Withering Heights by Dorothy Cannell

honor unequal to that of being a lifelong member of theCFCWA (Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association) but nonetheless nice to have on one’s resume.
    “It’s the big swank that’s set for Thursday afternoon,” said Ariel, her mouth full.
    Betty ignored the curled lip. “The Milton Moor annual garden party. As I told Ellie, hosting it here has been a tradition. Reverend Hardcastle’s predecessor suggested it to the Gallaghers as a treat for the village children. It was arranged that it be held on the Thursday closest to the middle of July, children to be accompanied by at least one parent. Over the years the event expanded to include any of the local people who wished to attend. We weren’t here for any of the previous ones. But there are games for the children, three-legged and egg-and-spoon races, that sort of thing. Lady Fiona asked if we’d keep the tradition going after we moved in. She made quite a point of saying how much her husband had enjoyed it.”
    Rather sweet of her, one would think, fondly sentimental, and yet Betty somehow succeeded in making her ladyship’s request sound sinister. An opportunity to enjoy the delightful sight of laughing, squealing children and thumping adults dancing on her husband’s grave?
    “They didn’t entertain much otherwise.” Tom, having finished his quiche, made this contribution without prompting. “Very likely they couldn’t afford to splash about with the fizzy drinks. Apparently they’ve been short of funds for some time now.”
    “Think that’s why Mr. Gallagher performed his disappearing act?” Ben raised an inquiring eyebrow.
    “She was the one with the money and the house when they married.” Betty’s expression made its point: Lady Fiona, having discovered that her husband had squandered her inheritance, had lost her temper, slapped him with a shovel, andpopped him in the wheelbarrow for future planting. “But to get back to the garden party. A couple of hundred people usually show up. Tents and chairs have to be set out, but that can be managed. The huge problem is the food. The Gallaghers, despite any financial difficulties, always put on quite a spread: catered of course, by an exclusive firm. She gave me the name, so that’s who I phoned, weeks ago. But late yesterday afternoon, when I rang to check that they had everything down pat, this nasty male voice ‘reminded’ me”—Betty clenched her hands—“that I’d phoned a couple of days ago to cancel.”
    “Did you?” Ariel displayed wide-eyed interest.
    “Of course not!”
    “Well, I never!” Mrs. Malloy looked suitably shocked.
    “I said there’d been a mistake, some sort of mix-up, but there was no getting through to that wretched voice. He kept going like a recording, saying it was too late to set things back up; another job had been accepted for that date. And when I really got exasperated and may even have yelled a bit, he said in a horridly haughty manner that I was wasting my breath and his time.”
    I sat puzzling over the matter. If there hadn’t been a mix-up—as in the caterer having confused one client with another—who had made that cancellation phone call and why? Was there any reason to look further than the thirteen-year-old girl now neatly arranging her knife and fork on her empty plate?
    “Did you ask him if the voice sounded like yours?” Mrs. Malloy was teetering around the table on her high heels, pouring coffee from a silver pot into fluted rimmed cups, a paragon of helpfulness in her nylon and lace pinny.
    “I didn’t think. I was too shocked.”
    “Darling Betty!” Ariel sympathized. “You must have been ready to chew glass.”
    “And then to find out you’d run off!”
    “Upsetting,” agreed Tom.
    “Think of the talk—lottery winners too stingy to put on a decent spread! I was on the phone all morning before you arrived.” Betty’s gaze circled the table and fixed on Ben. “First one catering firm, then the next, but no luck. Every one