The Widows Club Read online

“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 divorcée 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.”

  I stopped playing with my tea cake. “What of female friends and acquaintances of the widows? Wouldn’t they ask questions, express interest in the club’s activities?”

  “Widows, I fear, tend to be the forgotten species and not nearly as amusing as spinsters.” Primrose straightened out one of the pink bows on her hair. “People are relieved when they don’t want to keep coming to dinner. I imagine that acquaintances of our widows merely think how nice that Maude or Cynthia keeps so busy-whist, Tuesday afternoons; committee work, Thursday evenings; out selling homemade fudge for charity on weekends.”

  “Mrs. Haskell”-Hyacinth drew her chair closer, setting the earrings off again-“please understand we are not here to cast stones. The Widows Club does raise a sizeable amount annually for charity. But can good works mitigate the fact that its primary function is deadly?”

  I shivered, mainly because I was becoming interested in this nonsense. “What about conscience-don’t any of these women break down after the deed is done? Killing a husband is-is unnatural!” A bitter pang swamped me as I recalled the first time I had felt the urge to murder my brand-new husband.

  Primrose sighed. “Murder is always nasty. But unnatural? I am not so sure. Murdering one’s child or parents, that indeed flouts nature. Disposing of a husband?” She shook her silver head. “My dear, you will point out that neither Hyacinth nor I have ever married, but I can readily conceive that even the most devoted wife might be faced with the temptation to lay out her spouse rather than his clean underwear.”

  “Quite so, Primrose! However, we are not put on this earth to give way to temptation.” Hyacinth lifted her painted black eyebrows at me. “Mrs. Haskell, you inquired whether, despite everything the support group can do, any of the widows falter under the burden of remorse. We have spoken to such a woman. Since our arrival in the area, Butler has held several positions other than the post he occupies here. He has been a barrow boy, a telephonist, a dustman. While engaged as a window cleaner, he made contact with a Mrs. X, a patient at The Peerless Nursing Home. Unfortunately the interview was hampered by its taking place in a broom cupboard, added to which Mrs. X was only partially coherent as a result of the medication she had been administered during her sojourn there. But we did make some gains. Mrs. X claims to be one of several women presently occupying the third floor, all being treated for the same problem-loose lips.”

  “The Peerless is run by Dr. Simon Bordeaux.” Mine was a statement, not a question. I had reasons for not wanting the doctor to be a villain, but I had seen that nursing home, locked in the center of a dense wood. My heart went out to Mrs. X, whatever her sins. I grew calm, numbed by the draft from the window and the conviction that the Tramwells were not senile. Eccentric without doubt, but eccentricity was in my blood.

  “Yes, my dear,” said Miss Primrose Tramwell, “we know the doctor-by reputation. We have ardently endeavoured not to prejudge him, but at our ages Hyacinth and I cannot take lightly the notion that the good doctor may have curtailed the lives of elderly females for pecuniary gain. And, it must be said, it is repellent to us that he purchased a proud ancestral home (the Peerless family is almost as old as ours) and turned it into an antiseptic facility and at such cost to that hapless Lady”-she reached for her sister’s green notebook-“ah, yes, Lady Theodora Peerless. A fellow woman, cast out upon the world, if not as a governess, as a typist-which is rather worse, one fears.”

  “Mrs. Haskell, how well are you acquainted with Dr. Bordeaux?” asked Primrose.

  “We’ve met a couple of times. He attended the… our fatal affair.”

  Primrose looked down at her lap and Hyacinth avoided my eyes. “We had certainly planned to gate-crash the event but were forced to return to Cloisters that day. Our dog Minerva was indisposed.”

  My hair had loosened at the back of my neck. I pinned it back up to hide the trembling of my fingers and ate another small raisin. Dr. Bordeaux’s pale, aesthetic face wove itself out of the shadows in the room. I was remembering things, incidents, conversations with people, especially Ann Delacorte. The clock in the hall struck six times. I retrieved a
hairpin that had slipped under my collar.

  “What information do you have about this Widows Club?”

  Hyacinth picked up the green notebook. “Current membership comprises approximately thirty-five women, including eight board members and the current president. Each member is obligated to remain active for one year following initiation. Board members must retire after a one-year term of office. This, as Primrose and I understand the matter, is because these are the women who actively participate in the murders. Too much-buttering of the stairs-could take its toll. Or become addictive. Presumably The Founder would not wish any one person gaining an ascendancy.”

  “And you suspect that Dr. Bordeaux is The Founder?”

  “My dear, we certainly do not discount him because he is a man.” Primrose fussed with her silvery curls. “But, we are well nigh convinced he is merely an accomplice, not the brains.”

  I finally asked the obvious. “Why did this insurance company call you in, rather than going directly to the police?”

  Hyacinth used her finger as a bookmark. “Not one ounce of real evidence to drop in the lap of Scotland Yard. One of the difficulties we have encountered is that the charter members, who must surely know The Founder’s identity, have long since dispersed, gone on to new-and one can only trust-single lives.”

  “How long has the club been in operation?”

  “As near as we can gauge, five years.”

  “Think me a flea-brain,” I said, “but if you are sure of Dr. Bordeaux’s involvement and Mrs. X is only one of several widows he is treating for acute attacks of remorse, what is the difficulty in substantiating your claims?”

  “I very much doubt that our long-suffering constabulary would put much stock in the ramblings of bereaved women suffering from their nerves.” Primrose pensively added more cognac to her tea. “And, my dear Mrs. Haskell, as we informed our insurance company employers, these unfortunate women cannot give us the one name we desperately need. They don’t know it. What happens, we ask, if The Founder slips through our net? What will be achieved even if we do put this club out of operation? Chitterton Fells will become a less eventful place to live; but The Founder may simply start a similar service organisation somewhere else.”

  Hyacinth’s ebony eyes bored into mine. “Which is why we have approached you, Mrs. Haskell. We ask that you help us unmask our villain.”

  “Me?”

  “My dear child”-Primrose caught at me with her small fluttery hands-“recall the old saying: ‘In the midst of life there is death!’ How true… as is its reverse.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” chimed the sisters.

  I could think of a dozen responses to that, but I had succumbed to my tea cake and my mouth was full of flavoured rubber cement.

  “We will, should you wish, introduce you to someone who can vouch for much of what we have said.” Hyacinth flicked over a page in the green book. “We mentioned, I believe, rumblings from computers owned by our employer. But we were not called in until a certain woman had presented herself at Head Office. This person claimed to have been the Other Woman in several liaisons, each of which ended in the sudden death of her lover shortly after he had requested divorce from his wife. That woman lives here in Chitterton Fells and is anxious to see justice done.”

  “How convenient that all the victims were insured with the one company!” I observed, somewhat maliciously.

  “That would be rather too fortuitous.” Hyacinth grimaced in amusement. “But ours is one of the largest and most nationally prominent in the business. It has a vigourous local office and has been the hardest hit. After their visit from this Other Woman, our people conferred with other companies, found further significant mortality data, and agreed to head up the investigation.”

  “Oh, indeed!” I said. “Why did this Other Woman go to the insurance company rather than the police?”

  “She did go to them first, after encountering what she termed the last straw.” Primrose pursed her lips and shook her head. “The man (one certainly cannot term him a gentleman) whom she had been meeting each Wednesday evening in… a Volkswagen parked in a used-car lot, failed to turn up, which was most unusual.” Primrose flushed down to her neck. “Invariably he apparently begged to be allowed to come early. This time, however, he had been permanently delayed. It seems a crane at his place of business had deposited him in some sort of metal crusher. The woman had been saddened when her other paramours kept turning into bodies, but this one being scrapped sent her in hysterics to the police station. The Inspector advised her to see her doctor”-Primrose lowered her voice-“about hormone tablets.”

  My tea cake buckled when I stuck a knife in it. “Do I know this Venus?”

  “According to our records, you do.” Hyacinth waved the cognac bottle over my cup.

  I nodded assent. “Who could this inflamer of male desire be?”

  Primrose looked smug. “I fear it would be a breach of professional confidentiality for us to reveal her name. We prefer to wait and let her speak for herself.”

  I held up my hands. “That’s quite all right. If you were to divulge it now, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on what it is you want from me.” The brandy tasted good now that it was no longer diluted by tea, but it wasn’t responsible for the small hopeful flame that lit within me. If what the Tramwells said were true, then maybe in helping them I could make some small reparation to Ben.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Before we proceed, I must make a phone call.” Going out into the foyer, I found Butler dusting the chocolates in the dish on the library table. I asked him to fetch fresh tea, and as he headed for the kitchen, I picked up the telephone and quickly dialed my own number. My father-in-law answered at the third ring. After a brief conversation, I returned to the coffee parlour and closed the door behind me.

  I sat down. “Ready.”

  Primrose pressed a scented handkerchief into my limp fingers. “We wish you to give us a history of the events leading up to the tragic event which occurred on these premises one week ago tonight.”

  “How much do you need to know?” The steadiness of my voice startled me.

  “Everything.” Hyacinth uncapped a fountain pen.

  “All right,” I began. “On the day of Abigail’s premiere, I woke at a little after six o’clock feeling totally exhausted because all that night I had dreamt I was preparing food for the party. Ben, you see-”

  “No, no! Mrs. Haskell. That is not what we want at all.” Hyacinth dabbed at a splutter of ink.

  “Dear me, indeed not!” piped up Primrose. “We wish you to go back to the beginning. Start, if you will be so good, with the day you and Bentley came to Merlin’s Court. Your views and impressions since coming to this area are as important to us as the climax.”

  “Why don’t I begin with my wedding? Ben and I hadn’t done much socialising with the locals before then; but that day the church and later the house teemed with people. I remember hearing one of the guests say that everyone was there except Chitterton Fells’s three most famous: Edwin Digby, the mystery writer; Felicity Friend, the advice columnist; and the wicked Dr. Simon Bordeaux.”

  “You had sent out a great many invitations?” Hyacinth was making notes.

  “None.”

  The pen stopped moving.

  “Ben and I had a very short engagement and wanted a quiet wedding. But, then again, we didn’t want to offend the people we didn’t invite. So we phoned the people we really wanted there and put a small squib in the Coming Events section of The Daily Spokesman. It appeared right at the bottom of the page and was headed ‘All Welcome’, giving time, date, and place. The response was horrifying. The phone buzzed day and night with acceptances to our gracious invitation.”

  “I am sure it was a lovely wedding.” Primrose pulled out her handkerchief again.

  I hesitated. “The day-it was the first of December last year-was marred by some unfortunate circumstances. The best man, Sidn
ey Fowler, found weddings depressing. He had only agreed to do the honours in hopes of combatting his phobia. The weather was less than perfect and we were about to get the dreadful news about Ben’s mother…”

  Part Two

  ***

  3

  … “My dear Ellie, I am sure you were a breathtaking bride!” Primrose sighed sentimentally…

  Organ music wafted through the open church doors as I stumbled through the lich-gate and down the mossy pathway flanked by ancient tombstones. I clutched the skirt of my white satin gown and my bouquet of yellow tea roses in one hand and Jonas’s arm with the other. Late again. I am always late-for dental appointments, theatre performances, jury duty-but I had planned to make an exception for my wedding.

  “Hurry, Jonas!”

  The sea breeze lifted my veil, snarling it about my face. My seed pearl tiara slipped over one eye, giving me the look of a demented fairy.

  “I am hurrying.”

  Jonas was over seventy. What if he dropped dead at my feet? I would spend the rest of my life consumed by remorse. Some people might think it odd that I had chosen to be given away in marriage by my gardener. But he and Dorcas had been my mainstays during my struggle along the byways to Ben’s affection.

  If Jonas were taken ill, the wedding would have to be postponed, and that would be the end of me. Women have come a long way from the days when growing up to be an old maid like great-aunt Clarissa was considered a fate worse than death. Today’s woman knows that the word spinster is not synonymous with pebble glasses, a long beaky nose, and button boots. The glamourous, sophisticated single woman has risen-a triumphant phoenix-from the ashes of a dying breed. But the world still harbors pockets of spineless, jelly-kneed females who believe the quality of their lives will be immeasurably improved by the acquisition of a husband. I am such a woman. Do I deserve to be stoned?

  When I was six years old and was asked what I wanted for Christmas, I replied, “Something simple in gold for the fourth finger of my left hand.” Nothing, nothing must spoil this day. Or better said: no further blight must be cast upon it. My mother was dead, my father was a nomad last seen hitching a camel ride across the Sahara, but I had naively hoped Ben’s parents would wish to share our joy. Wrong. His Roman Catholic mother had sent love and best wishes but declined attending because the service was to be Church of England. His Jewish father spurned the invitation because three years previously he had taken a vow (on his mother’s photograph) never again to speak to his only son. Ben had been stoic and I had been snarly about their childishness. And that morning had brought fresh tribulation. I had awakened to find my veil lying in a tattered heap upon my bedroom floor.