The Widows Club

had been telling me for years that he was a musical genius; I had never taken him seriously. This… was impassioned, soaring, sublime. I, who cannot trill a note, wanted to burst into operatic ecstasy as I thrust open the door.

The person seated at the harpsichord was Miss Thorn. Her fingers rippled, stirring, teasing the keys. Her shoulders were hunched, the daisies gone from her hair, but-amazingly-she had attained a kind of beauty. Her face was flushed, her eyes dark, languorous. Now she saw me. The fingers stilled, and she reverted to plainness.

“Mrs. Haskell!” She jerked to her feet. Gripping her knobby hands, she did a dip at the knees and twitched a glance around the room-at the chair with the broken caning, the bed tumbled with old blankets. “Oh, my deepest apologies, Mrs. Haskell! I fully intended to return to the festivities after parking my coat, but you had mentioned this precious instrument”-she reached out to touch the wood-“and I could not control myself. I took a peek and was swept away.”

“I’m glad you found the harpsichord. You play magnificently.”

I meant every word; the reason my voice sounded peculiar was because I saw something moving under the blankets. I knew it wasn’t Tobias because he had just wandered in and was pawing at my legs. I knew it wasn’t Freddy because I could see the top of a bald head. Who? The answer came to me as Miss Thorn emitted a terrified screech and Tobias slid across the floor, grabbing at what seemed to be a black astrakhan hat.

Miss Thorn had me by the arm. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Haskell, but I am terrified of cats, m-may we leave?”

She didn’t have to ask twice. It would only take the inebriated bartender to awake and sit bolt upright in bed to make her faint. And I really didn’t have the time. I had to find Freddy, and assist Ben in cutting the wedding cake before I could race into my bedroom, throw on my going-away outfit, tuck my suitcase under my arm, and then at last, at long last, be off on the honeymoon of the century. I, Ellie Simons-sorry-Haskell, was about to live out my most beautiful fantasies-unlike the heroine in a romantic novel who gets slapped in the face with The End. My heart started a drum roll that drowned out Miss Thorn’s voice as we went downstairs. It could not, however, obliterate the hubbub, musical and otherwise, in the hall.

Then I saw something that squeezed the breath back into my lungs-Ben was near the front door, talking to a uniformed policeman.

He glanced round and spotted me. “Ellie, it isn’t surprising you couldn’t reach Mum on the phone earlier. She’s been missing for three days.” He sounded quite-ordinary.

The constable, young, fresh-faced, and eager, rifled through his notebook. “I have here some pertinent details. A Mrs. Beatty Long of Eleven Crown Street, states she grew concerned when failing to see Mrs. Elijah Haskell leave the house for church services on Wednesday morning, as was the lady’s custom.”

“Mass,” corrected Ben. “My mother is a Catholic.”

“No offence intended, none taken I hope, sir.” Constable Beaker scratched with a diligent pencil and continued. “The aforementioned Mrs. Long also states that she had been uneasy for some time, having noticed the Haskells’ curtains being closed at odd times of the day.”

“Beatty Long always was a meddlesome old woman.” Ben ran a hand across his brow.

Someone grasped my elbow. It was Mrs. Malloy.

“Not now, please,” I said.

“As you like, mum,” she huffed, “but it is a matter of life and death.”

Constable Beaker stiffened with professional interest. I grabbed Ben’s hand. “When did Mr. Haskell report his wife missing?”

“That’s the thing Miss-Mrs., he didn’t.”

Mrs. Malloy folded her arms. “Believe you me, I’m not standing here wearing polish off the floor for me own amusement. Seems to me someone should be told there’s a young bloke up in one of the turrets, threatening to jump out the window and-”

“What?” The constable made for the stairs.

My legs wouldn’t move, Ben looked ready to laugh. The dancers had frozen. But the jolly strains of the music flowed on and on…

“And I’m telling you straight, mum.” Mrs. Malloy’s bosom heaved. “I don’t do ceilings, I don’t do drains, and I don’t wash blood and guts off the pavements.”

From the Files of

The Widows Club

Telephone conversation reported by member of Calling Committee, 1st December

“Good evening, Mrs. Thrush, so glad to find you at home. You don’t know me, but…”

“Excuse me, perhaps you would telephone another time.” (Sound of hanky being used.) “You’ve caught me at rather a bad time. My beloved husband was buried this very afternoon, and I really cannot think of buying anything or subscribing to a magazine.”

“I understand. But do let me explain that I am from The Widows Club and have been assigned the role of your special confidante during these first difficult weeks. May I leave my name and phone number and urge you to get in touch with me, day or night, if you feel the need to have a good weep or just talk?”

(Smothered choking sound.) “What about laugh? Oh, my dear, I can’t tell you how glad I am you rang. The hardest part of this whole business has been keeping a straight face. The only moment when I did feel a bit down was when we were going into the church and collided with a bridal party. That poor young woman-so elated at tying the knot-to the noose around her neck. Oh, chatting to you is going to be marvellous. But I am afraid I do have to go. I see my best friend Vera coming up the path. She does need consoling. They-she and my dear husband-were unofficially engaged!”

(Responsive laughter.) “Mrs. Thrush, I cannot wait to get to know you better. Are you interested in ceramics by any chance? Splendid. I am also on that committee. My name is Millicent Parsnip of Honeysuckle Cottage. My phone number is in the directory.”

“Thank you so very much.”

“My pleasure. And Mrs. Thrush, one teensy hint: spray a little ammonia on your hanky. Brings on red eyes and sniffles wonderfully.”

7

… “And did Cousin Freddy leap from the turret?” Hyacinth inquired.

“Of course not,” I scoffed. “He was on his way downstairs as Constable Beaker hurtled up them. Claimed the police car parked outside the house had killed the mood. He was let off with a warning against breaking the peace. What peace! All those gawkers in the hall! And Freddy ranting on about his broken heart, relishing every minute until Jill sent down a message, via Dorcas, that if she allowed herself to be blackmailed by a temper tantrum she would be at Freddy’s beck and call all of their unmarried life.”

“My dear, I couldn’t agree more,” chirped Primrose. “But what of Mrs. Elijah Haskell?”

“According to Constable Beaker’s notes, Mr. Elijah Haskell stated that his wife told him she was going on a spiritual pilgrimage.”

“Dear me,” sighed Primrose. “Ever since reading Canterbury Tales, I have thought one tends to meet some very peculiar people on that sort of tour…”

The honeymoon, officially speaking, was off. Ben and I, now in pedestrian dress, were seated on the six-thirty- three train, due to depart for London in eight minutes. There were only a few other passengers in the long compartment, all at the far end from us, which was just as well because Ben had lowered our window. His claustrophobia was acting up.

Chitterton Station looked seedy in the white flare of its lights. A poster of a glamourous blonde with a black handlebar moustache drinking the right whiskey peeled off the concrete wall. I suppose it was my mood, but the thin man in the grubby raincoat lounging against the station-house door, dragging on a fag, looked positively menacing.