8
… “Let me guess!” Primrose pressed a finger to her pursed lips, and closed her eyes. “The nearly deceased man was Mr. Vernon Daffy, estate agent.”
“Very impressive,” I said, “although the story was plastered all over the front page of
Hyacinth’s orange lips formed a smile. “Would it improve the credibility of Flowers Detection if I gave you the name of the unknown woman?”
“As I have no idea who she was-”
“Oh, but my dear, I think you have.” Primrose stirred a spoonful of sugar into my coffee. “According to eyewitness reports, Mr. Daffy was standing close to the edge of the platform when he screamed, ‘mouse,’ and pitched forward. Everyone froze except the woman-middle-aged, woolly-haired, and plainly dressed-who had been standing nearest him. She performed the rescue and disappeared in the general hullabaloo. Her courage was applauded by the press and public-but what
“Mouse,” I said slowly, “as in ‘three wild mice?’ ”
“Correct, my dear Ellie.” Primrose beamed. “Therefore, the woman in question is indubitably Mrs. Beatrix Woolpack, in whose car you and Ben took shelter on your wedding day. She was instructed to acquire the mice, and being a conscientious soul, she jotted them on her shopping list. ‘Three’ because one or two might go in the wrong direction and not scare Mr. Daffy, who was mouse phobic, out of his wits, and ‘wild’ because white laboratory mice might raise questions.” She sighed disparagingly. “Such a wanton disregard for animal life.”
Hyacinth’s hooded black eyes gleamed in the rosy light. “Mrs. Woolpack must have received a raking over the coals by the president and her associates on the board… if nothing worse. The Founder had to be very displeased. An exquisitely coordinated plan wasted. Note that Mr. Daffy did not catch the train at Chitterton Station where both he and Mrs. Woolpack would more likely be recognised. No, someone persuaded him to catch the train at Pebblewell-one of the wedding guests perhaps who happened to be driving to Pebblewell that evening and would be happy to save Mrs. Daffy a trip.”
I touched my wedding ring. “Mrs. Daffy was so warm and friendly. She liked cats. And she spoke fondly of her husband, who called her Froggy.”
Primrose shook her head. “My dear, she called him Squeaky, which surely is every bit as vicious as his calling her Froggy. Mr. Daffy had been engaged in an illicit affair for weeks. We have it on good authority that he had asked for a divorce.”
I forced my mind away from Mrs. Daffy’s amiable visage… and custom-made murder. “What do you make of Dr. Bordeaux and his entourage being on the train and his rushing to offer assistance to the victim?”
“An aborted alibi turned to excellent account,” declared Hyacinth.
“What I wonder,” Primrose interrupted, “is whether Mr. Daffy’s wig dislodged when he fell off the platform? How very embarrassing that would have been. It brings back memories of that terrible time the elastic in our Aunt Ada’s unmentionables gave way and-”
“Wig?” I stared at both sisters.
“My dear Mrs. Haskell,” said Hyacinth. “I was so certain you had guessed when you made mention of”-she resorted to the notebook-‘his oversized mop of black curls.’ But enough of the Daffys. Let us wend our way with you to North Tottenham and the meeting with Mr. Elijah Haskell.”…
We gave up on the bell. Ben rapped on the door of Haskell’s Fruit & Veg., at first tentatively, then loud enough to set the Closed sign rapping back. Nose pressed against the pane, I beheld a fuzziness similar to a telly on the blink. The contents of the room, counters, and vegetable bins, were visible in the glow from a low-wattage bulb. Ben shoved his fingers through his hair and rapped again.
“He must be asleep.” Stepping around our luggage, I peered up at the narrow rectangle of window on the second floor. The curtains were drawn shut.
“Dad’s a light sleeper.” Ben stared up and down the street, reabsorbing the feel of the place. Again I felt excluded by his past. It wasn’t exactly raining, but the night had a cold sweat about it. The houses on Crown Street were terraced and of sooty, buff-coloured brick. Their front doors opened directly onto the narrow pavement. Lights burned in many of the windows.
A bus skimmed down the road. A man, hands in his pockets, head down, walked past opposite us; a boy of about seven airplaned along behind him, making zoom-zoom noises.
Ben stopped rapping.
“Do you hear your father?”
He shook his head. “That bloke across the street-I went to school with him. Tom somebody. Doesn’t look like life’s treating him too well.”
“What makes you say that? The little boy seems to be his and they’re well-dressed.”
“His walk.” Ben squinted in concentration. “It’s depressed. Haven’t you ever noticed, Ellie, how people often reveal more about their state of mind by their walk than their faces?”
I hadn’t thought about it, and I wasn’t sure I agreed. The widow going up the church steps had looked jaunty from the rear. I made noncommittal noises. A good wife does not set herself against her husband on every occasion. I wondered whether we should break into Haskell’s Fruit & Veg. or knock on a nearby door and ask to use the phone. I pushed our luggage closer to the wall with my foot, then heard a sound that inspired hope- clanking beer bottles. “Ben, does your father frequent the local pub?”
Ben peered into the deepening gloom. About a dozen houses down, a humanoid shadow was emerging from the shadows. “No, but I am an expert on more things than human locomotion. Approaching beer bottles are to me what fingerprints are to Scotland Yard.” The bottle noises were now accompanied by the
“I thought that was Mrs. Long, the woman who informed the police that your mother was missing?”
“It’s a tie. Sorry, Ellie”-Ben grabbed hold of me-“I have to do this.”
Snogging on a street corner was every bit the vulgar thrill Aunt Astrid had led me to expect. There was only one niggle on the periphery of my delight: Was Ben scared that Mrs. Merrywhoever might dredge up stories about his youthful love life?
The bottle medley slowed to a jingle, the heels stopped tapping, and a high-pitched shriek pierced the air.
“Don’t tell me, ’cos I won’t believe it! Little Benny Haskell all grown up! And what’s this?” The voice dropped to gravelly coyness. “Got yourself a nice girl, have you?”
Ben and I fell apart. He straightened his tie. “Mrs. Merryfeather, this is my wife, Ellie.”
“Married, never!” The twin bags, full of beer bottles, trembled. “My Stella will kill ’erself when she ’ears Benny ’Askell is taken.”
Mrs. Merryfeather turned to me, a headscarf tied package-fashion around her head and a froth of blond curls bunched at her forehead. Her apron bib protruded through the V-neck of her coat. “Oops! Me an’ my big mouth. Cracking jokes at a time like this! I said to Stell, somebody’s nipper will be netting for tiddlers under a perishing bridge, and he’ll fish out Mrs. ‘Askell instead.”
Fumes were coming out of Ben’s nose. “My mother is not missing. She knows precisely where she is.”
“Right you are, love! Keep on ’oping until the very last.” Mrs. Merryfeather poked Ben with her elbow, the bags lurching against her hip with a heavy
“Very nice.”
