I told Ellie about the awful fix we’re in regarding our upcoming social engagement,” Betty informed Tom a half hour later.
Our merry bunch was in the dining room, grouped around a large, beautifully polished oval table set with Royal Derbyshire china, sterling silver, and sparkling crystal, all a delight to the eye. The wallpaper was a watered raspberry silk, the carpet centered on the parquet floor a prize from the Orient, the chandelier dazzling, the William and Mary display cabinets a repository of treasures. Val of the Dower House had again performed her magic. I could only wonder if the Hopkinses had stretched their multimillions too thin, forcing them to cut down on milk and eggs in the coming weeks.
So far there seemed to be no shortage of provisions. Ben, with some assistance one presumed from Tom, Ariel, and Mrs. Malloy, had produced a sumptuous feast, making it hard for me to decide what to dig into first. The spinach salad with cilantro, garlic shrimp, and toasted pecans, the golden-crusted French onion quiche, or the little sausages simmered in a Bordeaux sauce?
“You told Ellie what, Betty?” Tom scrunched in his fair eyebrows and focused his protuberant blue eyes on his wife. Mrs. Malloy and Ariel picked up their knives and forks. Ben passed me a silver basket lined with white damask. Admiring the artfully arranged slices of crusty French bread, I wondered if it would appear piggish to take two.
“Come on, Tom, you know what I’m talking about!” snapped Betty.
Puzzlement faded; light dawned. “You mean the vicar, Mr. Hardcastle, bringing a retired clergyman over for Sunday tea tomorrow? Something about the old chap having visited Crag-stone as a boy and wanting the see the place again before he cops it. And here we are with Mrs. Cake off her feet and no possibility of putting on a decent spread.” Apparently satisfied that he’d answered well enough to avoid being sent to his room, Tom applied himself in an absent manner to the quiche on his plate.
“That’s not it.” Betty set down her water glass with a bang that would do little for its longevity. An hour earlier I would have dismissed this as outraged Barbie behavior. Our brief talk, however, had brought her into better focus. I wasn’t sure whether or not I liked her, but she was no longer a plastic doll. For better or worse she was flesh and blood. There was a spot on the lapel of her blue suit and several chips in her nail polish.
“Then if it’s not the tea party…?” Mrs. Malloy was well on her way to being admitted into the CPC (clean plates club), an honor unequal to that of being a lifelong member of the CFCWA (Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association) but nonetheless nice to have on one’s resume.
“It’s the big swank that’s set for Thursday afternoon,” said Ariel, her mouth full.
Betty ignored the curled lip. “The Milton Moor annual garden party. As I told Ellie, hosting it here has been a tradition. Reverend Hardcastle’s predecessor suggested it to the Gallaghers as a treat for the village children. It was arranged that it be held on the Thursday closest to the middle of July, children to be accompanied by at least one parent. Over the years the event expanded to include any of the local people who wished to attend. We weren’t here for any of the previous ones. But there are games for the children, three-legged and egg-and-spoon races, that sort of thing. Lady Fiona asked if we’d keep the tradition going after we moved in. She made quite a point of saying how much her husband had enjoyed it.”
Rather sweet of her, one would think, fondly sentimental, and yet Betty somehow succeeded in making her ladyship’s request sound sinister. An opportunity to enjoy the delightful sight of laughing, squealing children and thumping adults dancing on her husband’s grave?
“They didn’t entertain much otherwise.” Tom, having finished his quiche, made this contribution without prompting. “Very likely they couldn’t afford to splash about with the fizzy drinks. Apparently they’ve been short of funds for some time now.”
“Think that’s why Mr. Gallagher performed his disappearing act?” Ben raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“She was the one with the money and the house when they married.” Betty’s expression made its point: Lady Fiona, having discovered that her husband had squandered her inheritance, had lost her temper, slapped him with a shovel, and popped him in the wheelbarrow for future planting. “But to get back to the garden party. A couple of hundred people usually show up. Tents and chairs have to be set out, but that can be managed. The huge problem is the food. The Gallaghers, despite any financial difficulties, always put on quite a spread: catered of course, by an exclusive firm. She gave me the name, so that’s who I phoned, weeks ago. But late yesterday afternoon, when I rang to check that they had everything down pat, this nasty male voice ‘reminded’ me”-Betty clenched her hands-“that I’d phoned a couple of days ago to cancel.”
“Did you?” Ariel displayed wide-eyed interest.
“Of course not!”
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Malloy looked suitably shocked.
“I said there’d been a mistake, some sort of mix-up, but there was no getting through to that wretched voice. He kept going like a recording, saying it was too late to set things back up; another job had been accepted for that date. And when I really got exasperated and may even have yelled a bit, he said in a horridly haughty manner that I was wasting my breath and his time.”
I sat puzzling over the matter. If there hadn’t been a mix-up-as in the caterer having confused one client with another-who had made that cancellation phone call and why? Was there any reason to look further than the thirteen-year-old girl now neatly arranging her knife and fork on her empty plate?
“Did you ask him if the voice sounded like yours?” Mrs. Malloy was teetering around the table on her high heels, pouring coffee from a silver pot into fluted rimmed cups, a paragon of helpfulness in her nylon and lace pinny.
“I didn’t think. I was too shocked.”
“Darling Betty!” Ariel sympathized. “You must have been ready to chew glass.”
“And then to find out you’d run off!”
“Upsetting,” agreed Tom.
“Think of the talk-lottery winners too stingy to put on a decent spread! I was on the phone all morning before you arrived.” Betty’s gaze circled the table and fixed on Ben. “First one catering firm, then the next, but no luck. Every one of them was booked solid for this coming Thursday. But now you’re here, and you are Tom’s cousin, and”-her laugh was giddily nervous-“as the saying goes, family is family.”
“Blood’s thicker than water,” Ariel chanted.
“I think what Betty is trying to say”-Tom twiddled with his coffee spoon, set it down, then picked it up again-“well, to put it in a nutshell, Ben, it’s like this. If you and Ellie would consider staying on here for a few days-that’s if you can spare the time and don’t need to rush back home-we’d be no end appreciative of your help in getting us out of this fix.”
Ben’s eyes glinted with amusement. “I think we can manage that, don’t you, Ellie? It’ll be like the old days at Uncle Sol’s. Those were some good times.”
“I suppose they were.” Tom looked awkward. “Working that old-fashioned cash register. Perhaps I didn’t get as much out of it as I should.” This not sounding quite right, his fair skin reddened. “What I mean to say is, I don’t think I was cut out to be behind the till.”
“We should have stayed in touch,” said Ben.
“It’s been a lot of years.”
“Tom! Do stop twiddling!” Betty scolded.
“Sorry.” Tom dropped his coffee spoon with a silvery clatter into his saucer.
Betty turned to me. “You said Ben would agree. Some women do know their husbands. Can you persuade him to also work his magic for tomorrow’s afternoon tea?”
“A mini trial run, what could be better? But I’ll need my support team.” His smile took in Tom and Ariel but lingered on Mrs. Malloy, who was looking seriously put out.
“Well, I don’t know as I can say what’ll I’ll be doing or where I’ll be tomorrow afternoon, Mr. H,” she responded huffily. “It could be my sister will beg me to stay with her. Then again, maybe she won’t and I’ll find meself a nice hotel with one of them services offering back massages and facials.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” cried Betty in alarm. “I meant for you to stay on here as well; I assumed that would be understood. We want you to feel like one of the family, just as you do at Merlin’s Court.”
“I’ll need time away to see me sister,” Mrs. Malloy said firmly.
“Her employer, Mr. Scrimshank, is invited to tomorrow’s tea.” Betty inspected chipped nail polish. “It seemed a good idea, considering his friendship with Lady Fiona.”
“In that case it’s good I’ll be here to meet him.”
“Lady Fiona is also invited. Mr. Scrimshank claims to have received a phone call from Mr. Gallagher after his disappearance. It was then the police decided there was no further need to investigate.”
“Yes, do stay, Mrs. Malloy! You’re such fun!” Ariel’s eyes sparkled, and again I noticed some pink in her cheeks. Perhaps she would turn into a pretty young woman. But would she be a nice one? That was the question. Was there any point in asking her if it was she who had canceled the caterer?
“Fun? Not when I’m working, I’m not. Can’t be any frolicking about when there’s important jobs to be done. That’s spelled out in the charter of the CFCWA.”
“A local business organization of which Mrs. Malloy is a founding member and two-time chairwoman,” I explained, for the benefit of Tom and Betty’s blank looks.
“The Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association.” Mrs. M’s posture merited her royal purple ensemble. The turn of her head suggested the necessity of keeping a crown on straight. As chairwoman she wore one when presiding at annual meetings, and doubtless the memory lingered. “We have strict rules, Mrs. Hopkins, about honing in on another professional’s territory. I wouldn’t want to go upsetting Mrs. Cake by taking over her sink and cupboards like they was me own. She seemed a nice person. Sad to see her sitting with her foot up on a cushion while we was getting lunch. Had to make her feel out of things. Spoke to me very nice, she did. Told me where to find the washing-up liquid.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Cake will appreciate your pitching in for a few days.” Ben attempted to speed things along, and Tom agreed.
“Well, I wouldn’t want her forced back on her feet before she’s ready.” Mrs. Malloy adjusted her crown. “And I could be a big help getting some of the regular meals, along with keeping things straight while Mr. H is hard at it.”
“Then that’s settled!” Having done battle, Betty sat back.
“Not so fast. There’s the woman that comes in to do the cleaning: Mavis, I think you said her name was. I can’t be treading on her toes neither. It wouldn’t be right. And you’d be in a worse pickle, Mrs. Hopkins, if she was to take umbrage and walk out.”
“She’ll probably do that anyway. I had a set-to with her yesterday afternoon. It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t show up for work on Monday, let alone come in for a couple of hours to help with the tea tomorrow. Like she’d agreed to do.”
“I heard you going at her from three rooms away.” Tom showed emotion beyond his general awkwardness. He looked seriously upset. “It was embarrassing, especially with Val there. She’d just come in with a wallpaper book you had asked her to bring. Needless to say, there was no lingering; she got out the door fast.”
“People will say lottery winners forget how to treat the unfortunates of this world.” Ariel dropped her face in her hands, peeping through her fingers at me.
“Stop talking like you’re the conscience of the nation!” Betty looked ready to explode. “I had every reason to be furious. Mavis was nowhere to be found when I went looking for her. Probably outside smoking a cigarette or however she chooses to kill time. Then she had the nerve to ask me yet again if she could bring her little boy to work with her, because she can’t find anyone to watch him during the school holidays. When I repeated what I’ve said previously, that other women manage, especially ones with husbands sitting at home because they’re too lazy to work, it was Mavis who went off on me, saying she wouldn’t have brought the matter up if Mrs. Cake hadn’t told her she should. And then she flung a dirty dishcloth. She claimed she was aiming for the sink, but it got me smack in the face.”
Ariel giggled through her pried-apart fingers.
“I don’t see why she shouldn’t bring the little boy with her,” Tom said.
“And have him tear up the house!”
“Somebody for me to play with,” Ariel sobered sufficiently to suggest.
“He’s seven! And an absolute brat, from everything I’ve heard.”
“Lady Fiona let him come.” Tom leaned back in his chair, looking tired.
“Oh, that woman’s so vague.” Betty waved a dismissive hand. “She wouldn’t have noticed if he’d brought the place down around her. Or that’s the impression she gives. Besides, she didn’t have much left of value sitting around to get smashed. Most of it had gone to the sale room, remember?”
“It does become clear that I am needed here.” Mrs. Malloy assumed the burden with the graciousness befitting a monarch. “And”-her crown slipping just a bit-“it would be interesting to meet Mr. Scrimshank tomorrow afternoon in a social setting. Size him up, so to speak, on me sister’s behalf; see if he’s the gentleman she says he is. Melody don’t understand men, never did. And I wouldn’t want him taking advantage of her, on account of having misread the signals. Like I used to tell her, the way she types, pouring all her repressed passion into pounding them keys, could give any man the idea she’d be all fire and fury if he could get her to stop and take off her glasses and look at him. The London Philharmonic never sounded so good.”
“Prelude on the piano in C minor for the typewriter.” Ben’s amusement wrapped itself around me, drawing me close even though we were seated apart from each other. “Sounds like heady stuff.”
“They’ve worked together for a long time,” I pointed out.
“In every man’s life there is one of those moments when his life flashes before him and he realizes what he has been missing.” Was he remembering the day, the hour, the minute when we met? “Should we all rush over and rescue Mr. Scrimshank before he is swept away on a torrent of thundering chords and forgets he’s a gentleman and an accountant?”
“It’s Saturday. His office will be closed.” Suddenly struck by this realization, I looked at Mrs. Malloy. “This means you’ll have to go to your sister’s home and hope to catch her in.”
“I don’t have the address; she always listed the business one. But it’s no problem; Melody will be working today. It’s Fridays they take off. She’ll be there till five-thirty. She always makes mention of it in her Christmas cards, to fill in the space, I suppose, there not being a lot else for her to say. Not much going on in her private life is my guess.”
“Making it all the nicer she gets to play the typewriter keyboard at work. Maybe she can make a recording sometime.” Ben laughed.
“I hope she has a sense of humor and would be amused by these quips at her expense. Don’t you think you should be setting off, Mrs. Malloy?” I looked at my watch. “It’s after three now.”
“You said you’d come with me.” She got to her feet to a chorus of scraping chairs. “I’ll be needing a lift.”
“There’s a bus you can catch just along the road,” said Betty. “You can see the stop clearly from the bottom of the drive. Old Nanny Pierce still takes the number ninety-four into the village every Wednesday. She says she doesn’t like to put Val to the trouble of taking her, but I expect she likes having her weekly outing to herself and not being tied to a time for getting back.”
“Or I could drive you,” Tom offered.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Malloy inclined her royal head and adjusted her robes. “But if it’s all the same with everyone we’ll leave things as planned. Suit you, Mrs. H?”
I told her I was ready when she was, to which she replied that first she needed to find her handbag. When this turned up alongside her chair, after being stepped on and subsequently picked up by Tom, she whispered in my ear that she could do with going to the lav before setting off. In fact, it would be a real treat. Betty, who obviously had good ears, encouraged her to go and freshen up. There were two powder rooms off the hall, she told us.
Lovely as these were likely to be, we were not destined to use them at that time. Ariel insisted on escorting us to our assigned bedrooms, each of which had its adjoining bathroom. Betty disappeared to have a word with Mrs. Cake. Ben and Tom went companionably outside to bring in the luggage from the Land Rover. And Ariel led Mrs. Malloy and me up the lovely curve of staircase, in the manner of a tour guide in the employment of the National Trust.
Looking at her prim self-important back, I took in the magnitude of what had happened to her. The sudden wealth, the move to splendid surroundings: yes, it all sounded wonderfully exciting in theory. But to suddenly find herself a rich kid without having been brought up to it, her former life swept away as if rolled up in newspaper and put out in the dustbin, people treating her differently… it had to be overwhelming and possibly frightening.
We’ve all heard of people whose lives have been ruined by too much money and insufficient guidance to keep them anchored to reality. Then again, might their problems also be blamed on personality flaws? Was there something fundamentally malicious about Ariel’s peeking glances and frequently voiced dislike of Betty? Should I feel sorry for her or be warily on my guard against her schemes? Both, I determined, thinking about my own children and how I always needed to keep one step ahead of them, however dear their little faces and sweet their voices.
We were now walking down a long gallery with the banister railing to our left overlooking the great chandelier-lit pool of the hall below. There were doors to our right, interspersed with portraits and gilded electric lamps on the wall. At a word from Ariel, Mrs. Malloy scuttled into the room that was to be hers, heading directly for the lav, tossing the information over her shoulder that she would wait for me at the top of the stairs, but I wasn’t to rush because she planned on enjoying the moment.
Sincerely hoping she would find the lav provided a throne worthy of her, I followed Ariel past two more doors until she came to one she opened for me. But we didn’t go inside immediately. I had halted before a portrait. Given the subject’s hairstyle, it would appear to have been painted some thirty or forty years previously. It was of a lovely young woman, seated at a small table, looking out a window. Winsome, I thought; that was the word for her: fine-boned, shadowy-eyed, and graceful, even captured as she was in immobility. The turn of her head, the pensive gaze, conveyed a quiet sorrow.
“She looks like she’s watching for someone, hoping he’ll come.” Ariel’s voice made me jump. “Well, it has to be the boyfriend, doesn’t it?”
“You think so?”
“She wouldn’t have that dippy look on her face if it was the milkman or just any old person, would she? I suppose you’ve guessed who she is.”
“Lady Fiona?”
“She asked if she could leave the portrait here until she finds somewhere permanent to live. I must say she’s not bad-looking even now. Her hair’s still fair, not much gray at all really. Betty thinks she’s too skinny for her height and age, but she would; she wants everybody to be fatter than she is. That’s why she’s always trying to get me to stuff myself with food. Especially things I hate, like tapioca and rice puddings.”
I let this pass. “You think her ladyship is looking out that window, hoping to see Mr. Gallagher come riding up on his white horse?”
“No, I think it was the other one.”
“Who?”
“The man she was madly in love with, the man her parents wouldn’t let her marry because he was too common. Mrs. Cake told me about him. She’s a great one for reminiscing about the past: quite fun, really. She said the two of them met on the sly down by the old mill and used to hide love letters in a hollow tree, just like in a book. Only to be really exciting, they’d have had to run off and get married and then been found out and dragged home-”
“By her hard-hearted parents, blast their interference!” I thought of Tom’s parents, who had objected to his first love on religious grounds.
“And he’d have been murdered by them.” Ariel was warming to her theme.
“Or the jealous rival. That would be Mr. Gallagher. Oh, the horror of it!” Obviously, I was also getting caught up in the story.
“Lady Fiona would never have recovered from the tragedy.” Ariel reclaimed her narrative.
“Whatever really happened she appears to have done so, at least sufficiently to marry Mr. Gallagher.”
“That would have been on the rebound. Mrs. Cake says that one person who didn’t attend the wedding was Miss Pierce-”
“Nanny?”
“That’s right. She claimed to have the flu, but I bet that was an act. I think she hates Lady Fiona. You can see it in her eyes, even when she’s pretending to talk nicely about her. She didn’t think her good enough for her Nigel. Mrs. Cake says the title and the fortune didn’t cut any ice with Nanny. Only a princess would have been up to scratch, and there’d probably have been something wrong with her.”
“Maybe what Nanny wanted was to keep Nigel all to herself in the nursery.”
“Ugh!” Ariel pulled a face. “That’s really creepy.”
As was the idea of Lady Fiona murdering her husband. I kept this thought to myself while continuing to look at the face in the portrait. Surely it was a travesty to imagine that lovely girl committing so monstrous an act later in life. Giving myself a mental shake, I said cheerfully that Mrs. Cake sounded like a great conversationalist.
“Having lived in Milton Moor her whole life, she knows everyone in the area.”
“That helps.”
“She does know stuff. Like Sergeant Walters being too busy knitting to get married. And the butcher being a closet vegetarian. Anyway, I find it interesting. And there’s no one else for me to talk to around here. Mavis hardly ever looks up from her work.”
“There has to be an enormous amount for her to do.”
“Yes. It isn’t fair for Betty to say she’s useless.”
I kept my mouth shut. In former times a place of this size would have employed dozens of servants. Housekeeper, butler, footmen, upstairs and downstairs maids, boot boys… the list went on. Finding people eager to do that sort of work these days probably wasn’t easy. But that should have led Betty to value Mavis more highly. Were she and Tom reluctant to spend their newfound money on sufficient hired help? They’d managed to avoid paying for an interior designer, hadn’t they?
Ariel read my mind. “We do have a team of cleaners come in every other week for three days. They go through the whole place, except for the west wing; it’s shut off and there’s hardly anything in there. On the off week, it’s the gardening people. Betty didn’t want a lot of people underfoot all the time. Mavis is all right. I don’t see what’s wrong with her, except she’s so quiet. But Mrs. Cake is better. She says she has a soft heart and a fondness for romance, but she knows when it’s important to keep her mouth shut.”
“I hope she won’t feel that way when talking to me and Mrs. Malloy. Speaking of whom”-I reluctantly withdrew my gaze from the portrait-“it won’t do to keep her waiting when she’s eager to set off to see her sister.”
Ariel followed me into the bedroom that would be Ben’s and mine during our stay at Cragstone House. “Can I come, Ellie? I could show you where Mr. Scrimshank has his office; that would save you time.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, but better not.”
“Then I won’t tell you my surprise.” She sat down with a thump on the dressing-table stool.
This was another lovely room: luxury converted into cozy comfort. The wallpaper was striped green and white; the daffodil-yellow curtains matched the slipcovers on the two easy chairs by the fireplace. The bleached pine of the four-poster bed and armoire, the perfect placement of the lamps, the velvety sage carpet underfoot: all whispered of relaxation and ease. Ariel sat raking a tortoiseshell comb through her lank hair as I nipped into the bathroom with its tasteful appointments to freshen up, to use Betty’s phrase rather than Mrs. Malloy’s more blunt talk of going to the lav.
Betty’s words were far more suitable, given that the toilet handle, as well as the taps for the shell-shaped sink, looked as though they’d been hand-picked for Versailles by Marie Antoinette, with a little help from the royal decorator. (Somehow, I doubted that that soon-to-be-headless wonder had made do with the suggestions of an amateur.) Looking up from washing my hands with rose soap from a crystal dish, I searched my reflection in the mirror. Was I jealous of the yet unseen Val’s accomplishments throughout the house? Or merely amazed that according to Betty she was untrained?
I frequently advise my clients that an excess of perfection can be not only monotonous but stressful. You can’t wear the wrong clothes without the fear of failing your surroundings. Something always needs to be just a little off: a picture looking as though it has been randomly chosen, a mismatched cup and saucer placed where they seem to be left out by mistake, a brass or silver candlestick in need of polishing. It was advice I had received from a guru designer, a former teacher and now friend of mine, who knew everyone in the business and, in my opinion, more than all of them combined. But getting things too right wasn’t the kind of mistake likely to be made by even the most gifted nonprofessional. The risks of such a person’s efforts looking more like a five-star hotel than a home were minimal.
The chances were good I’d meet the woman behind the enigma, I told my reflection as I toweled off my face. No point in dredging up excuses for disliking her unseen. So what if I hadn’t slept well the night before, was missing the children, had got drawn into another family’s problems. Laying down the monogrammed hand towel and sticking a smile on in lieu of lipstick, I went back into the bedroom and said to Ariel, still seated on the dressing-table stool, that we should go and look for Mrs. Malloy.
“She just popped her head around the door to say she’d like another ten minutes to finish her makeup.”
“Then we might as well stay put until we hear her coming.” I perched on the side of the bed. “There’s never any missing the sound of her high heels clicking down a wooden floor.”
I pictured Mrs. Malloy in her bathroom, mixing one facial cream with another, intent on concocting an instant rejuvenating formula of the sort that had eluded scientists for the last fifty years. I doubted we would hear her high heels tapping along the gallery very soon, which was all to the good, seeing that there was a matter I wished to broach to Ariel without seeming to pounce.
“What a lovely room. Ben and I will be really comfortable here,” I said from the bed.
“Yes, I suppose Val didn’t do a bad job. Better anyway than Betty’s attempts. She kept ordering furniture that she didn’t like when it showed up in the van. Poor Dad; she made him move it from place to place before sending it back. He’d get fed up, but most of the time he didn’t say anything, because she goes off at the drop of a hat, just like she did at Mavis.”
“We all lose our tempers from time to time.”
“Not the way she does.”
“Let’s discuss why she was on edge.” I shifted farther around to face her squarely.
“Why?”
“That business about the phone call to the catering firm. The one Betty said she didn’t make, canceling the arrangements for the garden party on Thursday.”
“What about it?” Ariel was now scraping the tortoiseshell comb along the edge of the dressing table.
“Who would have made that call?”
“How would I know? She should have kept her temper when she rang yesterday and got the news, but no! She had to go into one of her screaming rages. I’ll bet she was the one who threw the dishcloth at Mavis.”
“And now she’s been forced to invite us to stay so Ben can take on the catering.”
“Well, I didn’t set that up, but only because I didn’t think of it,” Ariel replied defiantly. “Maybe it was Mavis, out to get back at Betty for not letting her bring her son to work. That’s pretty scummy, don’t you think?”
“Not if he’s as destructive as she said.”
“Oh, I might have known she’d get you on her side!”
I looked at her, still fiddling with the comb, and, despite the rudeness, felt a pang of pity. Why wasn’t something done about her hair? A more attractive cut and frequent washing could make all the difference. And then there were the oversized spectacles and the clothes, which did nothing to give her life and color. I had been far from a childhood beauty, but my parents-my mother in particular-had always boosted me up, pointed out my good points, made sure that what I wore suited me and helped me feel good about myself. And they hadn’t had the money that was now at the Hopkinses’ disposal. Again I was making judgments. Suggestions, especially if coming from Betty, were apt to be summarily spurned by Ariel.
“I’m not on anyone’s side,” I said gently, “but I don’t think you should criticize your stepmother to me. Last night was a little different; you had to give me your account of why you ran away. Now I’m a guest in her home. Isn’t there someone else you can talk to about your feelings?”
“Such as a psychiatrist?” She pounced to her feet to stand glaring at me, skinny arms folded. “You’re saying I’m crazy, aren’t you?”
It was too much… the scared look in her eyes, the quiver of her lips before she tightened them; the sight tore at my heart. I could have been looking at one of my own children, but I didn’t dare go over and put my arms around her. She would have pushed me away, become even more upset. Her pride was something she held on to grimly. I understood. I’d been there. And my childhood had been a day at the seaside compared to hers. No devastating loss of a parent in a tragic accident.
“That’s not it at all,” I said crisply, setting my mood to hers. “We all need to get things off our chests from time to time. Have someone really listen to us. What about one of your teachers at school?”
Ariel hunched a shoulder.
“What about your church?” I asked.
“What about it?”
“Is there anyone there you could talk to? The vicar’s wife, for instance?”
“We go to the Catholic church, remember? And Mr. Hard-castle, the Anglican vicar who’s coming to tea tomorrow, doesn’t have a wife. She ran off with one of the altar boys.”
“No!” I stalled on my way to the door, having heard Mrs. Malloy’s heels clicking down the gallery.
“You’re right.” Ariel trailed after me. “I remember now; it was one of the vergers. Okay! I’m kidding. Mr. Hardcastle hasn’t ever been married. Mrs. Cake says many a woman has pricked her little fingers to the bone embroidering altar cloths and kneelers, but it hasn’t got them measuring for curtains at the vicarage. She said he’s a confirmed bachelor. And I told her he should be. A bad example if he wasn’t confirmed. It was a joke, but I don’t think she got it. She spent twenty minutes explaining she meant he’s happy as he is.”
“That’s nice.” I opened the door carefully, not wanting Mrs. Malloy to have a black eye on meeting her sister. “We’ll have another talk later, if you like, Ariel.”
“I asked Mrs. Cake if Mr. Hardcastle knits like Seargent Walters does. She said it wouldn’t surprise her, seeing it’s getting popular again with both women and men. She prefers a night out at the Bingo hall.”
“Bingo?” Mrs. Malloy uttered the word in throbbing accents. She stood facing us at the top of the stairs, but had she been in Angola she would have overheard just as well. Not only is Bingo one of her consuming passions, she obviously grasped the implications of Mrs. Cake’s being a fellow enthusiast. A way had been provided to open up a conversation that would weave its way to the recent unsettling events at Cragstone.
“Oh, no!” Ariel exclaimed as we rounded the final curve of the staircase and saw the group below us in the hall. “It’s them!”
“Who?” I lowered my voice, hoping she would take the hint and do likewise. Alongside Tom and Betty I saw two people, neither of whom was Ben. Mrs. Malloy, equally interested, strained to see over my shoulder. We must have looked like those ghouls who stop to stare at an accident: for the thrill, not to offer assistance.
“The Edmondses. Frances and her husband, Stan.”
“What’s wrong with them?” Mrs. Malloy asked, out the side of her mouth.
“Frances steals stuff; she’s a klepto. Stan’s a weasel. Ugh! Just look at him hugging and kissing Betty. It’s not like he’s even keen on her. No chance of them being desperate for each other. He’s like that with everyone. All smoochy-woochy.” Ariel’s whisper turned into a giggle. “Old Slop Face! Doesn’t he make you want to throw your shoes at him and hit him on the head?”
That would have been extreme in my case; so far I’d only seen a squidge of profile and an ear. Tom was blocking most of the view, preventing a full sight of Frances as well. But when Mrs. Malloy and I reached the hall, Ariel having ducked back upstairs, he stepped aside and beckoned us forward.
“Come and meet our friends the Edmondses.” He might have been telling us that the doctor had arrived to take out his tonsils.
Stan, who did look like a weasel, stopped squeezing Betty’s hand to flash a sharp-toothed grin and wave a paw. His slicked-back brown hair and small darting eyes were enough to make me hope he wouldn’t decide to hasten over and kiss me. His wife made a better picture. True, she had a lumpish figure, her complexion wasn’t great, and her hair too brassily blond, but there was something appealing about her bright eyes and broad smile.
I didn’t look at Mrs. Malloy to try to assess her opinion of the Edmondses. We needed to get off to see Melody and perhaps even get a glimpse of Mr. Scrimshank. Betty explained that she and Tom had lived next door but one to the Edmondses in London. Stan poked Tom playfully in the ribs, saying some got lucky after playing the lottery only once, while their friends who played every week never won a bean.
Just as I was starting to miss Ben, he came into the hall from the other end of the house, which made for another buzz of greetings and a flurry of handshaking. I wove my way toward him, intent on telling him that Mrs. Malloy and I were heading out the door. He looked up from listening to something Frances Edmonds was telling him, but he didn’t catch my eye.
The front door had opened, a woman came into the hall, and all conversation and movement stopped. It would have been impolite to go on talking. But there was more to it. Any entrance by this woman would have had a similar impact. Impossible for all eyes not to be drawn to her. She was wearing a peasant skirt, which swirled softly with each step, and an off-the-shoulder lawn blouse. Her legs were bare, and she was wearing a pair of high-heeled shoes with narrow crisscrossed straps. I knew they had a gold-leaf design on the back, because Mrs. Malloy had a pair exactly like them. My cousin Vanessa is a fashion model and stunning, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone this lovely. Hair the color and shine of blackberries, skin like cream, eyes bluer than any sky, and cheeks brushed with rose. The ideal of Irish beauty proclaimed in soulful ballads.
“Hello, Val.” Tom shifted his gaze between Mrs. Malloy and me. More introductions, he had to be thinking.
“Have I come at a bad time?” The voice had the slightest of lilts. Betty said something, I didn’t catch what, because Ben brushed past me without a glance. It seemed to me that what happened next did so in slow motion. I saw him take hold of the woman’s hands, heard the surprised query in his voice.
“Valeria? How do you come to be here?”
“Ben?” I could hear her intake of breath. “It can’t be! We’re imagining this, aren’t we?” She leaned into him, her face hidden on his shoulder. The smallest sound-a shifting foot, Tom’s hand smoothing down the lapel of his sports jacket-became magnified. The ticking of the long case clock seemed to be coming from inside me. In a moment it would explode. I saw Val-Valeria-draw back from my husband as if it required all the strength at her disposal to do so. She was still holding his hands. They were holding hands. At last she spoke, in a voice between a sob and a laugh.
“Betty, Tom… however did this happen? Ben and I know each other! We met when I was training in the travel agency and he was working in his uncle’s restaurant.”
There was nothing to disturb me in this disclosure. Old friends meeting again; what could be nicer? The way Ben avoided looking at me when going up to her had been bothersome. But that was nothing compared to the shuttered expression on his face when his eyes finally met mine.