reception and the source of many Roxie complaints. But surely the bannister of itself could not be the catastrophic catalyst? Were it so, the hall floor would be forever dropping out from under. No, the bannister had to work in conjunction with something else. My fingers clenched the stone ledge; I felt a give and in that moment had the answer.
“Mrs. Parsnip,” I called across the room, “would you kindly twist the second bannister from the bottom?” As she did so, I depressed the ledge. Seconds later, a ripple of wonderment washed through the hushed group. The void had reappeared.
Millicent Parsnip cupped her hands around her mouth and inquired tremulously, “Anyone down there?”
Silence. Then a flicker of hope. Way, way down in the blackness we could see a tiny splurt of light. Could it be…? Yes. Someone had struck a match; voices set up a cheer.
“We’re alive! Uninjured! Not even a dent in the armour!” There was a sound of pulleys churning, and the tiny flame glowed brighter. The survivors were being elevated to the surface.
“And,” boomed Amelia Bottomly triumphantly, “we have found the dungeons!”
There were those in the group who made it plain they were convinced I had known all along about the secret entrance. But they managed to work off their irritation by discussing what a vast improvement ours was on the oubliettes of old, which provided no safety net when the floor dropped out beneath the hapless victims at the whim of any sheriff, duke, or king who didn’t have better things to do with his time.
“Come now, Mrs. Haskell,” Mrs. Bottomly’s eyes were like suction cups. “There has to be more than twiddling a bannister. I swear I cannot leave this house until you tell me the nature of the Open Sesame.”
Were she to carry out this threat I could have ended up with her in one turret and Magdalene in another. But something-call it stubbornness-stopped me from assuaging her curiosity.
“I’m sorry, but where would be the fun of having something like this if its secrets weren’t-secret?”
The chins quivered in disappointment, but Mrs. Bottomly made a valiant effort. “Never mind, Mrs. Haskell. Merlin’s Court will still be added to the Historical Society’s permanent register-meaning, we will be back next year.”
I was tempted to suggest that if they left right now they wouldn’t have to rush.
As the door closed on the last beret, I was torn between fatigue and elation. I should have realised that local legend spoke true. Wilfred Grantham had been too much of a purist to build his castle without that most basic of requirements, a dungeon. Had everything been different, I would have raced upstairs to tell Ben. As I passed the telephone, I even felt an urge to ring up Mr. Edwin Digby. He might be interested; after all, he had featured a dungeon in that book of his about Ethel the pickler, and he had a link with the mad-hatter doings of Wilfred Grantham, on account of the Misses Lucretia and Lavinia.
Too full. As I brushed past it, I heard a crash from within. The top shelf had collapsed. Hours of work reduced to pate.
I wanted to kick off my shoes, lie on the floor, and turn up my toes, but there was a knock on the garden door. Freddy come to beg forgiveness? Thoughts of pressing his face inside the fridge revived me somewhat.
But the man on the step was short and stout with deep brown eyes, a bald spot, and a fluffy white beard. Two suitcases and a yippy little dog were by his feet.
“Ellie, is my son dead?”
His question revived me like a slap in the face. My father-in-law, Elijah Haskell, threw his arms around me and we both began to sob.
“No, Ben’s much better.” I wiped my face dry and stepped aside to let him and his dog enter. Tobias wouldn’t be pleased about the dog, but we are all called upon to adjust.
“My wife, she’s bunked off to another convent?”
“No, but…”
“Then, what’s to cry about?” Poppa asked over the dog’s yapping. His eyes took in the culinary turmoil. “This is a nice place you’ve got here. A Star of David on the wall, and it could look like home.” He put his luggage down and began unwinding the little dog. “Take me to see my family, Ellie, then tell Poppa how to help.”
Now was the time to inquire if Ben’s culinary skill was a genetic fluke, but I was put off my stroke by his suitcases. They didn’t look the weekend sort.
I gave a casual, hiccuping laugh and found myself thinking of the handmade furniture in the flat in Tottenham.
“You can make me a cake, Poppa, one I can leap out of on the night of Bunty Wiseman’s Aerobic Follies at the church hall.”
MEMO: From Executive Board to Mrs. Geraldine Stropp, Correspondence Chairwoman.
Please arrange to have two dozen yellow roses sent on Saturday, 2nd May, to Mrs. Ellie Haskell of Merlin’s Court, Cliff Road, Chitterton Fells. Card to be enclosed. Message to read: “Sorry.” No sender. Please be sure and bill Treasury before the first of the month.
NOTE: This action was not presented to the members at large. It is a direct order from The Founder.
18
… “My poor Ellie, what an agonising day! If only we had known… known you!” Primrose sighed. “We could have helped by sending Butler over to make little sausages on sticks. You would have been pleased to do so, would you not, Butler?”
The man removed plates scattered with toasted teacake crumbs. “Certainly, madam. Although not as much as I h’enjoyed breaking into The Peerless Nursing Home. Surely Mr. Freddy…”
“Please!” Hyacinth’s black brows zigzagged together. “We do not wish to hear that name…”
In all fairness, a certain person did knock on the front door Thursday evening to sob his apologies through the letter box. If Eli’s dog had been handy, I would have whispered, “Postman!” in her ear and flung wide the door.
“Ellie, old sock, did I by chance forget to mention that one of the deep freezes at Abigail’s is crammed with bite-sized morsels prepared during my training sessions with Ben? Of course, I never dreamed that they would go public-we have been eating them for lunch. But it occurs to me that in a pinch…”
I almost went through the letter box. To have suffered the horrors of the damned while a deep freeze had everything at the ready! A moment’s quiet reflection, however, brought me to realise that Freddy was not totally to blame. Had my husband and I been properly communicating, I would have recognised that while Ben lay blank-eyed on the pillows, he wasn’t fretting whether Freddy would recall the precise ratio of air to solid in a mousse, but whether he was up to proper thawing.
Freddy rattled the letter box to recapture my attention. “Of course, Ellie, you might like to make some chicken tarts. They’re a bit simplistic for Ben or me, but-”
“I know, they were a great hit at the wedding reception.” So, the chicken tarts weren’t wasted, but nothing could give me back the hours I could have spent with Ben, or undo the fact that he thought he came a poor second
