“Kill, kill!” shrieked the parrot. “Drown the pretty damsel in the nearest sea!”
“Silence, you old barnacle. And how do you do, Mrs. Haskell.” Lionel Wiseman filled the small office, not only on account of his height and powerful build, but because he was (with full apologies to Ben) powerfully handsome.
“Abigail’s lease holding up?” He was still clasping my hand and I didn’t know whether it would be ungracious to remove it or inappropriately friendly to leave it there.
“The lease is doing splendidly. I came to ask your secretary to lunch-but another time. I did phone Bunty, but she was out.”
He held the door for me, his gold cuff links gleaming. “My wife keeps herself entertained. I count myself fortunate if I find her at home in the evenings.”
Teddy was back at the files. As I went down the stairs and out into Market Street, I remembered Roxie saying the village gossips didn’t believe the Wisemans were married. What, I wondered, was Bunty’s real name? Something awful she had said. Something… beginning with a “W”?
When I entered the kitchen at Merlin’s Court, Magdalene and Poppa were at the table having lunch, the earthenware teapot between them. Sweetie lay across Magdalene’s feet, grunting out little snores. Tobias was a mere dangle of tail from an upper cupboard. My in-laws weren’t talking, but the silence was of the sort that binds people together.
“Back with us, are you, Giselle?” Magdalene flitted up from her chair. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you want a sandwich.”
I stripped off my gloves and unbuttoned my coat. “I would like two, please, and some of that soup.” As Magdalene disappeared into the pantry for bread, Poppa’s voice spoke in my ear.
“Such a feisty one, that woman! Doesn’t look a day over sixty-five, does she?” Was this the man who had talked about Mrs. Jarrod with a similar gleam in his dark brown eyes? Could it be that he was over that woman? I hung up my coat in the alcove. In his favourite red cardigan and leather slippers. Poppa didn’t look like a lecher and even less like a man who would decide to revitalize his marriage by injecting a little jealousy. But then did Miss Thorn look like a vamp? Or Teddy Peerless a woman with a secret? Or the Tramwells detectives? Did I look like a woman who could inspire a grand and undying passion in a breathtakingly handsome man? Well I had, which goes to show that you can’t tell anything about anyone, especially murderers.
After lunch, all three of us did the washing up. I had just put away the last cup and Magdalene had rearranged the handle when the phone rang. I didn’t think the Tramwells would ring me; we had arranged it would be the other way around, but out in the hall I dropped the receiver before getting it to my ear.
“Did I tell you this morning how much I love you?”
“I believe so, thank you, and… ditto.”
“Is one or more parent lurking in the immediate vicinity?” Ben’s voice dropped to a stage whisper.
“That could be so.” Apart from Rufus and his mate, I was alone in the hall, but the memory of my visit to Ann stung, and what’s one more lie in a healthy marriage?
“I’ve been thinking, Ellie.” Holding the receiver was almost like touching him. I could see him, the dark brows coming together, the intensity of his blue-green gaze. One of the more unsettling features of frigidity is that it leaves you at the worst possible moments.
“What have you been thinking, Ben?”
“That it may be time to give the parents a nudge. I am sorry about their problems, but I am not sure coddling them is the answer. Living with us is like living in a hotel for them. They are together without ever meeting, if you know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
“Ben, we can’t hustle them. For starters, your father hasn’t finished my cake. It’s turning into a drawing room conversation piece. Also, I am sure there is more to their marital difficulties than Mrs. Jarrod.”
“You don’t think that Poppa could be… one hates to suggest such a thing about one’s own father, but… well, impotent, and he’s been trying to give himself an out?” Ben’s voice dropped lower. “If it is that, I hope it isn’t… hereditary.”
“Ben, it doesn’t do to make wild guesses.”
“You’re right. And I should worry about my own life. Ellie, there’s more to our marital situation than I can put my finger on.”
Oh, the folly of marrying a man of above-average intelligence!
“Sorry, Ben, but there goes the doorbell. I have to go.”
“Let Poppa or-”
Pretending not to hear, I hung up. Chalk up another lie; I hadn’t even asked Ben if the luncheoners at Abigail’s had included any patrons other than himself and the staff. I whispered into the empty hall. “All for your own good, my darling. You will thank me for my strong-mindedness when single-handedly (give or take Flowers Detection) I unmask The Founder and restore your professional reputation.”
The phone rang again as I was prying my hand off the receiver. Don’t let it be Ben. I might lose all control and beg him to abscond with me to a desert island.
“Ellie, such a thrill finding you at home.” Vanessa’s voice breezed into my ear. “I’m at the London flat, but I plan to come down to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang next Saturday and wonder if you and I could get together for a cousinly chat?”
I didn’t like this. Was she out of work and forced to pawn one of her furs? With so many illusions already stripped away-Ann, Miss Thorn; and big questions raised about Teddy and… Bunty-I wasn’t ready for anything that would put a crimp in a lifetime of loathing Vanessa.
“Is something wrong?”
“What a foolish question. Life for me began to fall apart when you got married and I realised that none of the important things-looks, charm, style-counted for anything.”
“Does Rowland fit into this?”
She smirked audibly, said, “See you Saturday evening,” and hung up.
I almost wished the phone would ring again. The prospect of nothing to do stared me in the face. My thoughts weren’t good company. Had I read too much into my conversation with Ann? She had admitted she hadn’t loved Charles and that she wanted him dead. We had discussed a book by a local author and played a silly charade of writing to an advice columnist. I had felt concern for Bunty as the wife-in-the-way; but as it seemed highly unlikely that a wife-murdering organisation had set itself up in competition with The Widows Club, Ann would surely be content with trying to break up the Wisemans’ marriage. An anonymous letter here, a venomous word there… I paced the flagstones in the hall.
Desperation, it was once said by my mother, makes geniuses of us all. Inspiration struck as I foresaw an afternoon-alone-of listening to the clock tick.
The Peerless Nursing Home. Confirmation or negation could be found there. So, alas, could Dr. Bordeaux. Grabbing the telephone before I could lose my nerve, I dialed directory enquiries, got the number, and stuffed a finger, which felt big and boneless as a sausage, into the dial hole. In that moment I empathised deeply with obscene callers everywhere.
“The Peerless Nursing Home.”
“Gggg.” In deepening my voice it went so low I lost it. Start again. “Good afternoon, this is Nurse Jones”-oh, come on!-“from the Cottage Hospital. Our Dr. Brown… ing is having some problems with a patient in Psychiatric-a woman with sixty-one different personalities, a record, Dr. Browning believes, and he wonders if Dr. Simon Bordeaux would be free to come over immediately and offer some helpful hints? The case promises to be written up in all major medical journals.”
“I’m sure Doctor would have been only too pleased, Nurse Jones. But this is Doctor’s afternoon off. He has already left the premises. If another time would suit Dr. Browning?”
“I don’t think so; the patient isn’t expected to live more than half an hour. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so to speak.”