bigwigs of Brambleweed Press). I was tempted-
Ben sloshed milk into a glass. “Still, considering that ghastly cough, you are better off here.”
The fact that I had handed him that ace increased my annoyance. He proceeded to make my blood boil. In each hand he had an eccles cake and was rhythmically taking bites out of each.
“You do realise that at least one of those is mine!”
“Sorry.” The taxi tooted. “Here, sweetheart, two halves make a whole.” He stuffed the remains in my hands, kissed my cheek, and grabbed for his umbrella. “See you about seven.”
The garden door closed-possibly slammed. How dare he! I tugged the dressing gown belt tight, charged to the alcove where we kept an assortment of outdoor gear and yanked on Jonas’s gardening boots. A dutiful wife was one thing, a servile cretin quite another.
Two seconds later and I was out the door. A slam (my turn) sent me clobbering out into the morn, down the driveway, all fluffy white with snow, in pursuit of the taxi.
It was hopeless. The vehicle was moving away. Ben was a blurred blob against the back window, but I was stricken by a kind of madness. I stood with my hands cupped around my mouth shrieking, “You monster! Do you have any idea what it has been like for me all these months? The constant denial, the suppressed longing, then, when I can almost taste-”
“Sorry, lady.” An apologetic male voice interrupted my soliloquy. “I try to provide prompt, reliable service.” Coming around the hedge was the milkman.
I didn’t stop to chat. It was, after all, cold. I grabbed my two pints and the milkman headed back to his little van at a run. Did I feel better for having behaved like a vulgar shrew? Upon reflection, yes. Ben’s sins had been squashed down to size. A long day lay ahead. First a scalding hot bath, a morning’s work at Abigail’s, and then a lazy afternoon in which to nurse my cold through its final stages, and perhaps by seven o’clock I would love my husband completely and unreservedly again.
The kitchen door would not open. Either it had locked behind me or, having conditioned myself never to leave a door unlatched, I had automatically pressed the catch.
Hope springs eternal. I checked the front door and all the French windows, all the while keeping my final ace at my fingertips-at least our bedroom window was open. I could see the maroon curtains billowing in the wind.
Also billowing in the wind was a fresh supply of snow. The first cold flakes fell on my head as, dressing gown hitched up, I headed for the stables to get a ladder. The stable was locked. My fault: I had insisted it be kept so since Roxie had planted those notions about the Raincoat Man.
Okay, so I must risk Freddy’s mockery and present myself at the cottage door. Brushing back my hair, which had to resemble the tails of dead animals, I slogged down the driveway. At the cottage, the final blow fell. No answer and another locked door. Who would have envisioned I would curse the day Freddy was corrupted by the work ethic?
Think positive. Roxie had a key to the house. All I had to do was find a phone and summon her to my aid. Clinging to the wrought iron gates, snow falling on my cheeks, I studied my choices. To my right stood the vicarage, inhabited by Rowland. Friend. To my left, perhaps ten minutes further from Merlin’s Court, stood the house of Mr. Edwin Digby. Stranger.
I knotted my hair about my neck and started walking. There was, of course, no need for laboured deliberation. Rowland was young and handsome. Mr. Digby was a middle-aged tippler who delighted in the gruesome.
Good morning, Mrs. Hanover. Did I wake you?… Yes, I’m sure, in the public house business one would rise early. And to good news this morning!… That’s it-your voluntary services are needed at a Retirement Party this coming Friday, the first of May. Mrs. Hanover… Mrs. Hanover. Are you there?
Forgive me… I… (
Mrs. Hanover, I do trust you are not having second thoughts after all the time and energy expended in training you for-
Mrs.
Heavens, no! Not for the world. One is so thrilled, for the minute one couldn’t speak.
Then I will report your concurrence to the board and ring you again this evening with the details.
Such an honour! Words… words quite fail one.
14
… Primrose gasped. “A young woman, partially clothed, entering the premises of a single gentleman of unsteady reputation! May we hope, dear Ellie, that Mr. Digby did nothing to make you blush!”…
“The last time I admitted an unknown woman reeking pathos to this house, she pocketed a silver table lighter.”
The great Edwin Digby might have walked straight from the pages of his own genre: goatee beard, natty daffodil-hued waistcoat, grey hair crinkling back from a lofty forehead, rheumy eyes under brows which twirled at the ends to tilt sinisterly upward. We were seated in his study, a red velour room crammed with Victoriana and dominated by a massive desk on which sat a cast-iron typewriter and a turbulence of papers, a hint that Mary Birdsong also dwelt here.
“I do not smoke.” I spoke with credible aplomb, considering I was dressed like a film extra from
I looked down at my boots, wishing they weren’t six sizes too big. Fleeing through the snow in these would be no joke. “Thank you for the loan of dry clothes, I-”
My host sank deeper into his leather chair. “Mrs. Haskell, pray do not use the borrowed apparel as an excuse to pursue an acquaintance which we would both find tedious.
Should your husband not wish to add the suit to his wardrobe, your woman will know of some indigent worthy.” The lizard lids narrowed. “I trust you reached this Mrs. Malloy on the telephone?”
I inclined my top-heavy head an inch. Detestable Mr. Digby. He stroked the goatee with a bony finger. “And she will not tarry in bringing your key?”
I pushed up my sleeves, then yanked them back down. He hadn’t so much as offered me a cup of tea. “She swore on the telephone directory, Mr. Digby, that she would haste herself to the bus stop and commit hijacking if necessary to get here.”
The fingers stopped moving.
“You are fortunate, Mrs. Haskell, in having so devoted a servant.”
“No.” I looked him smack in the eye. “Mary Birdsong is fortunate in having so devoted a fan.”
Mr. Digby grimaced, which did nothing to make him more appealing. “You err in your attempted flattery, madam. Nothing could be more abhorrent to me than some female churl, autograph album clutched to her overripe bosom, bleating a path to my door. Be warned-the instant she arrives, out you both go into the snow.” He withdrew his gaze to the frosted window.
“I understand, sir, you have not written a book in years. Aren’t you glad that some of your fans are still alive?”
The eyebrows vee’d sharply upward; Mr. Digby crossed his legs at the ankle, showing yellow socks to match
