I took a step toward Teddy and almost went sprawling. Sweetie bundled over my feet and streaked into the reception room. Shouts. Shrieks. Laughter. A lone cry of “How unsanitary!” Teddy was feeling her way along the wall and Magdalene was wrenching at my arm.
“I brought her in the punch bowl for a little company. Oh, Blessed Mother, what will Ben say?”
She was about to find out. The front door opened wide-Mr. Digby exited; Ben and Poppa entered.
“Your foolish husband got up when my back was turned,” shouted Poppa. “He skulked down to that cottage, helped himself to your cousin’s clothes, and phoned for a taxi, which broke down coming up the hill. So we waited and waited for another. Your husband is worn out. What about me?”
I didn’t have enough arms, enough feet. I tried to reach Teddy with my free hand while watching in horror as Ben staggered, white-faced, up the stairs. He collapsed at the exact moment that Teddy’s cry rang out: “Charles Delacorte is in the office! Dead!”
From the Files of
Monday, 3rd May
Memorandum to President:
I am pleased to report that on the evening of Friday, 1st May, all went according to plan. At 7:36 P.M. I engaged the Subject To Be Retired in conversation and under cover of asking him to sign the Lighthouse Petition (it is an ill wind, etc.), made the prearranged substitution. Whereupon I did feel concern that he might not eat what was put before him. Happily he did and began wheezing almost immediately. Mrs. Hanover stepped forward and assisted in propelling the S.T.B.R from the room, offering assurances that all he needed was a little fresh air. We then took him to the office two doors down from the reception room and sat him in the desk chair. After assuring him there was no need to summon his wife-the less fuss the better-I went to fetch his inhaler from his coat. Ten seconds later Mrs. Hanover left to telephone for medical assistance, after which she proceeded to inform subject’s wife, he had been taken ill.
I deliberately failed to find inhaler until I had searched twenty-four pockets, as suggested on my receiving this assignment. When I came out of the cloakroom, with aforementioned in hand, the news was sweeping the building that S.T.B.R. was dead.
I wish to commend Mrs. Hanover for her splendid cooperation. Also, many thanks to the other members of The Widows Club for their moral support during the evening. The speed and efficiency of The Founder speaks for itself.
In response to the request that I voice any feelings of distress I may have experienced since the retirement, let me state that distress is too strong a word for the vague unease I have felt, since the night of 1st May. This is not associated with subject’s death but with the admission of his widow (upon my nomination) to our membership. I now feel (without being able to define) that she does not fulfill the lofty standards that are the rock upon which The Widows Club is built.
Respectfully submitted,
Millicent E. Parsnip
Part Three
19
At last my story was over. I had told these strange women my macabre tale and now must go home to my husband.
“The important thing is that Ben is going to be all right.” Hyacinth interrupted my thoughts.
“The important thing,” I contradicted, “is that Charles Delacorte is dead. And by my hand. He was allergic to seafood as well as other things such as cats. That was why he was always picking through the sandwiches and occasionally sniffing them for good measure. But I outfoxed him. I made some of my chicken tarts with tuna, remember?”
“My dear, dear Ellie.” Primrose proffered the smelly salts. “Of course we remember. And you should remember that although these club women may not be our sort in some ways, they are not stupid. They would never have banked on your running out of chicken. No, indeed! One of them will have brought along something fishy in disguise-possibly a look-alike tart-and fed it to Mr. Delacorte when he wasn’t looking. You had received many requests for them.”
My shoulders sagged. “Even so, Charles Delacorte may well have eaten one of my tuna tarts before he got to theirs. I can never be certain I didn’t cause his death.”
Hyacinth snapped the green book closed. “Stop wallowing, Ellie. If we all went around worrying about who we might have accidentally killed, we would never get any work done. And set to work we must.”
That was, I trusted, the royal we. Shifting in my chair, I stared at the clock on the wall. Nine o’clock. We had sat in the rose and green coffee room at Abigail’s for hours. We had drunk innumerable cups of tea and dispatched William Butler to the kitchen so many times he was undoubtedly dizzy or asleep. I wanted to go home to Ben.
On the morning after The Death, Dr. Melrose had come out to Merlin’s Court and confirmed my diagnosis of a relapse. Ben was now suffering from a viral condition contracted while in a weakened condition and aggravated by gate-crashing his own party.
Generally speaking, I think Ben was pleased with his setback. Now he could call a halt to conversation simply by closing his eyes.
It had been a bleak moment when I had confessed to him about the fake chicken tarts. What I had done violated the fundamentals of his professional code. He was sorry about Charles, but it could not be said he felt his loss keenly. Momentarily hope had flickered in Ben’s eyes. If I were to keep quiet at the inquest and let it be thought that Charles had absentmindedly scoffed a tuna toastie… but Ben was pulled up short by his conscience and I by the memory that Bunty had been present when I made the tuna/chicken tarts.
The ruin of my husband’s dreams stared me in the face. His professional integrity was in question. No one would patronize Abigail’s; no one would buy the cookery book. Ben would become the butt of such jokes as, Chicken by any other name is not the same. Perhaps if we were to flee the country and start afresh under an assumed name, things might improve. But for the present, all I could do for Ben was not to burden him with my guilt and misery.
I insisted he obey Dr. Melrose’s orders not to attend the inquest. I even talked glibly about what I would wear to the funeral and whether we should send a wreath or a cross. On the plus side, I felt glad the pressure of having me as a daughter-in-law was bringing Magdalene and Eli closer together. They eyed each other sometimes over my head. Ben closed his eyes a lot. I was glad that he bought the notion that I was shrugging the matter aside. At the same time, I resented his not seeing through me.
But did he? Had we been deluding ourselves that ours was a grand passion because the circumstances under which we had met had been so romantic? To say nothing of all that romantic money. I kept remembering the wedding reception and those whispers in the hall.
“A shame she didn’t marry the vicar.” “This one is much too good-looking.” “She’s bound to get fat again. People do when they’re happy.”
“Poor Ellie.” Primrose leaned across the seersucker tablecloth and touched her papery hands to my face. “Indeed I know how you must feel. Every time I step on a beetle I anguish, but it is our duty as Christians to combat grief with work.”
“Which,” Hyacinth cut in briskly, “offers the additional advantage of being an excellent means of getting things done. Ellie, should you sincerely wish to redeem Ben’s reputation and your own self-esteem, I urge you to help Flowers Detection in the noble endeavour of uncovering the identity of the founder of this widows club. In so doing you may find that Charles Delacorte’s allergy to fishy food didn’t kill him per se; it was used to reduce him to a state of helplessness so that someone hidden in the study could step out and quickly and easily smother him without suspicions of foul play being aroused. Someone could have had a plastic bag in her pocket.”