Authors: Carola Dunn

Fall of a Philanderer (4 page)

BOOK: Fall of a Philanderer

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“I could,” Mrs. Anstruther said hesitantly, “if he doesn't mind. And if you don't mind me getting up to clear and fetch between courses, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Not at all. I'll give you a hand. Just don't ask me to cook or you'll regret the results!”

Donald Baskin returned from his day-long ramble just in time to change into his flannels, now pressed, for dinner. “No room for a dinner jacket in my rucksack,” he apologized. He professed himself delighted to have the landlady dine with them. “But what about the girls?” he asked.

“They're already fast asleep,” Daisy told him. “You won't have them inflicted on you this evening.”

“Oh, but I enjoy them. I'm a schoolmaster, as I think I told you. After hordes of little boys, it's very interesting to spend some time with two little girls.”

Over cream of mushroom soup, followed by fresh-caught mackerel and then lamb cutlets with new potatoes and peas from the garden, they talked about Baskin's school and what he'd seen on his walks about the countryside. Mrs. Anstruther introduced the subject of Daisy's writing, which interested him. But over the summer pudding, he reverted to a topic the ladies would much rather have avoided.

“The Schooner seems like a friendly pub,” he said. “It was full of both local people and visitors when I dropped in last night. Have the Enderbys owned it long?”

“Nancy's grandparents built it,” said Mrs. Anstruther, “and her father left it to her when he died, her being the only child. To tell the truth, I think she found it a bit much to cope with on her own, before she married. It was getting a bit run-down.”

“When was that? They've had enough time to do it up very nicely.”

“A couple of years ago. No, three. He came on holiday that summer, and next thing we knew they were married. Quite a surprise, it was. She hadn't known him more than a week or two.”

From the way Cecily Anstruther spoke, the look on her face, Daisy suspected George Enderby had not come to Westcombe on his own.

“He just turned up out of the blue?” Baskin asked. “Where did he come from?”

“Do you know, I've no idea. That's odd. He never talked about his past, except for a scarâa wound he got in the War.”

“Where?” Baskin flushed. “I mean, where was he fighting? What unit was he with?”

“In Belgium when he was wounded. Wipers, he saidâthat's what the soldiers called Ypres, isn't it? He was in a tank, but I think they started as a cavalry unit. Would you like some more pudding?”

Where was the scar? Daisy wondered. She hadn't noticed one. Somewhere only a lover would see it, no doubt. Mrs. Anstruther obviously didn't want to talk about it, as Baskin realized at last. He accepted a second helping and told them funny stories about his War service in Mesopotamia, then took himself off to the Schooner for his pint.

Just what was his interest in George Enderby? It seemed to Daisy more than idle curiosity. The obvious deduction was that here was another deceived husband, in search of his erring wife's betrayer. But what did he hope to gain from finding him?

T
hursday was another sunny day, but Friday brought a dank and dismal grey mist that left droplets beading everything it touched. Before dawn, Daisy's dreams were haunted by the mournful howl of a foghorn. At breakfast, the far side of the inlet was invisible from the dining room window. Donald Baskin decided to take the motor-ferry to Abbotsford and walk inland, hoping for better weather.

Belinda and Deva begged to go on the ferry too, just for the ride. They had been too tired and excited to appreciate it after the train ride from London, especially in the rain. The idea of sitting shivering in a noisy open boat did not attract Daisy, but nor did the alternatives of shivering on the beach, staying cooped up in the house, or tramping through the mists and doubtless falling over a cliff.

So she told Mrs. Anstruther they would have lunch in Abbotsford and off they went, dropping off the library books at the post office on the way to the quay.

The first part of the trip was as miserable as Daisy had foreseen, but as they wound their way up the branching inlet, the sun came out. They spent several pleasant hours in the market town. In a little dark shop in an eighteenth-century arcade, Belinda found a man's Panama hat with a pink and purple band, which she insisted on buying
for Sid the beachcomber. It was very cheap because no one else wanted a pink and purple hat-band.

“But Sid will like it, won't he, Mummy?”

“I expect so, darling. He does seem keen on bright colours.”

“Anyway,” said Deva, “it's much better than his broken one. My ayah says beggars can't be choosers.”

Halfway back to Westcombe, they could see ahead a solid-looking mass of fog lying in wait, crouching between the hillsides, “Like a big grey cat waiting to pounce,” Belinda said.

But when they passed from sunshine into gloom, it felt more like a wet blanket. The girls had no desire to spend the rest of the afternoon on the beach, as they had planned in sunny Abbotsford. On arrival in Westcombe, they all went up to the post office library to choose some more books, walking with caution up the slippery cobbled slope.

When they came out, Belinda was pleased to see Sid coming down the hill with his cart. “Mummy, will you give him his hat?” she whispered.

“You bought it for him, with your own money. Don't you want to give it to him?”

Belinda shook her head.

Never having been in the least shy, Daisy didn't really understand what her stepdaughter felt. She didn't know what was the best way to help her, whether to make her buck up and act for herself or just let her be. She tried a compromise. “Why don't we all go over to him, then I'll tell him you have a present for him and you hand it to him?”

“All right.”

Looking up, Daisy saw Mrs. Hammett on the other side of the street, in blue polka-dotted with white today. To her dismay, Mrs. Hammett spotted her, waved her umbrella, and started across. She stepped right in front of Sid. Trying to stop, he slipped on the slick cobbles. The heavy cart pushed him a couple of feet down the hill before he managed with a heroic effort to come to a halt, inches before he crashed into Mrs. Hammett.

Backing away, she whacked him with the umbrella and started berating him at the top of her voice. “You clumsy clown! You nearly sent me flying. You're a disgrace to the village, in your disgusting clothes with that load of smelly rubbish you pull around. You didn't ought to be allowed out on the streets. You ought to be in an institution, that's what!”

As she continued to rant, several people stopped to look and listen. Sid looked more and more frightened. Suddenly he turned his back on Mrs. Hammett, bent down, and peered at her between his legs.

“Look at him!” she screeched at the top of her voice, backing off a little further. “It's indecent. I'm a respectable woman. I won't be subjected to such disgusting treatment.”

One of the local men who had gathered snickered and remarked, “He's just turning the other cheek, Mrs. Hammett.”

“That's blasphemy, Jim Small. And obscenity, too!” She raised her umbrella as if to strike Sid across the buttocks, but another of the men took it from her and spoke soothingly. A third had caught the cart when Sid let it go, preventing a nasty accident. Quite a crowd had collected by now.

“Awright, awright, awright, what's a-going on here?” The local bobby turned up. “Awright, Sid, that's enough o' that. Straighten up, this instant. Stand up, I say.”

Sid obeyed, more or less, cowering back against his cart.

“Awright, what happened?”

Several voices rose at once, but Mrs. Hammett's was the loudest by far. “This man nearly ran me down, Fred Puckle, and then he insulted me. I'll thank you to take him in charge. Disturbing of the peace, that's what it is. He ought to be put away.”

As the hefty policeman's heavy hand landed on Sid's cringing shoulder, Belinda clutched Daisy's sleeve.

“Mummy, don't let them take him away. It wasn't his fault! Tell them. Tell them she stepped right in front of him and then she hit him.”

“Darling, I will, but I'm not going to get dragged into a vulgar public brangle with that dreadful woman. I'll go to the police station and speak to the constable there.”

Sid hung onto his cart. A couple of men jerked it out of his hands. “We'll get rid of this junk for you,” one said with a snigger.

With a wordless wail, he reached back, as the burly bobby hauled him away by the arm. Mrs. Hammett followed them, still haranguing.

“Come on, Deva,” said Belinda, and before Daisy could stop her she marched across the street. In a passable imitation of Daisy's imitation of the Dowager Viscountess's
grande dame
voice, she said, “We will take care of that. Bring it to Mrs. Anstruther's house at once. Sid,” she called, “we're going to look after your stuff for you. Don't worry!”

Startled, the two men looked at each other. One shrugged. “Right you are, little missy,” he said, humouring her, and he started wheeling the cart down the hill, followed by a very determined Belinda with Deva tagging along.

“Good for her!” A woman, a handsome, buxom, peroxided blonde, had come out of the Schooner to stand near Daisy and watch the goings-on. “Your kid?”

“Yes. I'd better go after her.”

“Don't worry, Ned Baxter won't bring 'em no harm. The men like to tease the idiot, that's all. No harm in him either, come to that, poor soul. That Ellen Hammett's a troublemaker. Nothing but a farmer's daughter, when all's said and done, but she's been too big for her boots ever since she married James Hammett, poor chap.”

“James Hammett?”

“Biggest fish wholesaler in these parts, he is, with lorries taking the catch from Abbotsford into Exeter to catch the London express. Not but what he ought to've known better, a smart business-man like him. Ellen'd've turned out a scold no matter who she married.”

“She does seem to be a difficult person.”

“That she is.” The woman sighed. “But there, he's not the first to
be taken in, nor won't be the last, and people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.”

This as good as confirmed Daisy's guess that the blonde was Mrs. George Enderby. “Handsome is as handsome does,” she offered in a commiserating tone, being unable to think offhand of a more apposite proverb.

“A truer word was never said. Still, them as has made their bed must lie in it.”

“No use crying over spilt milk.”

“Nor spilt beer, neither. Well, I've work to be done. Don't you fret about the little girls. Ned Baxter'll see 'em safe and sound to Cecily's.” With a friendly nod, Mrs. Enderby retired into the inn. If she was aware that Cecily Anstruther had been one of her husband's conquests, she seemed not to bear her any ill-will.

Slowly and reluctantly, Daisy proceeded up the hill towards the police station. Not that she was having second thoughts about interceding on Sid's behalf, but she didn't want to meet Mrs. Hammett while on her errand of mercy.

And there was Mrs. Hammett coming out of a whitewashed cottage with a blue gas-lamp over the door and turning down the hill. Daisy plunged into the nearest shop, which turned out to be an ironmonger's. Fortunately, as well as nails, screws, bolts, hinges, buckets and such, it had things like saucepans, patent egg-beaters and toasting forks. These were conveniently hanging in the window where she could keep an eye on Mrs. Hammett while pretending to examine them.

Luckily the ironmonger was busy with a customer. “I'll be with you in a moment, madam,” he said, but Mrs. Hammett passed and Daisy escaped without having to buy a corkscrew she didn't need.

When she marched into the police station, Daisy found Constable Puckle seated at his high desk, chewing the end of a pencil and contemplating the big ledger in front of him with a puzzled frown.

“What can I do for you, madam?”

“I witnessed the â¦ um â¦ altercation in the street just now. I'm afraid Mrs. Hammett gave you quite the wrong impression of what happened. She stepped out into the street right in front of Sid, and it was only with a great effort that he avoided running her down. Then she hit him with her umbrella. He was frightenedâthat's why he did that trick of his. So, you see, if anyone ought to be arrested it's Mrs. Hammett.”

“Sid can't be let to go around upsetting respectable people like that.”

“He only does it when he's afraid,” Daisy protested. “You can't let Mrs. Hammett go around hitting people with her umbrella.”

“Aye, I've had a word wi' her about that. But it's no good talking to Sid, he's got to be given a shock so he understands he's not to be disturbing of the peace.”

“That's utterly unfair! You can't arrest him for just trying to protect himself.”

“Who says I arrested him?” Red in the face, Puckle was quite as indignant as Daisy by now. “Didn't I talk her out o' pressing charges? Breach o' the King's peace, likely he'd get thirty days seeing as he's got no money to pay a fine and the magistrate's a friend o' Mr. Hammett's. A night in the wash'se out the back won't do Sid any harm. More comfortable nor his shack, I reckon.”

“Fred!” A stout woman bustled in. “What's that poor creetur doing in the wash'se? Sobbing fit to bust his heart, he is. You just hand over that key.”

“Now you're not to let him go free, Martha,” Puckle said feebly. “Creating an affray, he was, and Mrs. Hammett wanting to charge him.”

“Well, I won't then,” Mrs. Puckle conceded. “You've your job to do. But I'll take him some nice hot soup to cheer the poor soul up, for 'tis a nasty, chilly day for August. And then I'm off to the vicar to get some decent clothes to cover his back. There's plenty suitable in the jumble for the sale, and I won't have him leaving this house in rags.” She held out her hand for the washhouse key.

Seeing Sid was going to be well looked after, Daisy slipped out before the constable could take out on her his ire at his wife's interference.

The mention of soup had reminded her that the fried plaice and chips in Abbotsford was a long time ago and Mrs. Anstruther would have tea on the table by now. Nonetheless, she descended the slippery slope with caution.

At last the sun was beginning to burn through the fog. There was blue sky overhead and the hills across the inlet were no longer invisible but veiled in mystery, like a Chinese painting. As Daisy reached the quay, a ferry was pulling in from Abbotsford, with the usual shouting and tossing of ropes. Donald Baskin stood at the rail, near the gangway, waving to her.

She stopped to wait for him. “You're back early today,” she said as he caught her up and they walked on together.

“Yes.” The sun-browned face was serious. “I wanted to talk to you, privately, and you mentioned that your husband will arrive tomorrow.”

“He's coming down tomorrow, yes,” Daisy said guardedly. “What is it?”

Baskin chewed on his lip for a moment, as if having second thoughts on the wisdom of what he meant to say. Then he made up his mind. “It's George Enderby. You may have noticed that I've asked one or two questions about him.”

“I certainly have.”

“Well, I've noticed that Mrs. Anstruther is reluctant to talk about him. Of course, it's only natural that she doesn't care to gossip about a neighbour.” He paused.

Not at all natural, Daisy considered. In her experience, neighbours in general loved gossiping about their neighbours. Cecily Anstruther had a far more potent reason for avoiding the subject.

“Yes?”

“So I thought I'd better catch you alone. Being a visitor, you won't know as much as she does, but I hoped you might have heard something.”

“About what, exactly?”

BOOK: Fall of a Philanderer

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