The kitchen door would not open. Either it had locked behind me or, having conditioned myself never to leave a door unlatched, I had automatically pressed the catch.
Hope springs eternal. I checked the front door and all the French windows, all the while keeping my final ace at my fingertips-at least our bedroom window was open. I could see the maroon curtains billowing in the wind.
Also billowing in the wind was a fresh supply of snow. The first cold flakes fell on my head as, dressing gown hitched up, I headed for the stables to get a ladder. The stable was locked. My fault: I had insisted it be kept so since Roxie had planted those notions about the Raincoat Man.
Okay, so I must risk Freddy’s mockery and present myself at the cottage door. Brushing back my hair, which had to resemble the tails of dead animals, I slogged down the driveway. At the cottage, the final blow fell. No answer and another locked door. Who would have envisioned I would curse the day Freddy was corrupted by the work ethic?
Think positive. Roxie had a key to the house. All I had to do was find a phone and summon her to my aid. Clinging to the wrought iron gates, snow falling on my cheeks, I studied my choices. To my right stood the vicarage, inhabited by Rowland. Friend. To my left, perhaps ten minutes further from Merlin’s Court, stood the house of Mr. Edwin Digby. Stranger.
I knotted my hair about my neck and started walking. There was, of course, no need for laboured deliberation. Rowland was young and handsome. Mr. Digby was a middle-aged tippler who delighted in the gruesome.
From the Files of
Monday, 27th April, 7:00 A.M.
President:
Good morning, Mrs. Hanover. Did I wake you?… Yes, I’m sure, in the public house business one would rise early. And to good news this morning!… That’s it-your voluntary services are needed at a Retirement Party this coming Friday, the first of May. Mrs. Hanover… Mrs. Hanover. Are you there?
Mrs. Hanover:
Forgive me… I… (Sounds of weeping.)
President:
Mrs. Hanover, I do trust you are not having second thoughts after all the time and energy expended in training you for-
Mrs. H.:
Heavens, no! Not for the world. One is so thrilled, for the minute one couldn’t speak.
President:
Then I will report your concurrence to the board and ring you again this evening with the details.
Mrs. H.:
Such an honour! Words… words quite fail one.
14
… Primrose gasped. “A young woman, partially clothed, entering the premises of a single gentleman of unsteady reputation! May we hope, dear Ellie, that Mr. Digby did nothing to make you blush!”…
“The last time I admitted an unknown woman reeking pathos to this house, she pocketed a silver table lighter.”
The great Edwin Digby might have walked straight from the pages of his own genre: goatee beard, natty daffodil-hued waistcoat, grey hair crinkling back from a lofty forehead, rheumy eyes under brows which twirled at the ends to tilt sinisterly upward. We were seated in his study, a red velour room crammed with Victoriana and dominated by a massive desk on which sat a cast-iron typewriter and a turbulence of papers, a hint that Mary Birdsong also dwelt here.
“I do not smoke.” I spoke with credible aplomb, considering I was dressed like a film extra from Gandhi. Mr. Digby’s eyes travelled from my towel turban to the three-piece suit I had taken (per his instructions) from the wardrobe in his bedroom.
I looked down at my boots, wishing they weren’t six sizes too big. Fleeing through the snow in these would be no joke. “Thank you for the loan of dry clothes, I-”
My host sank deeper into his leather chair. “Mrs. Haskell, pray do not use the borrowed apparel as an excuse to pursue an acquaintance which we would both find tedious.
Should your husband not wish to add the suit to his wardrobe, your woman will know of some indigent worthy.” The lizard lids narrowed. “I trust you reached this Mrs. Malloy on the telephone?”
I inclined my top-heavy head an inch. Detestable Mr. Digby. He stroked the goatee with a bony finger. “And she will not tarry in bringing your key?”
I pushed up my sleeves, then yanked them back down. He hadn’t so much as offered me a cup of tea. “She swore on the telephone directory, Mr. Digby, that she would haste herself to the bus stop and commit hijacking if necessary to get here.”
The fingers stopped moving.
“You are fortunate, Mrs. Haskell, in having so devoted a servant.”
“No.” I looked him smack in the eye. “Mary Birdsong is fortunate in having so devoted a fan.”
Mr. Digby grimaced, which did nothing to make him more appealing. “You err in your attempted flattery, madam. Nothing could be more abhorrent to me than some female churl, autograph album clutched to her overripe bosom, bleating a path to my door. Be warned-the instant she arrives, out you both go into the snow.” He withdrew his gaze to the frosted window.
“I understand, sir, you have not written a book in years. Aren’t you glad that some of your fans are still alive?”
The eyebrows vee’d sharply upward; Mr. Digby crossed his legs at the ankle, showing yellow socks to match the waistcoat. “Mrs. Haskell, I have been misled by the yokels at The Dark Horse, that home away from home wherein I quaff away the nights.” Easing out of his chair, he paced, somewhat unsteadily, to a cluttered buffet and unstoppered a decanter. “Will you join me in a glass of Madeira?”
“Tea would be rather welcome, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Far too much trouble.”
I punched down my turban. “How were you misled, Mr. Digby, about me?”
He replaced the stopper in the decanter. “Into supposing that in comparison to your rent-a-date spouse you are a creature of dolorous decorum.”
So! Word was out that Ben and I had met through Eligibility Escorts. Any one of my relations could have ferreted out the truth and spread their X-rated version. Or had Ben spilled the beans to Freddy? Never mind. Our love story may have started out as a commercial venture, but it had matured into passion, tenderness, and truth, if you delete a few moments here and there.
“Bentley was employed by a highly respectable service. I am not ashamed of how we met.”
Mr. Digby’s eyebrows twitched. “Assuredly your meeting was worth every penny it cost you.” He downed the Madeira while I delved deep for something vicious to say in response, but he was quicker off the mark.
“I hear the transvestite who threw himself upon your bridal altar has, in essence, moved in with you.”
Would Roxie never get here with that key! “My cousin Frederick is an estimable young man with an exuberant sense of humour, which I adore. He is of invaluable assistance to my husband.”
“Relieving you of certain duties, no doubt.” Mr. Digby swigged his second Madeira and poured another. “Does rumour lie or is your husband about to foist a new restaurant upon this community? One which specialises in unpronounceable food at unaffordable prices.” He watched me nastily over the rim of his glass.
He circled the buffet, twirling the glass slowly between the fingers of both hands. “Your husband, in addition to his other peccadilloes, appears to be a man of industry. I hear he has recently authored a cookery book, laced with herbal nostalgia. One would have thought the world already harbors sufficient recipes for tomato soup, but I surmise that you, in your blind, wifely devotion, believe Mr. Haskell is now in my league?”