The Widow's Club by Dorothy Cannell

would only take the inebriated bartender to awake and sit bolt upright in bed to make her faint. And I really didn’t have the time. I had to find Freddy, and assist Ben in cutting the wedding cake before I could race into my bedroom, throw on my going-away outfit, tuck my suitcase under my arm, and then at last, at long last, be off on the honeymoon of the century. I, Ellie Simons—sorry—Haskell, was about to live out my most beautiful fantasies—unlike the heroine in a romantic novel who gets slapped in the face with The End. My heart started a drum roll that drowned out Miss Thorn’s voiceas we went downstairs. It could not, however, obliterate the hubbub, musical and otherwise, in the hall.
    Then I saw something that squeezed the breath back into my lungs—Ben was near the front door, talking to a uniformed policeman.
    He glanced round and spotted me. “Ellie, it isn’t surprising you couldn’t reach Mum on the phone earlier. She’s been missing for three days.” He sounded quite—ordinary.
    The constable, young, fresh-faced, and eager, rifled through his notebook. “I have here some pertinent details. A Mrs. Beatty Long of Eleven Crown Street, states she grew concerned when failing to see Mrs. Elijah Haskell leave the house for church services on Wednesday morning, as was the lady’s custom.”
    “Mass,” corrected Ben. “My mother is a Catholic.”
    “No offence intended, none taken I hope, sir.” Constable Beaker scratched with a diligent pencil and continued. “The aforementioned Mrs. Long also states that she had been uneasy for some time, having noticed the Haskells’ curtains being closed at odd times of the day.”
    “Beatty Long always was a meddlesome old woman.” Ben ran a hand across his brow.
    Someone grasped my elbow. It was Mrs. Malloy.
    “Not now, please,” I said.
    “As you like, mum,” she huffed, “but it is a matter of life and death.”
    Constable Beaker stiffened with professional interest. I grabbed Ben’s hand. “When did Mr. Haskell report his wife missing?”
    “That’s the thing Miss—Mrs., he didn’t.”
    Mrs. Malloy folded her arms. “Believe you me, I’m not standing here wearing polish off the floor for me own amusement. Seems to me someone should be told there’s a young bloke up in one of the turrets, threatening to jump out the window and—”
    “What?” The constable made for the stairs.
    My legs wouldn’t move, Ben looked ready to laugh. The dancers had frozen. But the jolly strains of the music flowed on and on …
    “And I’m telling you straight, mum.” Mrs. Malloy’s bosom heaved. “I don’t do ceilings, I don’t do drains, and I don’t wash blood and guts off the pavements.”
    From the Files of
The Widows Club
    Telephone conversation reported by member of Calling Committee, 1st December
    “Good evening, Mrs. Thrush, so glad to find you at home. You don’t know me, but …”
    “Excuse me, perhaps you would telephone another time.” ( Sound of hanky being used .) “You’ve caught me at rather a bad time. My beloved husband was buried this very afternoon, and I really cannot think of buying anything or subscribing to a magazine.”
    “I understand. But do let me explain that I am from The Widows Club and have been assigned the role of your special confidante during these first difficult weeks. May I leave my name and phone number and urge you to get in touch with me, day or night, if you feel the need to have a good weep or just talk?”
    ( Smothered choking sound .) “What about laugh? Oh, my dear, I can’t tell you how glad I am you rang. The hardest part of this whole business has been keeping a straight face. The only moment when I did feel a bit down was when we were going into the church and collided with a bridal party. That poor young woman—so elated at tying the knot—to the noose around her neck. Oh, chatting to you is going to be marvellous. But I am afraid I do have to go. I see my best friend Vera coming up