How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law (32 page)

“Bridget isn’t down, but she is out … of the picture,” I said in a desperate bid to latch on to particulars and not let go, “I know for certain that word of our silly plotting did get out, by one means or another”—this was directed at Eudora—“because I got a phone call from someone who agreed to keep mum for the price of two hundred pounds.”

“Ellie, how awful!”

“He or she didn’t put the squeeze on you?”

Eudora shook her head, and Pamela confided that she was being blackmailed for an unrelated matter.

“It wouldn’t seem to make good business sense for this person to be our murderer,” I said. “But who knows what sort of a crackpot we are dealing with?”

“All I can suggest is that someone has a grudge against one or other of the mothers-in-law and wants to cover his tracks by bumping off all four of them according to our plan”—Eudora sat up straight in her chair—“so that the blame falls squarely on the scapegoats.”

“The news media will dub us the Deadly Daughters-in-law. We set ourselves up pretty handily, didn’t we?” Pamela sat twisting one of her ponytails around her finger. “Mumsie Kitty made more enemies than she did apple pies. But I can’t think of anyone in particular, except Mr. Watkins, the window cleaner, who made quite a stink recently when she refused to pay him for a job badly done.…” Her voice faded.

“Mum had quite a run-in with him too,” I said while gathering up my courage to bring up the name that I felt sure had Pamela worried. “What about Sir Robert? I know you’re fond of him, Pamela, but you and I both heard him say yesterday, after his collapse at
lunch, that he could be driven to murdering Lady Kitty.”

“I confess!” She dropped her head in her hands. “I did tell Bobsie Cat about our talk at the Dark Horse. He had a good laugh, but the old codger is all bluster. He really wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Eudora broke what became an awkward silence with the statement that, to her knowledge, Bridget had made no enemies in Chitterton Fells.

“Admittedly, she upset the bishop quite a lot with her comic-book commentary on the Bible, but that’s hardly what we are talking about, is it?”

“In addition to Mr. Watkins”—I began ticking off on my fingers—“Mum has fallen foul of both Mrs. Malloy and Mrs. Pickle—the first for giving her the sack, the second for stealing Jonas’s affections. It may not cut much ice with either of you, but I’m prepared to vouch for Mrs. M. not being the murderer. What I can believe, knowing her, is that she may well have spilled the beans about what she overheard at the pub to her friend Edna Pickle. Speaking of whom, we did have rather an unpleasant incident here earlier today.”

While listening to my stark account of the voodoo dolls, Eudora looked appropriately shocked that such things were still going on in the twentieth century, to say nothing of in her parish. But when I was finished, she said, “Unpleasant as all this is, Mrs. Pickle may have found a way to vent her feelings of pent-up hostility that falls short of murder.”

“Another thought has occurred to me.” I brushed back a lock of hair that was falling over my eyes, thus obscuring my twenty-twenty vision. “Mrs. Pickle may have a motive for getting rid of all four mothers-in-law. According to Mrs. Malloy, the lady has a burning ambition to win the Martha.”

“As does my husband.” Eudora smiled in rueful amusement. “He’s taken to sleeping in his apron and babbling recipes in his sleep.”

Pamela leaned forward. “Are we talking about the
trophy awarded at the fête for the best entry among the winners in the homemaking categories?”

“The very same.”

“And you think Mrs. Pickle may have viewed the assorted talents of the mothers-in-law as a serious threat to her raging ambition?” Eudora looked at me in disbelief. “Ellie, that trophy is awarded every year. If she were to get pipped at the post this time, there would be other opportunities.”

“You’re right,” I conceded. “It just sticks in my mind that Mrs. Malloy said she wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Pickle had rid herself, by one foul means or another, of former high-quality contenders.”

“But I thought those two women were the best of pals.” Pamela appeared to be fast losing track of whose side anyone was on.

“So they are, which is why I didn’t take Mrs. Malloy seriously. I thought it was just friendship talking, if you understand what I’m saying.”

“We so often talk worse about our friends than we do about our foes,” Eudora said sadly.

Deciding I had done a sufficient number on a woman who had her way to make in the world, I proceeded to close out my list of suspects on the home front.

“Mr. Peter Savage, being a stranger to these parts, is type-cast as an unknown quantity. He’s in rebellion against his mother. And his current lifestyle does make him something of an oddity. Added to that, he did talk a lot of bosh that suggested he might have a crush on me.…” I attempted to look modest. “And if—as I fear may have happened—that unwise conversation at the Dark Horse got inadvertently immortalized on his tape recorder—which, thanks to me, was eavesdropping under the table—well, who knows?”

“And who do you suppose has sufficient reason to rid the world of Beatrix Taffer?” Eudora took a quick look at her watch.

One name unfortunately leaped to mind, but I
wasn’t about to toss it into the ring. And there was luckily another possibility.

“Frizzy may have talked to her aunt Ethel about what was discussed at the Dark Horse, and believe me the woman—who may or may not have given her late husband a fatal push down the stairs—looks eminently capable of murder. Especially where Tricks is concerned.”

A heavy silence descended on the drawing room, of the sort that sometimes occurs before a particularly bad thunderstorm. The sky outside was a limpid blue and innocently devoid of cloud. But I didn’t trust the day any more than I trusted myself and the other two women to discover the identity of the person menacing the mothers-in-law, before tragedy struck yet again.

“I think we should talk to the police,” I said.

“Just what I was thinking,” agreed Eudora.

“But what if the police station closes early on a Friday?” Pamela might have been talking about a bakery shop run by two elderly maiden ladies.

“We’ll go down right away.” I got off the sofa to stand at the ready.

Eudora gave another glance at her watch. “Ellie, I can’t. Sir Robert is due at the vicarage in ten minutes to discuss the hymns for Lady Kitty’s funeral.”

“And I have to be there.” Pamela jumped up and began smoothing down her ponytails. “Would you mind awfully going down on your own, Ellie, and explaining exactly what has us all worried to death?”

“I could wait for you both,” I offered.

“Yes, but if the three of us went down without Frizzy, we might create the wrong impression about her. We don’t want that, do we?” Eudora was almost back to her brisk self. “And if we wait to talk things over with her, we will waste precious time. We’ve already had one near-miss and a fatality in a very short space of time.”

“We need to warn Frizzy,” I said, “that Tricks
could be in danger. She must confiscate her mother-in-law’s bottle of health tonic immediately.”

“I’ll phone Frizzy as soon as I get home,” Eudora promised me as she headed out into the hall. “You just worry about getting down to the police station,” She and Pamela were on their way out the front door, when the younger woman tugged on my sleeve.

“One thing I don’t have to worry about anymore is our blackmailer,” Pamela said cheerfully. “I know it’s beastly of me to be happy about anything right now, but it’s wonderful to be free of that leech and to know that there is nothing to stop me …” The rest of what she was saying got blown away by the wind as she hurried after Eudora down the front steps of the house. Closing the door on their retreating backs, I experienced a fleeting moment of happiness for Pamela. She was right. Now there was nothing to stop her from telling Sir Robert that she had cheated, by submitting one of her aunt Gertrude’s pies, in the marriage bake-off. Her father-in-law wouldn’t care two hoots.

I was leaning against the front door, thinking that there was something … or someone … that I had failed to mention to my fellow investigators, something that might well have a bearing on the infamy at hand, when who should come out of the kitchen but Mum and Freddy.

“There you are, Ellie!” Magdalene’s eyes were positively twinkling. “I made your cousin lunch and we’ve been having such a nice chat. He wants me to teach him how to crochet.”

“But first I’m going to take her out for an afternoon spin, isn’t that right, Auntie Mags?” Freddie gave the top of her head, which came somewhere above his waist, a fond pat.

“I’ve never been on a motorcycle in my life.” Mum made this startling revelation in a voice that marvelled at so many, many golden moments lost.

“Are you sure this is wise?” I asked them both. “What if it starts to rain?”

“Life is a chancy business, Ellie,” she said with a serene smile that did more for her than any amount of eye shadow, “and as I was explaining to Frederick, who is so understanding, a ride in the open air is just what I need to blow away the cobwebs in my head.”

“Well, I do hope that if she gets blown off the bike in her entirety,” I told Freddy severely, “you will at least stop to pick her up and dust her off.”

“It’s not like me to think of myself,” Mum reminded me, “and if you think I’m being selfish, by all means say so. The last thing I want is to cause trouble between the two of us when we seem to be getting along better than I ever dared hope.”

“Off you go and have a good time!” I cried. After all, any danger that awaited her on the open road was minimal compared to what might be lurking in the house in the guise of a wardrobe primed and ready to fall and crush her to death under its massive weight. “I may have to go out myself for a bit, but Jonas is here to look after the twins.”

“If you’re sure …” Mum hesitated as duty dictated.

“Ellie wants us to be happy, isn’t that right, coz?” Freddy gave me a scratchy kiss on the cheek that made me wish he would either shave off his stubbly beard or let it grow back to full bloom. But in the main I felt very pleased with him as he marshalled Mum out the front door, leaving me with nothing to do but get ready for the trip to the police station.

Well, maybe a bite to eat before setting out. It has been my experience that courage does not sit well on an empty stomach, so I hustled into the kitchen, where I found a plate of ham sandwiches covered with a dishtowel on the working surface, courtesy of Mum. There was no denying that our relationship had improved to the point where I would miss her when she returned to Tottenham—hopefully with Dad—but she had to go and that very evening, at the latest, if I were to ensure her safety.

I sat in the kitchen longer than I intended, letting my mind drift until it was suddenly roped in like a barge. It wasn’t the distant
bong
of the grandfather clock that made me jump from my chair, but a far more ominous sound. Someone—a grown-up someone, from the heaviness of the footsteps—was walking around in the nursery. We had our Child Watch intercom to alert us when the twins woke up of a morning, or in the afternoon from their naps. And the intercom was letting me know now, in no uncertain terms, that I had an intruder.

Me and my overloaded imagination! I was telling myself that the culprit had to be Jonas, and I would have his head for clumping about in a manner liable to wake both Abbey and Tam, if not the dead, when I took a look out the window and saw Jonas innocently watering one of the flower beds.

The urgency of the situation forbade my taking a detour to the drawing room and equipping myself with the poker. I made do with the largest wooden spoon I could grab from the drawer. A carving knife would have made a lot more sense if I hadn’t been afraid of doing myself bodily harm and scarring the twins emotionally for life in the process.

Taking the stairs ten at a time, I raced down the gallery. There I collided with Mr. Menace as he stepped out of the nursery.

I gasped. “
Dad!
What are you doing here?”

“I came over with a bunch of flowers for Magdalene!” He sensibly distanced himself from the wooden spoon.

“And how did you get in? Down the chimney?”

“No!” Sheepishly he looked down at his red cardigan. “I was going to knock on the door in the prescribed fashion, Ellie, but when I was coming up the drive I saw the ladder leaning up against the house, and it seemed to me”—he cleared his throat—“that if Jonas hadn’t yet fixed the window latch and I could get into her bedroom without Magdalene seeing me, I
could leave the flowers and a note on her bed as a means of paving the way, before …”

“Having to face her?” I supplied.

“Your mother-in-law is a pretty tough customer.” He spoke with a note of pride. “I don’t doubt it will take me another forty years to soften her up.”

“If she lives that long.” And I burst into tears.

“I
f you keep this up,” Dad said in an unusually soft bellow, “we’ll have to turn the windscreen wipers on
inside
the car.”

“How can I help it?” I sobbed. “Going to the police was a complete waste of time. Sergeant Briggs was either rolling his eyes or staring out the window during most of our visit. The only time he perked up was when I told him about the blackmail.”