“That’s nice.” I opened the door carefully, not wanting Mrs. Malloy to have a black eye on meeting her sister. “We’ll have another talk later, if you like, Ariel.”
“I asked Mrs. Cake if Mr. Hardcastle knits like Seargent Walters does. She said it wouldn’t surprise her, seeing it’s getting popular again with both women and men. She prefers a night out at the Bingo hall.”
“Bingo?” Mrs. Malloy uttered the word in throbbing accents. She stood facing us at the top of the stairs, but had she been in Angola she would have overheard just as well. Not only is Bingo one of her consuming passions, she obviously grasped the implications of Mrs. Cake’s being a fellow enthusiast. A way had been provided to open up a conversation that would weave its way to the recent unsettling events at Cragstone.
“Oh, no!” Ariel exclaimed as we rounded the final curve of the staircase and saw the group below us in the hall. “It’s them!”
“Who?” I lowered my voice, hoping she would take the hint and do likewise. Alongside Tom and Betty I saw two people, neither of whom was Ben. Mrs. Malloy, equally interested, strained to see over my shoulder. We must have looked like those ghouls who stop to stare at an accident: for the thrill, not to offer assistance.
“The Edmondses. Frances and her husband, Stan.”
“What’s wrong with them?” Mrs. Malloy asked, out the side of her mouth.
“Frances steals stuff; she’s a klepto. Stan’s a weasel. Ugh! Just look at him hugging and kissing Betty. It’s not like he’s even keen on her. No chance of them being desperate for each other. He’s like that with everyone. All smoochy-woochy.” Ariel’s whisper turned into a giggle. “Old Slop Face! Doesn’t he make you want to throw your shoes at him and hit him on the head?”
That would have been extreme in my case; so far I’d only seen a squidge of profile and an ear. Tom was blocking most of the view, preventing a full sight of Frances as well. But when Mrs. Malloy and I reached the hall, Ariel having ducked back upstairs, he stepped aside and beckoned us forward.
“Come and meet our friends the Edmondses.” He might have been telling us that the doctor had arrived to take out his tonsils.
Stan, who did look like a weasel, stopped squeezing Betty’s hand to flash a sharp-toothed grin and wave a paw. His slicked-back brown hair and small darting eyes were enough to make me hope he wouldn’t decide to hasten over and kiss me. His wife made a better picture. True, she had a lumpish figure, her complexion wasn’t great, and her hair too brassily blond, but there was something appealing about her bright eyes and broad smile.
I didn’t look at Mrs. Malloy to try to assess her opinion of the Edmondses. We needed to get off to see Melody and perhaps even get a glimpse of Mr. Scrimshank. Betty explained that she and Tom had lived next door but one to the Edmondses in London. Stan poked Tom playfully in the ribs, saying some got lucky after playing the lottery only once, while their friends who played every week never won a bean.
Just as I was starting to miss Ben, he came into the hall from the other end of the house, which made for another buzz of greetings and a flurry of handshaking. I wove my way toward him, intent on telling him that Mrs. Malloy and I were heading out the door. He looked up from listening to something Frances Edmonds was telling him, but he didn’t catch my eye.
The front door had opened, a woman came into the hall, and all conversation and movement stopped. It would have been impolite to go on talking. But there was more to it. Any entrance by this woman would have had a similar impact. Impossible for all eyes not to be drawn to her. She was wearing a peasant skirt, which swirled softly with each step, and an off-the-shoulder lawn blouse. Her legs were bare, and she was wearing a pair of high-heeled shoes with narrow crisscrossed straps. I knew they had a gold-leaf design on the back, because Mrs. Malloy had a pair exactly like them. My cousin Vanessa is a fashion model and stunning, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone this lovely. Hair the color and shine of blackberries, skin like cream, eyes bluer than any sky, and cheeks brushed with rose. The ideal of Irish beauty proclaimed in soulful ballads.
“Hello, Val.” Tom shifted his gaze between Mrs. Malloy and me. More introductions, he had to be thinking.
“Have I come at a bad time?” The voice had the slightest of lilts. Betty said something, I didn’t catch what, because Ben brushed past me without a glance. It seemed to me that what happened next did so in slow motion. I saw him take hold of the woman’s hands, heard the surprised query in his voice.
“Valeria? How do you come to be here?”
“Ben?” I could hear her intake of breath. “It can’t be! We’re imagining this, aren’t we?” She leaned into him, her face hidden on his shoulder. The smallest sound-a shifting foot, Tom’s hand smoothing down the lapel of his sports jacket-became magnified. The ticking of the long case clock seemed to be coming from inside me. In a moment it would explode. I saw Val-Valeria-draw back from my husband as if it required all the strength at her disposal to do so. She was still holding his hands. They were holding hands. At last she spoke, in a voice between a sob and a laugh.
“Betty, Tom… however did this happen? Ben and I know each other! We met when I was training in the travel agency and he was working in his uncle’s restaurant.”
There was nothing to disturb me in this disclosure. Old friends meeting again; what could be nicer? The way Ben avoided looking at me when going up to her had been bothersome. But that was nothing compared to the shuttered expression on his face when his eyes finally met mine.
6
I don’t know as I like to bring it up,” Mrs. Malloy said in a deplorably smug voice, as I drove past the Dower House and turned onto the road in the direction of Milton’s Moor’s business area.
“Then don’t.” My voice was tart, and I didn’t regret it.
“All right. Keep your hair on, Mrs. H!”
She should have said chauffeur’s cap. I was proud of my professional handling of the car. My hands were steady on the wheel, my nose pointed in the right direction. I wasn’t blubbering, begging for the loan of a hanky, or leaning my head on her shoulder, any of which many a woman would have done under the circumstances. She was the one looking as if she had been struck a mortal blow.
“I’m sorry for snapping. Please go ahead with what you wanted to say,” I told her. We were passing the man with the sheepdog I had noticed on our arrival. I no longer cared about their romantic appearance. I hated romance. It was the root of all evil. From now on I would read only nonfiction. My favorites would be appliance manuals.
“I expect you’re missing the children,” Mrs. Malloy answered forgivingly, “but don’t you worry. They’ll be having the time of their lives with their grandparents and that dear little dog, Sweetie, to play with. That is, if he hasn’t come down with rabies; he looked like he might be doing that the last time I saw him. But as I said to you then, very likely that breed always foams at the mouth.”
“Say what it is you don’t want to say.”
“It seems silly.”
“Please!” I was tempted to bury my face in my hands, if it wouldn’t have made for irresponsible driving.
“Well, it’s about her shoes. They was the same as mine.”
“Whose shoes?” As if I didn’t know.
“Val’s. Or Valeria, as Mr. H called her.”
“It’s a lovely name. Therefore, perfect for her.” I continued driving at a steady speed; my foot did not vibrate on the pedal; I did not roll down the window, stick my head out, and shout something nasty at a passing clump of trees.
“Yes, well…” Without looking at her, I knew Mrs. Malloy was pursing her lips and looking judicious. “I suppose there’s bound to be some as would say she’s not bad-looking, but I don’t think she’d win a prize for her legs. Which is why I feel I can say, without boasting, that them shoes didn’t look near as good on her as they do on me.”