her pursed lips, and closed her eyes. “The nearly deceased man was Mr. Vernon Daffy, estate agent.”
“Very impressive,” I said, “although the story was plastered all over the front page of The Daily Spokesman-‘Man Pitches Onto Railway Line,’ ‘Gallant Rescue by Unknown Woman as Train Hoves Into Sight.’ ”
Hyacinth’s orange lips formed a smile. “Would it improve the credibility of Flowers Detection if I gave you the name of the unknown woman?”
“As I have no idea who she was-”
“Oh, but my dear, I think you have.” Primrose stirred a spoonful of sugar into my coffee. “According to eyewitness reports, Mr. Daffy was standing close to the edge of the platform when he screamed, ‘mouse,’ and pitched forward. Everyone froze except the woman-middle-aged, woolly-haired, and plainly dressed-who had been standing nearest him. She performed the rescue and disappeared in the general hullabaloo. Her courage was applauded by the press and public-but what we know is that she had lost her nerve at the final moment.”