The Spring Cleaning Murders (17 page)

“Actually he’s three-timing.” I settled down on the rug. “There’s a wife in addition to Bunty and Trina McKinnley. But the real scoop is that Trina inherited over fifty thousand pounds from Mrs. Large. Can you believe that? The daughters got nothing—well, a hundred pounds each, just enough for them to choke on.” I went on to explain about Mrs. Large’s husband and the insurance policy.

Ben pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “But I’m not clear where this Mrs. Smalley fits into things.”

“I’m sorry, I was a bit garbled about that part. Mrs. Large arranged for Mrs. Smalley to be the trustee. She gets to dish out the money at her discretion, in order, I suppose, to prevent Joe from helping Trina go through it all in one fell swoop.”

“I ain’t clear why Mrs. Large left her the money.” Jonas tugged on his moustache while the breeze lifted what little gray hair he had on his head.

“She wasn’t close to her daughters,” I said. “Mrs. Smalley told me when I met her the other day that they hardly gave Mrs. Large the time of day. It’s possible all the members of the C.F.C.W.A. viewed Trina as a daughter or niece of sorts. Mrs. Smalley certainly made it clear she was very fond of her.”

“Don’t make no sense to me.” Jonas huddled down in his chair and drew up his jacket collar when the sun drifted behind a cloud. “Wasn’t Roxie Malloy a friend of Mrs. Large? Why not leave her something, her and all the other women in this—what did you call it?

“The C.F.C.W.A—”I had begun to explain when the twins came flying across the sand towards us, Tam eager to tell me about the jellyfish he thought he had seen and Abbey holding out a pink shell she had found. They were quickly distracted from these enthusiasms by the sight of the chocolate cake taking pride of place among the other treats set out on the rug. Tam wanted to know if they could eat it first because picnics weren’t the same as real meals and Abbey asked if some of the writing said “Happy Birthday.” She knew it wasn’t hers and Tam’s, but she looked hopefully at Jonas. She had asked me recently if people got to be old by having more birthdays than other people.

“I think this should be a birthday party for Jonas,” I said, smiling at him. “Everyone deserves an extra one now and then, and what makes this one special is that you aren’t a year older.” The children whooped with delight and had to be ordered off the rug before they trampled the food, which gave Jonas a moment to pull himself together and try not to look pleased.

“Daddy, do we got any candles?” Abbey liked things to be done right.

“No, but I’ll light a match and Jonas can blow it out.”

“And he still gets to make a wish,” I promised. “Now we’d better eat if we want to get to the birthday cake before the sun goes behind the clouds for good and we have to go home.”

“About time. I’m starving.” Jonas took the egg sandwich Ben handed him and actually bit into it with relish. For the first time in weeks I felt optimistic about Jonas; I wished Freddy hadn’t been at work and could have seen the sparkle in the old man’s eyes as he proceeded to eat several mouthfuls of spinach salad and a few slivers of apple and orange.

“Eat up, Ellie.” Ben passed me the plate of mushroom pasties, of which he knew I was passionately fond. “And you’ve hardly touched your wine.”

“For once in my life I’m mostly enjoying watching other people devour everything in sight.” I brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes and smiled at him. The sun was back out and all was right with my world. But I did sip my wine and take a pastie. Actually I took two, since they were even more delicious than usual, being seasoned with salt air.

“What birthday is it when you stop getting bigger?” my son wanted to know.

“Will me and Tam need all-new clothes when we wake up on our birthday and we’re four?” Abbey asked.

It was clear they were getting impatient for the cake, so Ben unearthed a box of matches from the picnic basket and lit one, holding it up for Jonas to blow out.

“Don’t forget to make a wish,” I told him.

Jonas leaned forward in his chair and the movement was enough to make the flame go out before he could blow, before he could . .. but no, I had to believe that he had made a wish. This wasn’t a day for bad omens. The fact that it had suddenly clouded up meant nothing, I was certain. We gathered up the remains of the picnic and stowed them in the basket, and Ben suggested we look for shells before heading for home. The four of us set off, leaving Jonas to take a catnap.

“We’ll just walk around to the next cove.” Ben took my hand as we made our way onto the damp, coffee-colored sand, where it was easy to spot the shells. After helping the children select several to put in their buckets, we skirted a narrow strip of beach around the cliff shoulder, where shadows darkened our faces for a few moments before we entered another armchair-shaped beach. It was smaller than the one we had left, and there were more rocks, but what was most striking was the man seated at a table.

It was laid with a white linen cloth. The man had his back to us, but over his shoulder we could see the wineglass being raised to his lips, the silver bud vase, and the soup tureen.

“Good heavens!” Ben whispered in my ear, “and I thought I’d gone all out!”

The scene was so completely unreal that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the gull wheeling overhead had dropped to earth, shaken its feathers, and assumed human guise before producing a table for four and begging the Haskell party to be seated. So it was disappointingly anticlimactic when the man turned his head and stared at us without surprise, and certainly without enthusiasm.

“Why, it’s Tom Tingle!” I felt silly just saying the name, so imagine how he felt living with it. “His house is almost directly above here.” My eyes shifted to the cliffs as Ben, the children, and I trailed across the sand to beard the man at his table. On closer view we saw the remains of the smoked salmon, salad, eggs mayonnaise, and bread and butter that made up his meal, along with what I supposed was soup in the tureen. What a production it must have been getting everything down here! And impossible, I would have thought, to keep the soup even lukewarm.

“Out taking the air?” inquired Tom T., looking like a middle-aged gnome, cursed to sit there forever. His large head was sunk in the collar of his earth-colored jacket.

“We’ve been having a picnic on the other side.” Ben pointed back the way we had come.

“You two haven’t met, have you?” I was feeling flustered for no sensible reason. “Darling, this is Tom Tingle, a new member of the Hearthside Guild. And Tom, I’d like you to meet Ben and our children—Abbey and Tam.”

He remained seated, his stubby fingers splayed out along the edge of the white tablecloth. And he mumbled something barely audible in response to Ben’s “A pleasure, Mr. Tingle.”

“Mummy, is he real?” Tam’s whisper carried much further. “Or is he just pretend?”

“Him’s a sea fairy,” Abbey’s face glowed. She tiptoed forward, eager for a closer look, but careful not to rush in case she made him disappear.

“They think it’s magic.” Ben ran his fingers through his dark hair, probably to massage his brain back into working order. “How did you get the table and all the dishes as well as the food down here? I suppose you came by the path rather than the steps, but even so, some undertaking.”

“I used a handcart,” Tom said quite pleasantly. “It’s over there behind those rocks.” He gestured towards a couple of giant boulders. And I found myself wondering what they had been in their former lives before some wicked witch turned them to stone.

I scrambled forward to collect Abbey, who was now standing behind Tom and inspecting his ears. “Well, we’ll go and leave you to your meal before it gets cold.”

“Yes, wouldn’t want the salad to cool off, or the smoked salmon, for that matter.” He laughed at his small joke. “Even the soup is meant to be served cold. I call it potato leek, but it’s got one of those fancy French names.”

“Vichyssoise,” supplied Ben, and Tam’s eyes grew big—understandably so, because until now he had thought “Abracadabra!” the only magic word his father knew.

“I made it from one of those packet mixes.” Tom was clearly making an attempt at conversation. “It was my only shortcut because I wanted the meal to be perfect.”

“Is it your birfday?” Tam and Abbey asked together.

“As a matter of fact it is.” Tom looked embarrassed and his eyes shifted away from ours to look out over the sea, which had lost some of its smooth sparkle and made louder whooshing sounds as it came frothing up on the sands. The sky had turned grey in patches and the sun looked ready to hole up behind the clouds. Something had definitely gone out of the day. It was suddenly clear that Tom was a sad and lonely man. Abbey and Tam asked if he would like to come and have some of Jonas’s birthday cake, and his face brightened before he shook his head.

“Thanks but I think it’s going to rain.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” I said. And feeling rather as though I were abandoning a baby on a church doorstep, turned to go.

Ben, the children, and I trod in single file along the strip of sand leading from one beach to the next, getting our feet wet as the waves made little foam-lipped rushes at us.

“I think he’s a sad fairy.” Abbey was looking back over her shoulder, although it was no longer possible to see Tom. We were back on our own little beach. Jonas was dozing in his chair, with a handkerchief spread over his head to protect it from the sun, which now posed little threat. He started awake at our approach. At the same moment the handkerchief blew away—flapping itself into wings. The children went happily scampering after it.

They didn’t look nearly as merry when we all started trudging up the stone staircase back to the car. Abbey thought she had lost one of her shells and Tam kept saying, at every second step, that he didn’t see why he couldn’t go paddling. Keeping my temper wasn’t easy. My son’s constant stopping meant I was always in danger of bumping into him as I made up the rear of the procession with the buckets and spades. The traveling rug kept sliding off my arm as if determined to get itself stepped on. Just as I pitched forward for the third time and let out an unnerved scream we reached the top. Ben set the chair and picnic basket down on the gravel-strewn grass while he opened up the boot of the car.

The breeze tugged at my hair, spilling some strands over my eyes, but it felt good standing there, even with my skirts slapping against my legs as if chivying me into getting into the car. Three or four gulls glided overhead. I stood listening to their hoarse cries, wondering if they ever had anything cheerful to say when humans weren’t around. And then I heard someone—or something—else cry out. The sound blew in from the sea below; there was suddenly a deep silence as even these gulls shut up to listen and the wind held its breath. I had just decided I was imagining things when Ben hurried up beside me.

“What was that?” He gripped my arm.

“I don’t know.” I stood stock-still.

It came again, a thin thread of a wail, followed a few seconds later by a more robust shout that Ben and I both instantly recognized as a cry for help. Dodging back to the car, I told Jonas to stay with the twins. “Someone’s in trouble down on the beach or in the water.” Someone! I had little doubt that it was Tom Tingle.

“Here, take the traveling rug.” Jonas thrust it into my hands as I raced after my husband. Already it seemed ages since we had first heard that cry. It was raining hard when I reached the cliff steps.

But I couldn’t worry about losing my balance as I made my blurry descent; my mind was filled with the image of Tom Tingle floundering in the sea, spewing out water like a fountainhead while trying to catch his breath.

All my energy went to chasing Ben’s shadow around the armchair curve of cliff separating the two beaches. The narrow strip leading from one to the other was now ankle deep in water and to prevent myself from stumbling I had to keep grabbing at the boulder wall. At last I could see Ben again. He was standing where the sky and the sea merged, kicking off his shoes and wrenching off his jacket.

“Be careful!” I yelled. And then he was splashing into the water, his arms extended as he prepared to leap into the waves. He wasn’t a great swimmer, and there was said to be a vicious undertow beyond the breakwaters. My life flashed before me—my life as a heartbroken widow with two small children to bring up alone. Would Abbey and Tam even remember their father? Would I ever come out of mourning and stop cursing fate?

I could no longer see him through the rain, but I heard him shouting out to the other person in the water, and over the loud knocking of my heart I heard an answering cry. It didn’t sound too far off. Hope reared its head as I hovered at the water’s edge, my hands cupped fruitlessly over my eyes. There was nothing to see but grey.

The sea moved and the sky didn’t, that was the only difference. I had dropped the plaid rug a few yards away. Now I forced myself to go pick it up and shake off the sand. Then I got Ben’s jacket. My nerves were ticking like a clock and my hands shook. I had never been more frightened in my life. For what seemed like ages I didn’t hear anything. Then there came a shout. But I couldn’t recognize the voice.

I had just reached the calm of icy desperation, when suddenly the nightmare was over. First I heard a splashing, and then something dark and hulking emerged before my eyes. It was Ben, my one true love, staggering under the burden of carrying someone in his arms. Someone who looked to be a deadweight...

“Darling! Are you all right? Is it Tom? Did you get to him in time?” I gabbled, weaving my way like a drunkard towards them with the traveling rug and his jacket.

“Yes, it’s him.” Ben spoke slowly, panting as he rose after laying the other man on the ground. “He was alive a couple of minutes ago. Thank God he didn’t struggle and try to drag me under as I towed him in. I told him I’m not much of a swimmer and he kicked quite productively when I got him under the armpits.”

I helped Ben put on his jacket, but he was still shivering when we both bent over Tom Tingle. Fully clothed except for his shoes, he looked waterlogged and had his eyes closed. But he was definitely breathing. If his heaving chest meant anything. Spreading the traveling rug over him and tucking in the edges, I whispered to Ben.