The Spring Cleaning Murders (4 page)

Not only were Tam and Abbey little more than babies themselves, there was Jonas needing special attention and the restaurant perhaps in trouble. Far better for me to stop dabbling and get serious about reestablishing myself as an interior designer. One of the newcomers, Clarice Whitcombe, had intimated at the last Hearthside Guild meeting that she would like some help with decorating when she got fully settled. And several other people had made interested noises as well. Of course, the real coup would be a commission to redo Pomeroy Hall to the taste of its new mistress. The former Mrs. Dovedale, who had been in love with Sir Robert since her schoolgirl days working in her father’s corner shop, was now his bride.

The attic drew me to its center. Tugging on a dust sheet at random, I uncovered a cradle, a beautiful thing made of walnut, with carved cherubs forming a broad edge around the hooded top. An antiques dealer friend of mine had sent it to me when I was pregnant. Kneeling down, I tipped that cradle with my finger so that it rocked gently as if lulling a phantom infant to sleep. When two babies had arrived, Ben and I couldn’t let only one of our delightful offspring rock in royal splendor. So we’d purchased two white bassinets from the local departmental store, and stowed the cradle in the attic.

Perhaps one day, I thought, covering it back up. For now I would satisfy my nesting instincts by doing what I had come up here to do. Look for bedroom furniture for Abbey and Tam. I had taken only a couple of steps when I froze. Someone was standing behind me. I could feel his shadow imprinted on my back. Heart thudding, knees knocking, I made a half turn and was almost felled by a dressmaker’s form, which landed alongside me with the force of an oak tree. Inventing a few new swear words, I backed up against a decrepit armchair and sat down with a wallop that proved I was not as well upholstered as I thought. An uncoiled spring punctured my behind. I pushed my hands down under the seat cushion, struggling for leverage. And when I staggered to my feet, I was holding something. A green clothbound book.

Forget pain! A journal? “Abigail Grantham” was written on the flyleaf. She who had been mistress of this house during the first decade or two of this century. At first I was disappointed to discover I wasn’t in possession of her diary. The baize-covered book seemed to contain Abigail’s collection of housecleaning formulas. But any contact with the woman whose memory I held in such high esteem and for whom Ben had named his restaurant was welcome. I stationed myself under the feeble light bulb, flipping through the pages with the feverish curiosity more commonly manifested by pubescent boys ogling naughty pictures.

“Listen, Tobias—here’s a fascinating tip: ‘Clean cutlery with wood or coal ash. If the knives have ivory handles that have yellowed from being allowed to sit in washing-up water, rub them with sandpaper till white.’" This was marvelous. It made me wish I’d been born a woman living in the good old days before shop-bought cleaning products took all the fun out of a slog around the house. “‘To clean marble slabs, use four ounces of Sal soda, two ounces powdered pumice stone, and two ounces prepared chalk. Mix well, add sufficient water, rub well on the marble, and then wash with soap and water.’

Turning another couple of pages, I exclaimed in delight. “Here’s a recipe for an exceptional furniture polish. ‘One pint of alcohol, one pint of spirits of turpentine, one half pint of raw linseed oil, one ounce balsam fir, one ounce ether. Cut the balsam with the alcohol, which will take about twelve hours. Mix the oil with the turpentine in a separate vessel and add the alcohol, and lastly the ether.’

“This is even better: ‘To remove bloodstains, make a thin paste of starch and water. Spread over the problem area. When dry, brush the starch off. Two or three applications will remove the worst stains.’" Tobias did not hang about to hear more. I was about to turn another page when I heard a thud, followed by the smashing of china or glass. My heart pounded like a battering ram. I raced downstairs and along the gallery in the direction of the sound. To stop short at Jonas’s bedroom. There the door stood open to reveal Mrs. Large, hands on her hips, surveying the remnants of a mirror that had hung on the wall. And I had to bite my lip to prevent an exclamation of dismay.

I knew how much that little mirror had meant to Jonas. His mother had given it to him when he was nine years old. Perhaps realizing she wasn’t to be with him much longer, she had told him that whenever he felt lonely or sad, he need only look into it to find her there. Jonas the man understood she was speaking about his physical resemblance to her. But shortly afterwards, that nine-year-old boy had stood at an upstairs window watching his mother’s coffin being lifted into a hearse. And in the painful days following he had discovered that if he stood at just the right angle and squinted through half-closed lids he could catch glimpses of her. Sometimes she would be in their kitchen, wrapped around in a big white apron, making pots of ruby-red jam. But mostly Jonas would see her in the garden, unreeling a kite that would flutter for an uncertain moment before straining towards the sun.

“This isn’t like me.” Mrs. Large turned towards me. “Any member of the C.F.C.W.A. will give it to you in writing, Mrs. Haskell, that I’m not by rule clumsy. Never a cup chipped in the twenty-two years I’ve worked up at Pomeroy Hall. The late Lady Kitty, that wasn’t easy to please, called me a dream char. And I’m sure Sir Robert’s new bride—Maureen Dovedale, that was—would say the same. Although, as you could point out”—Mrs. Large squared her massive shoulders—”that can’t be said to hold the same clout, seeing as she and I was friends from kiddy days.” Mrs. Large’s voice petered out.

“You mustn’t be upset, accidents happen, don’t they?” I tried to sound bracing.

“That’s kind of you to say.” She stepped away from the shards of broken glass and reached for a dustpan and brush half buried under a heap of dusters on a chair. “And looking on the practical side, Mrs. Haskell, that mirror had seen better days. Wouldn’t have fetched fifty pence at a jumble sale. The silvering gone. And when all is said and done, it was a silly size. Not big enough to see your eyes and nose in at the same time.” I knew Mrs. Large was talking to make herself feel better but even so I felt a spurt of irritation, especially when she added, “I’d have felt bad if it had been something of any value.”

Tears blurred my eyes as I watched her sweeping up the broken glass. Small comfort, but at least the frame could be salvaged. “I’ll get it fixed.” I had just placed the mirror on top of the dresser when the telephone rang. Glad of the opportunity to escape, I hurried out into the gallery and picked up the receiver.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Mrs. Malloy as if she’d expected the Pope to answer. “All choked up, from the sound of you, Mrs. H., at losing me. Well, you’re going to have to pull yourself together for the sake of them children and that hubby of yours. Look”—her voice softened—”take my photo to bed nights if you think it’ll help.”

“I’m so glad you rang,” I told her. “I’ve been a little worried at not hearing from you. How are things going with George and Vanessa and dear little Rose?”

“Let’s save all that for when they bring out the movie of my life.” My former right hand sounded decidedly surly. “It’ll be a tearjerker all right, though who they’ll get with enough charm and looks to play the main part, I don’t know. But why should I worry? What with one thing and another, I’m no longer counting on getting that telegram from her majesty on my hundredth birthday.”

This was morbid in the extreme. Could I be talking to the Mrs. Malloy who had long ago made a pact with the Grim Reaper that they would each ignore the other’s existence? Knowing my cousin Vanessa, it would not at all have surprised me had she threatened to kill her mother-in-law if she so much as touched one of her designer lipsticks. But Mrs. M. had always been made of stern stuff—the sort to send a firing squad scampering off, their rifles between their legs. So what was happening in that London flat?

“Tell me what’s going on!” I begged.

“You’ve got things round the wrong way,” Mrs. Malloy returned austerely. “The only reason I took time out of me busy day to give you a tinkle was Gertrude Large said she’d be at Merlin’s Court today. And I wanted to find out what’s got her all shook up ready to pop her cork. Phoned me last night, she did. As near to tears as I’ve ever heard her. But what with all the noise from the bloody traffic that goes past here morning, noon, and night, I only caught bits and pieces of what she was saying. Something about making a nasty discovery and not knowing what to do under the circumstances. And what did I think about calling an emergency meeting of the C.F.C.W.A.?”

“Didn’t you ask Mrs. Large to fill in the blanks?” I didn’t mean to sound impatient, but I had sat down on a bench where one of the twins had left some small building blocks with very sharp points.

“Naturally I was about to ask for details,” Mrs. Malloy explained patiently, “but then little Rose started crying and I had to hang up all of a hurry. And by the time I’d got her off to beddy-bye land, I conked out meself.”

“Never mind, you can have a word with Mrs. Large now,” I assured her. “She’s just down the hall in Jonas’s bedroom.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt nothing important.”

“You won’t,” I replied. “Hold on a tick while I fetch her to the phone.”

“I haven’t got all day, Mrs. H.!”

Thus admonished, I speedily informed Mrs. Large that Mrs. Malloy was waiting to speak to her, and for a fraction of a second the woman’s gloomy face brightened. I had a moment in which to feel certain that some monumental anxiety had caused her fingers to fumble and drop Jonas’s beloved mirror. And then she shook her head. It was against the rules of the C.F.C.W.A., she informed me, to accept personal phone calls, except in direst emergency, while on the job.

“But I don’t mind in the least,” I protested. “And Mrs. Malloy says this is very important.”

It was fruitless. Mrs. Large stood, dustpan in hand, as unbudgeable as the oak tree she resembled, and I thought I heard her murmur the words “Death before dishonor!” as I trailed off to report to Mrs. Malloy, only to find that she had hung up. Or we had been disconnected? Another of life’s glitched moments, which hardly seemed fraught with immense importance at the time.

On the following Sunday, skies hung low, like soggy woolen blankets abandoned on a clothesline. The wind gurgled and moaned and rain drizzled drearily down the windowpanes. Spring seemed as much a matter of wishful thinking as the hope that Mrs. Malloy would ever return to Merlin’s Court. Perhaps if I had gone to church that morning I would have been blessed with a better perspective on life in general. But I had woken up feeling sluggish and out of sorts, and after I lost my handbag, found it, and misplaced it again, Ben had suggested that I stay at home and enjoy a little peace and quiet without him and the children. That’s the trouble with husbands. They know when we are dragging our heels and they help butter the stairs to hell by being nice about it.

Fortunately I did have something to feel holy about. I had finally finished reorganizing the kitchen cupboards. The shelves were freshly lined; every piece of china and glass was polished so that the Wicked Queen could have seen Snow White’s face in their mirror gloss. Speaking of which, Jonas had been every bit as upset over Mrs. Large’s accident as I had expected. I hadn’t told him about it until after she had left, which was wise, because he grumbled and growled so loudly that she would in all likelihood have never returned. That would have been a pity because she had done an excellent job. On and on he’d gone about seven years of bad luck (which would include violent death and a plague of locusts), and how he never wanted that woman setting her boat-sized feet in his room again. What he didn’t mention was that the mirror had been a gift from his mother. That was the sad part.

Ben had taken Jonas an early morning cup of tea, and after pottering down to the kitchen and admiring the freshly ironed curtains at the windows, I now buttered some toast and spooned honey into a small dish. Jonas was very fond of honey. His mother had kept bees. I pictured him as a small boy with a cow lick and freckles while I added a cup of tea and small glass of orange juice to the wooden tray before carrying it up to his room.

After knocking with my elbow a couple of times and getting no reply, I nudged the door open and trod across the wooden floor onto the Turkish-red carpet that somehow managed to look all right with the dusky-pink roses on the wallpaper, probably because not a lot of either was showing. Jonas had so much stuff in his room it looked like a rescue mission for homeless furniture. There was a huge old-fashioned wardrobe, several turn-of-the-century tallboys, at least four bookcases crammed with well-thumbed volumes, and an assortment of chairs stacked with additional books, newspapers, and shoe boxes overflowing with odds and ends.

I crossed slowly to the massive mahogany bed where Jonas slept, gripping the breakfast tray as if it were a balance pole and I a tightrope walker. There was
something about the curve of his back under the huddle of blankets and the way his hand rested on the fold of the sheet that made me think for one terrible moment that he was dead. But then Jonas made a sound, something between a sigh and a grunt, which let me know he was still among the living.

Setting the tray on a chair, I eased myself down on the edge of the bed. I had a wonderful husband and two precious children, but the heart has many nooks and crannies, each of which can only be filled by certain people. If I hadn’t felt the tickle of an oncoming sneeze, I would probably have sat there for another five minutes, like a cross-legged cherub on a tombstone. But to blast Jonas awake would not have enhanced his life expectancy. Edging off the bed, I picked up the tray and tiptoed back to the kitchen as Ben came in through the garden door. He looked like an advert for
Outdoor Living
in his handsome new raincoat.