The Widows Club

“Along with the deceased; may the Lord have mercy upon his soul.”

Propping my elbows on the table, I measured out my words. “You know about my recent… tragedy. What else do you know about me?”

In response, Hyacinth delved into her carpetbag and fetched forth a green clothbound book, the housekeeping journal sort. She stabbed it open with a red fingernail.

“Your father-Bosworth Hastings Simons-attended the Richmont Choir School and Cambridge, where he read Art History. Currently he is self-employed as a rainmaker on the outskirts of the Sahara.”

I bridled at her intonation. “Needless to say, I would prefer him to be a belly dancer, but I realised long ago we cannot choose our parents’ lives for them.”

“How true!” sighed Primrose. “Our own dear father was, at times, a bitter disappointment.”

Hyacinth trounced over her. “Your maiden name was Giselle Simons. Sixteen months ago you met your husband, Bentley Thomas Haskell, through an organization named Eligibility Escorts, owned and run by a Mrs. Swabucher. Under the provisions of your Uncle Merlin Grantham’s rather colorful will, you and Bentley inherited the property known as Merlin’s Court. This restaurant is named for Merlin’s mother, Abigail.” The red nails flicked to another page. “You also inherited an elderly gardener by name of Jonas Phipps, and shortly after your arrival at Merlin’s Court, you employed a Miss Dorcas Critchley as housekeeper. She is a games mistress by profession and a woman of independent means. She and Mr. Phipps are presently on excursion in America. You have a cousin Frederick-”

“Our dear sister Violet resides in America,” interposed Primrose. “At a place named Detroit. Regrettably we have never been to visit, but it sounds enchanting. Perhaps one day under propitious circumstances…”

A withering glance from her sister’s hooded black eyes quelled her. “My dear Primrose, we are telling Mrs. Haskell her life history, not ours.”

I took in Primrose’s crumpled face and Hyacinth’s sallow one. “Why did you speak just now of my being a victim?”

Hyacinth snapped her book shut.

“Hereabouts, Mrs. Haskell, as I am sure you are woefully aware, you are being dubbed the Demon of Death. Flowers Detection, however, is convinced you have been preyed upon by a murderous organisation. It wickedly decreed that a man should die, and you became the scapegoat.”

“That’s nonsense. I-”

William materialized. We sat mute while he set down fluted plates, filled with butter-dripping tea cakes. He tilted back the bottle he had been carrying under his arm so Primrose could survey the label.

“The cognac for your tea, madam.” At her nod of approval, he set it with a flourish on the table.

“Butler, are we alone on the premises?” queried Hyacinth.

“Mrs. Haskell’s cousin left a few moments ago, madam.”

“Good! Please close the door behind you and keep watch in the hall.”

Hyacinth tapped me lightly on the wrist with her fork as Butler exited. “It is imperative we not be overheard. The members of this organisation wear the perfect disguise: nice, kind, ordinary faces.” A covert glance at the window. She lowered her voice. “It is in an attempt to eliminate this organisation that we are here.”

Were these women escapees from a place like The Peerless Nursing Home?

Hyacinth was cutting her tea cake into geometric shapes, and Primrose was placidly sousing her tea with cognac. Hyacinth reached for the bottle and angled it over her cup. “Will you indulge, Mrs. Haskell?”

I did feel a need.

“We arrived in Chitterton Fells some weeks ago,” she continued placidly, “at the behest of an insurance company, whose name we are not at liberty to divulge. We can tell you that their computers had been bleeping out distress signals. You know the insurance company mentality, Mrs. Haskell-they want people to worry about dying but never actually do it. Thus, you can appreciate our client’s chagrin on discovering that during the last few years its balance forward had been affected by a marginal, but suggestive, upswing in the number of untimely deaths among married men residing along this part of the coast. Most distressing.”

“Particularly,” Primrose interjected, “for the innocent people whose premiums will soar.”

My heart thumped.

Hyacinth took a bite of tea cake and a sip of tea. “Not in one case was murder cited as the cause of death. Postmortems, when performed, invariably brought conclusions of misadventure, suicide, or natural cause. Suspicions of one kind or another may have been raised, but as in the case involving yourself-”

Enraged, I came up out of my chair. “How dare you accuse me of involvement with a murderous gang-”

“Shush, shush, my dear.” Primrose eased me back down. “We know your participation to be entirely involuntary and unknowing.”

“Let it also be said”-Hyacinth realigned my teaspoon on my saucer-“that this is no gun-hefting mob in cheap leather jackets. This deadly organisation is a women’s club, highly selective, with a charter, a president, and duly elected officers. Anyone desiring admittance must be sponsored by a current member and have her application reviewed by the board. The club’s function is to aid women who choose widowhood over divorce-specifically in cases where the husband has flouted the Sixth Commandment.”

Primrose poured more tea. “So much more comfortable to become a grieving widow than a divorcee with a reduced standard of living. Especially when one considers that these would-be widows are spared all unpleasant details of”-she flinched-“termination. We are rather sketchy on details, but we do know that after the applicant is sponsored, she answers a telephone questionnaire, pays her initiation fee, and is encouraged to make the husband’s last days on earth a pleasure to remember. No nagging. The television tuned to his favourite channel. All his favourite meals served. Allowed to stay out as long as he wants with the other woman. It being, after all, only a matter of time until he falls off a cliff or drops down a well.”

Ashes to ashes. I should go home.

“After which”-Primrose removed a crumb from the front of her jumper-“the new widow receives tremendous emotional support from the group. She is kept far too busy working on items for the bazaar or growing herbs in little pots to give way to guilt.”

“Who does the murdering?” My tea was a little weak. I added more brandy.

“As Primrose said, we are missing a lot of puzzle pieces,” responded Hyacinth, encouraged by my curiosity. “We believe the method of each murder is planned and on occasion implemented by the club’s founder. Board members are encouraged to do volunteer work in connection with the deaths.”

“Excuse me, but this is laughable.” To prove my point, I gave a hollow chuckle. “Other than its fiendish purpose, you might be describing a group like the Chitterton Fells Historical Association.”

Primrose Tramwell looked vastly pleased with me. “On the surface, much the same style of organisation. Indeed, it would seem that numerous members of The Widows Club are also active members of the group you mention. One pictures them swelling the ranks of the Women’s Institute, various old girls associations, and such circles as those that worship self-fulfillment, Chinese cooking classes, keep-fit, yoga, and so forth. Flowers Detection is convinced that infiltration of other organisations is a requirement of The Widows Club charter.”

“A necessary means of sniffing out fresh blood-women who are unhappy in their marriages.” Hyacinth laid her knife and fork on her empty plate. “Absolutely delicious. The tea cakes, I mean.”

I had been picking raisins out of my tea cake with a fork and now with a surge of defiance ate one. “I’m not in love with The Historical Association. They recently toured my house at an extremely inconvenient time.” I paused, remembering. “Even so, I can’t picture one of those women writing out a check for her husband’s murder or inquiring if she could put it on her Barclay Card.”

“Do you perchance recall,” queried Primrose avidly, “any of those ladies wearing a bar-shaped brooch, rather pretty, with a row of enamelled blackbirds?”

Her pansy blue eyes held me. “Many of them did.”

Hyacinth compressed her lips. “Let us not digress. The scheme has worked splendidly, so far, because the perpetrators are those people one meets everywhere. One doesn’t see the woods for the trees or the members for the club. Men especially would not sense anything amiss. The male sex never has appreciated the marvelous contribution made by female organisations providing volunteer service. The masculine mentality perceives them as social playgrounds whence the little woman can amuse herself after the housework is done, his mother visited, and the dog walked. Tragic, but perhaps it is as well that the victims do not sense their peril.”