“Admirably.” My hands relaxed. No need to snatch back the letter to Dear Felicity. It only constituted an application; it was not a signing of the contract. I was ready to get out of here.
Ann held the paper between a finger and a thumb. Her eyes gleamed.
“Would you want me to tear this up if this were fact?”
“I…” Remember two important things, Ellie, I thought. You are not endangering Ben’s life and you are serving mankind. If you proceed to Point B-the telephone call-you may help accumulate enough evidence to call a halt to these vile murders. “Widowhood certainly becomes you, Ann.” I stood up.
She tapped the paper to her lips, picked up a black suede handbag, and dropped the paper inside. Then she went to stand by the fireplace, looking up into the gilded mirror. Her reflected eyes met mine.
“Life is what we make of it, don’t you agree, Ellie? If there were a Merry Widows Club, I would have had to worm my way in because my marital situation wouldn’t have met the admission requirements. Charles was incapable of having an affair, that is, with anyone except himself. But rumour, goodness knows who started it, buzzed it about that he was carrying on with Miss Thorn, of all pitiful people. I have always thought that lies are so much more credible when far-fetched. Although Charles did seem to rather like the poor wretch.”
Ann turned back to me, her fingers stroking the blackbird brooch. “My only regret concerning this death was your involvement. I like you, Ellie, and I don’t like most women.”
“Bunty Wiseman, for instance?”
“You noticed.”
“Could it be that you are in love with her husband?” When would I learn to be discreet?
Ann’s smile vanished. She stared at me, perhaps without seeing me. I had gone too far.
“You’re right,” Ann said softly. “Lionel Wiseman affects me as no man ever has, and he was showing definite signs of being attracted to me before he went and married that piece of candy floss. The day you and I went to his office, I felt the room begin whirling the moment he entered. Here’s something amusing. I wrote a letter to Dear Felicity myself several weeks ago, just to cool off. I told her that I had this uncontrollable urge to rush into Lionel’s office and fling off my clothes.”
“I have the feeling I read that,” I murmured.
Ann gave no sign of hearing me. She removed a black hat from a rack on the wall and stood in front of the mirror, tilting the brim over her brow. “Of course, that was before I knew that there were other, more valid reasons for writing to Dear Felicity.” She adjusted the hat to another angle. “Ellie, I do hope our little chat has helped clear your head. It has mine. If there were a Merry Widows Club and I had my suspicions as to the identity of its founder, I might decide that I had waited long enough to approach that person and request a small favour. Widowhood is pleasant, as I have said, but I don’t think I want to make it a way of life.” She stopped talking to herself in the mirror and addressed me. “How about lunch, after which I do have an errand to run…”
Run was what I was going to do, run to the nearest telephone kiosk. Ann’s last words were fraught with ominous possibilities. I stammered that I couldn’t make lunch. I had to get out of this room. But suddenly it was a long way down the stairs, through the amber velvet curtains, across the shop floor to the fresh air of the world outside.
21
“Miss Hyacinth or Miss Primrose Tramwell, please.” I stood in the telephone kiosk at the corner of Market and Herring streets, convinced I was being photographed by hidden cameras.
“Sorry to keep you, love,” said the female voice from the Pebblewell Hotel. “Our gentleman at Reception says the ladies left word they’d be out all afternoon, fishing.”
Hair curtaining my face, I stepped into the pedestrian flow. Out baiting their hooks, were they? The tower clock struck noon. My conversation with Ann kept scraping round and round in my head, with certain names making the loudest noise. Bunty and Lionel Wiseman. I stepped back into the kiosk and dialed Bunty’s number. What would I say to her? Ann Delacorte is out to get your husband… and maybe you too. No answer. I hung up.
Another name bounced out at me. Teddy Peerless. She had found Charles’s body. She was in that photograph with Edwin Digby and the young woman I presumed was his daughter, and Teddy was closely acquainted with both Wisemans. I had no idea what rivers the Tramwells might be fishing, but I would tackle the pond.
Pushing open the street door, I mounted the bottle-green staircase to the offices of Bragg, Wiseman & Smith.
“Hello, Teddy.”
No answering smile. Her hands kept moving, ruffling through cardboard folders in the file cabinet. “You made me jump.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to the back of her head. Why this feeling that she had been expecting me for some time? I came further into the room, put my hand on the desk, and took it off again. “I see you’re busy, but if you haven’t had lunch, Teddy, could we go somewhere-not Abigail’s-and talk?”
“I can’t.” Teddy finally turned to me, a folder held to the front of her cardigan. It struck me that she looked more beige than ever. Her prominent teeth bit into her lower lip, but otherwise her face was expressionless. Bunty had provided a detailed account of what Teddy Peerless was-daughter of an earl, neglected sister, dedicated secretary-but did even Bunty know who Teddy was?
“Are you afraid to be seen with me because people are making nasty jokes about Charles’s death?”
“I am not.” Her voice was flat, but something stirred in her face. I thought I saw sympathy, the desire to tell me something.
“Liar!” squalled a voice. I jumped. I had forgotten the parrot. It pranced gleefully upon its perch. Avoiding his knowing eyes, I said, “How about a half hour, Teddy? You have to eat sometime, and I need to discuss that night at Abigail’s.”
Her face had gone neutral again. “Mrs. Haskell, I have a will that has to be typed immediately.”
“Liar!”
Lady Theodora-I couldn’t continue thinking of her as Teddy when I had ceased being Ellie to her-closed the file cabinet and began organising stray paper clips on her blotter. I sat down because I didn’t know what else to do with my legs.
“I’ll talk fast,” I began. “I’ve been trying to put together all the higgledy-piggledy pieces of the night when Charles died. When I was leaving the room to talk to a man-who turned out to be Mr. Digby”-her hands stopped moving-“you and I collided. And even though my mind was on other things, I was struck by how agitated you looked. Mrs. Malloy, who works for me, had mentioned earlier that you seemed bothered by the presence of Dr. Bordeaux-”
“I can understand, El… Mrs. Haskell, that what happened was a distressing experience for you and your husband, but really, you sound irrational on the subject.” A paper clip landed in a tin with an earth-shattering ping. “A man unfortunately died. What do I have to do with that?”
“I want to know why you found him, why you went into the office.”
“Bite your tongue!” screeched the parrot.
Teddy was now taking the paper clips out of the tin. “As I told the police, I simply mistook that office for the powder room.”
“Why?” I stood up. “There would have been a sign-one of those stiff girls with the triangular skirts-on the door.”
“Please excuse me.” Teddy crossed to the far side of the desk. The protruding teeth gnawed at her lower lip.
“Did you see Mr. Digby?” I asked. “Were you upset and wanting a place to escape for a few minutes? Is Mr. Digby your brother, returned here under an assumed name… and a beard?”