Delacorte’s bow window was lush with treats. There was a late nineteenth-century copper kettle and matching trivet, an embroidered shawl draped over an easel. Cold and repellent Mr. Charles Delacorte might be, but he did know his business.
I entered to a tinkling rendition of the William Tell Overture. Should I stick an apple on my head and stand to attention? Better not. The crossbow hanging on the wall behind the brass till looked in good working order, and above, a quiver sprouted bolts like a porcupine. Oh, good! There were my picture frames. Now all I needed was someone to sell them to me quickly before I began filling my arms with things I couldn’t live without. I coveted so much here except-the feeling crept over me slowly-the ambience. This was odd because usually I love the reek of age. I moved between tables, fingering an enamelled snuff box and a pair of silver grape scissors. Was it that everything here was almost too indicative of a stage antique shop? Those amber velvet curtains screening the nether regions should part right now and a body plummet to the floor. As I watched, they did inch apart and Charles Delacorte entered.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Haskell.” Inclining his head of fair hair and consulting his watch, he stationed himself behind the counter. As I went up to him, the curtain spread again and Ann came in. Today she was wearing an olive green brocade suit, the skirt narrow, the jacket pinched at the waist and fanned out over her hips. Her dark hair was puffed into a roll in front, the back falling in a smooth pageboy behind. Very elegant and undoubtedly the height of fashion forty years ago.
“Ellie, how charming to see you.” Her cool hands touched mine. “I have been wanting to tell you again how radiant you were as a bride.”
“Thank you.”
“And the wedding dress was a good fit? When you bought it, I was somewhat concerned about the waist.”
“Oh?” I clutched my side.
“I thought it might be too big.”
“How kind… of you to worry.”
“My dear wife lives and breathes worry.” Charles Delacorte’s voice chilled the room. “What is one more sleepless night in a good cause?” Horrible man. Other than sharing his interest in antiques, what could have possessed Ann to marry him? That she could ever have loved him was frightening.
“I did appreciate your help in selecting the dress,” I told her.
“You are certainly intrepid, Mrs. Haskell,” commented the man with acid flowing through his veins. “My wife might have sent you down the aisle dressed as the ghost of Joan Crawford.” He picked up a silver-backed mirror and buffed it. “Not that your wedding lacked excitement.”
Ann touched my arm and gave a low laugh. “Charles likes to tease about my taste in dress.”
“I have never found the forties interesting.” He jiggled a finger on one of the keys of the till.
Ann, who would never see thirty-nine again, pressed a hand to her throat and laughed. “I suppose I am time warped, but I admire everything about that era. Those were the days when I was happy, perhaps not a child prodigy, but a child success. I could sing, and I had parents who wanted me to shine. They entered me in talent contests and for several years I toured the country.” Her eyes took on a far-away look; she leaned against the counter, one hand rippling along its surface as if it were a piano keyboard.
And suddenly, incredibly, she began to sing, “Where did you go, man of my tears, leaving nothing on my horizon, but lonely, lonely years…”
I was excruciatingly embarrassed. Charles Delacorte was smiling as if his wife had finally made his day. Her voice (which wasn’t great) petered out. She gave a choked laugh.
“As well I retired at age ten, isn’t it? I never had the magic of the greats like Sylvania. Hers was a voice like Irish whiskey, all fire and passion. I did a show with her once.” The far-away look was back in Ann’s eyes. “She must have been about eighteen at the time, and she lit up the place with her sequins and her flaming hair. She sang ‘Goodbye, Again.’ I wanted to grow up to be exactly like her.” Ann lifted a hand to her face. “I don’t need you, Charles, to tell me that she was a great beauty and I never was. But I think my figure is comparable; I’m still thirty-eight, twenty-three, thirty-seven. One of the benefits of never having had children.”
Charles fixed his arctic gaze on me, increasing my discomfort. A clock chimed the quarter hour and I slid the picture frames across the counter and opened my bag. I had yet to overcome my feeling that measurements were a private matter, never to be casually discussed, especially in mixed company.
“I’m not really familiar with this Sylvania.” I glanced at the bill Charles handed me and started writing out a cheque.
Ann moved around the counter. “She shunned publicity. Her private life was always exactly that. There were rumours that she was secretly married, first to this man and that and even that she had children. But then her music went out of style, like this dress. For ages nothing was written about her, except for the occasional piece in the gossip papers pondering her fade-out and hinting that some tragedy had befallen her.”
Poor lonely Ann. Forty-some years old and a crush on a dead singer. I was tucking my parcel under my arm when the William Tell Overture sounded again. Gladys Thorn entered the shop.
Surprisingly, Charles Delacorte warmed to tepid enthusiasm. He smoothed his transparent hair and adjusted the knot of his tie.
“Good afternoon, Miss Thorn. Have you come to look at that sheet music which Dr. Simon Bordeaux discovered in an old trunk at The Peerless Nursing Home?”
“Oh, how well you read me, Mr. Delacorte!” The organist’s skin soaked up an unbecoming blush and she adjusted her spectacles to a more lopsided angle. “I have long been aching to do something special for Lady Theodora. She has been so good, assisting with the children’s choir. And always so jolly-saying she is the ideal person because she is tone deaf. Do you agree, Mr. Delacorte, that she would like the music as a souvenir of the childhood home whence she was so cruelly evicted by her male relations?”
“Why not? I almost wish I could make a present of the music to you.”
Ann, who had come to stand beside me, looked at him as though she couldn’t believe her ears.
Miss Thorn twisted her hands. “Oh no, I couldn’t permit that. I do have my little private income, you know. Of course, I’m not an heiress like-” Miss Thorn gave a start and squinted at me through the thick lenses which magnified her eyes to mushrooms.
“Mrs. Haskell! How rude of me! But truly I didn’t see you, or rather”-another grievous adjustment to the spectacles-“see that you were you.”
“Nice to see you.”
“How incredibly kind-oh, Mrs. Haskell, I do wish to mention that I find your cousin so convivial. As does the vicar. Twice at services, on consecutive weekends. And to come such a distance!”
“Freddy?” He who eschewed habitual churchgoing on the grounds that familiarity breeds contempt? Well, it must be all of two minutes on the bike…
Ann murmured that she was slipping into the back to fetch her coat.
“The person who interrupted our-your-beautiful wedding?” exclaimed Miss Thorn. “Oh no, I haven’t seen him at church but I suppose he is very busy with your husband-and business.” I wished people would stop talking of Ben and Freddy as if they were inseparable schoolboys. Miss Thorn peeled back the collar of her coat, revealing a crimson blouse. “Your cousin’s so friendly and… flattering. She suggested I wear red more often to heighten my natural vivacity.”
That blouse made Miss Thorn look as though all her blood had drained from her to it. Vanessa! How dare she go to church-my church! This was my punishment for not attending the last two Sundays. What was she up to? A thought slid into mind but I swiftly dismissed it. Rowland was too strong to be taken in by empty beauty and rampant sex appeal. No, cousin Vanessa wanted to nose out any gossip about Ben and me. But she wouldn’t luck out.