The Spring Cleaning Murders (8 page)

She smiled at her sister, a bracing smile, filled with an affection that lit up her no-frills face. I decided it was unlikely they had quarreled. Vienna handed Madrid her cup of coffee without first serving either me or the brigadier. She even stirred in the cream and sugar and afterwards plumped up a chair cushion before Madrid sat down.

“Comfy, dear?” Vienna asked before turning and explaining to me and Brigadier Lester-Smith that her sister had been feeling a little under the weather.

“Oh, dear!” The brigadier sounded alarmed. “Not that I ever catch anything myself, but we can’t know who will yet turn up; members of the Hearthside Guild sometimes arrive after the refreshment stage.” He again stared, this time in mingled hope and anxiety, towards the windows. “And some people are susceptible to the least thing going around.”

“It’s nothing physical.” Madrid shifted the curtain of hair that had fallen forward over her granny glasses. “It’s just that I am”—her voice faltered—”of a melancholy nature and ...”

“And the scones not turning out as well as she had hoped upset her.” Vienna supplied this information along with a cup of coffee for me and another for the brigadier. I took a couple of tentative sips of the brew; it was only lukewarm and tasted as if it had been stewed for a week. Sir Robert and his wife returned, followed shortly afterwards by Tom Tingle. No sooner were they seated with cups and saucers and plates of scones on their laps when the sitting-room door inched open and Clarice Whitcombe poked an inquiring face into the room.

Suddenly the brigadier glowed like a schoolboy as he sprang to his feet, his plate leaping off the arm of his chair. So it was Clarice he had been watching for, I thought happily.

“The front door was ajar, so I just came in,” she apologized, stepping further into the room, her eyes riveted to the brigadier’s, the flush on her cheeks matching his as she fiddled with her cardigan buttons. She was wearing lipstick inexpertly applied in a shade that was a little too bright, and she had obviously taken great pains with her hair, although one side was curled a little more tightly than the other. “I suppose I should have knocked. But I thought”—tearing her eyes away from the brigadier and addressing Vienna—”that you might not want people setting the dogs barking. I could hear them woofing as I came up the path.”

"I must have left the door open,” Lady Pomeroy confessed. “I stepped outside to. . .”—she was clearly racking her brains to come up with a reason—”to . . . see what changes you’d made in the garden.” She smiled at the sisters, a wasted effort where Madrid was concerned. That lady was staring fixedly at the portrait of the dog on the wall.

“We’re glad you’re here, Miss Whitcombe.” Vienna bustled forward to shake hands. “As you can see, we’re a small group, but the welcome is large.”

“Yes, delighted, my dear lady.” Sir Robert extended a well-bred hand to the latest arrival, and even Tom Tingle bestirred himself to do likewise.

“It would really make me feel at home if you’d all call me Clarice.” The lady was trying extremely hard not to look at Brigadier Lester-Smith, who was rooted to the spot, incapable of speech.

“What a pretty name,” Lady Pomeroy said. “I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone else being called that.”

“My father’s name was Clarence and my mother was Doris, so they just put them together.”

“‘That’s interesting,” I said. “And how did your parents come to name you Vienna and Madrid?” I asked the sisters.

“They were very fond of both cities.” Vienna sounded slightly irritated, but that might have been because she had started to pour Clarice a cup of coffee and discovered that the coffeepot was empty. “I’ll have to go and refill it,” she began, but the brigadier rushed forward, sending a couple of occasional tables wobbling in the process and offered to do the honors.

“I may be a bachelor,” he said, only half looking at Clarice, “but I do know my way around a kitchen.” I wouldn’t have been surprised had he added the information that he didn’t drink or smoke, possessed a healthy bank account, had been good to his mother, didn’t object to pets, and enjoyed entertaining in moderation. But he left the room without another word, after bumping into only one chair. Clarice took a seat on the sofa.

“I’m sorry I was late.” She accepted a scone from Vienna and moved it around her plate. “My clock must have been wrong.” She wasn’t even close to being a good liar. I could guess what had kept her from getting to the meeting on time. She had rifled through her wardrobe, emptied out half her bedroom drawers, and spent half an hour sitting among the rubble on the bed regretting the fact that she had nothing to wear—nothing at any rate that would make her look ten years younger and five times more attractive than her mirror bluntly informed her was the case. I thought she looked very nice in her paisley wool frock, but I doubted she had any idea that she had knocked the socks off the brigadier.

He seemed to be an age coming back with that coffeepot. Had it taken him five minutes to steady his hands sufficiently to fit the plug in the socket to brew up another batch? Or was he even now primping in front of a mirror, smoothing down his crinkly auburn hair, sucking in his tummy and straightening his tie? The dogs started barking again and Lady Pomeroy asked if they spent most of their time in the kennels.

“Damn fine chaps, dogs,” her husband put in. “But I prefer the working sort m’self. Got a black lab, Daisy--going on fourteen, she is, and still the best bird dog I’ve ever had.” He thrust his face round to eye Tom Tingle. “Do you shoot? I’m also master of hounds, don’t you know, and could provide you a decent horse. Or are you one of those bleeding hearts who’d like to see fox hunting banned?”

Torn Tingle drew himself up so that his head reached the top of the mantelpiece. “I dislike all sports. I know it’s un-English, but there you are.”

Silence settled heavily on the group. Was I wallowing in melodrama? Or was there really something unsettling about this house? Something dark and depressing, despite the freshly painted white walls? I shivered even though there wasn’t a hint of a draft, only half listening as Lady Pomeroy tried to get the conversation back to Hearthside Guild business, with the suggestion that we hold a bring-and-buy sale in August. I moved closer to the fireplace, pretending to pay attention, but really looking at the portrait of the Norfolk terrier.

“There will never be another like Jessica.” Madrid touched my sleeve and I almost jumped out of my cardigan. “So good! So beautiful! We had absolutely no trouble finding a suitor for her paw in marriage. We held an engagement party for her and the Baron Von Woofer. He was best of breed at Crufts two years in a row, but even so”—Madrid’s voice cracked—”he wasn’t good enough for her. There wasn’t a dog alive who would have been. Madrid and I had to provide the ring. It was a ruby, our angel’s birthstone. We had the artist paint it on her paw, but she wore it on a little chain around her neck.”

“Did they have a wedding?” I focused on Brigadier Lester-Smith, who was back at last with the coffeepot.

Madrid parted her flowing hair to peer at me through her rimless glasses. “We had it in the garden of our old house, under the rose arbor. Vienna had made Jessica the sweetest little veil with an orange blossom wreath and she woofed in all the right places when the clergyman— who specialized in pet ceremonies—read the service. The Baron wasn’t nearly so cooperative. ‘Uncouth’ is the word I would use, which just goes to show the best pedigree in the world doesn’t always make for a gentleman. He kept sniffing around Jessica’s dear little rear and even tried to climb on top of her when she was woofing ‘I do!’ He couldn’t wait to get down to the honeymoon suite.”

“Which was?” I had to chew on a smile.

“A precious little silk canopy, with a Persian rug inside and tapestry cushions with ‘His’ and ‘Hers’ embroidered on them. I’ll always remember”—Madrid shifted the granny glasses to dab at her eyes—”how frightened Jessica was when the moment came, wrapping her sweet paws around my neck so that Vienna had to pry her out of my arms. Just like any other poor little virgin.”

I wasn’t so sure about the universality of such moments, but was saved from having to reply by Vienna’s approach. She gave Madrid, who was gulping down sobs, a concerned look and squeezed her shoulder. “Why don’t you go and see about more scones,” she suggested as gently as her deep voice would allow, “and in the meantime I’ll have a word with Mrs. Haskell.”

She sat purposefully down beside me. “Ellie, I’ve been hoping for the opportunity to get to know you better. We’re quite close neighbors, after all, and Madrid rallies a little when she’s around people. She’s always been sensitive and inclined to brood. A job was out of the question. Madrid couldn’t have sat in an office pounding a typewriter with phones ringing right and left. So I came up with the idea of breeding Norfolks. Jessica was our first.” Vienna lifted her eyes to the portrait. “Sadly we lost her because we didn’t know enough at the time to recognize the symptoms of eclampsia. It came on so suddenly and I’m afraid I talked Madrid out of calling in the vet. I thought it was normal for Jessica to be a little poorly after giving birth.” Vienna shook her closely cropped head and squared her broad shoulders. “Luckily we did manage to raise three of the puppies. Madrid could never bring herself to hold any of them, but one of us had to be practical! We’d invested in a house with enough land to build the kennels and I finally convinced her we must continue as planned, although I did agree that no other dog would ever live in the house.”

This sounded sad to me, but maybe most breeders housed their dogs in outside quarters and didn’t attempt to make pets of them. Tom Tingle must have overheard at least part of our conversation because I heard him say he wouldn’t have a dog or cat if they offered to pay half the household expenses.

“Really?” Clarice gently observed. “And I’ve always longed for a pet, but it just wasn’t in the cards. My mother was afraid of animals, even goldfish. I remember bringing one home from school, and Mummy almost went into convulsions and Daddy had to ring the doctor. But now”—her voice brightened—”I’m free to start up a zoo if I like. A cat from down the lane comes round for afternoon tea most days and ...”

“How fortunate that you have your piano for company, Miss Whitcombe.” Brigadier Lester-Smith had to clear his throat several times between words. “I was something of a loner growing up, and I often think that if I had been taught an instrument I’d have had a happier time of it.”

“The only thing I ever learned to play,” Vienna said briskly into the resulting silence, “was the record player, and I can’t say I was very good at that.” The group acknowledged this sally with a round of chuckles.

Madrid returned with a plate of scones, moved over to Vienna, and gave her a wan smile. “How lucky I am to have you for an older sister. I feel sorry for people who have to manage life alone, especially in times of tragedy.”

Sir Robert again took center stage on the hearth rug, thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets. “I say we’re lucky, damned lucky, if you ladies will pardon the forceful language, to discover that Clarice plays the piano. You’ll have to give us a couple of solos at the summer pageant, m’dear, and delight us with carols at Christmas.” He was at his most expansive. “Have a word with the vicar. Our current organist, Mrs. Barrow, is hopeless. She gallops through the hymns, keeping the choir always at least one verse behind, and if the sermon goes on too long she bunks off without doing her final number, to go picketing—which seems to be her thing.”

“Oh, I don’t think . . . Really, I’m not all that good.” Clarice sounded more flustered by the word. “I’m sure there are people far more musically gifted than I—"

“Mustn’t hide your light under a bushel, m’dear.” Sir Robert puffed out his chest. “One of the seven deadly sins, false modesty.” Another awkward silence followed this indictment, with Maureen Dovedale looking especially embarrassed. Rallying, she asked Clarice what sort of music she particularly liked to play.

“Not much of anything at the moment, because I’ve got tendinitis and I’m not to strain my wrist. Well, so the doctor says.”

The remainder of what Clarice had to say on the subject got lost as Vienna’s deep voice boomed directly into my ear. “I understand, Ellie, you are an interior designer.”‘

"
That was my job before I married,” I told her, “and I am getting back to it, a little at a time on a part-time basis.”

“Then if you wouldn’t think it imposing”—she was eyeing Madrid, not me, apparently gauging her reaction—"I’d like to show you the study and hear your suggestions on making it more inviting. I know you’ll want to leave with the others and not keep Mr. Phipps waiting, so perhaps we could slip down the hall now, just for a couple of minutes?”

So saying, she ushered me out into the hall and I told her how much better it looked, now that the walls were painted white and the stairs brightened with that red carpet.

“You’re right, it was rather grim—like living inside a trunk until we tore out the old wainscotting.” She trotted ahead of me past the dining-room door. “But the poor old girl who lived here was past looking after the place—if she’d ever done any decorating in forty years. It is important to me to make changes quickly, Ellie, because as you might guess, Madrid is tremendously susceptible to atmosphere. We moved from our former home because our neighbours let their garden go to rack and ruin and it depressed Madrid to the point where she couldn’t get out of bed.”

“What a shame,” I answered ineptly, catching a glimpse of Jonas seated at the kitchen table through the open door. He appeared to be asleep, and I became annoyed all over again about the chain saw.

Obviously reading my mind, Vienna explained. “Mr. Phipps looked at the apple tree and, in addition to providing general advice on pruning, pointed out a dead branch that he said could break at any time. When he saw how worried Madrid was, because that tree overhangs one of the kennels, he asked if we had a saw and insisted on doing the job at once. I gave him five pounds. Such a nice old man.”

“He’s the world’s best.”