The Widow's Club by Dorothy Cannell Read Free Book Online Page A

woman and the infant, followed Rowland into the vestry.
    Drawing the door closed behind us, Rowland fumbledin the folds of his cassock, pulled out a pipe, jammed it into his mouth, removed it, and stood tapping the bowl with one finger.
    “Ellie,” he said pensively, “why don’t you sit down in that chair by the writing desk. Perhaps you would like a glass of water?”
    I shook my head dumbly and remained standing.
    The woman was lounging against the wall; the baby tugged on her coat buttons.
    Rowland looked from her to Ben, who still had his arm around me.
    “Is what this woman claims true? Ben, are you now or were you ever married to her?”
    I braced myself, but I was not prepared for what happened. For suddenly, clutching his arms around his middle, Ben backed against the wall, doubled over, and howled with laughter.
    His mind had snapped under the strain. My gaze fixed on his wife.
    I must have had a minibout of temporary insanity because my hand reached out, not to strike the woman, but to help myself to one of the apples on her hat. Thank heaven pride returned. I would not sully my hands or my lips with anything this woman had touched with those fingers poking through the holes in her gloves. I couldn’t look at Ben. It was ghastly enough to hear his emissions of mirth.
    My eyes clung to Rowland and saw his lips moving. Was he praying for a speedy end to this abomination? And whose side would God be on? If what this woman claimed were true … but of course it wasn’t. She must be brought to see that she was indulging in a case of mistaken identity. If not, flogging no longer being an accepted practice, there had to be some equally compelling …
    Another revolting gurgle of laughter burst from my bridegroom, and the rubber band holding my nerves together finally snapped. I was standing in a welter of butchered dreams and in the process had gone as mad as Mr. Rochester’s first wife. For I could swear that Ben’s first wife had winked at me.
    Incredibly I beheld a countenance that, seen in better light, was uncannily familiar. My rival’s expression switched to weary martyrdom. Lifting a hand to her hat,she plucked off a banana, peeled it, and stuffed it into the child’s slobbering mouth.
    “Perhaps we should fetch Dr. Melrose, Ellie. I believe Ben has gone into shock.” Rowland’s voice was deeply concerned.
    So dear a man! His was a mind singularly unacquainted with evil. The baby—bonnet askew, collar jacked up because its coat was buttoned wrong—spat out a chunk of banana and, bleating miserably, banged sticky hands against its mother’s rouged cheeks. And then, as I stood in frozen horror, the poor little creature was shoved into my arms.
    “Here Ellie, take the ruddy little blighter. Won’t hurt you to practice up on motherhood,” said the woman in the masculine voice of my cousin Freddy Flatts. “Come on, Ellie, old stodge! Be a sport like your intended! He was as surprised as you were, but he’s taking it on the chin.”
    Freddy grinned down at my fiancé, who had slithered into an ignoble heap on the vestry floor. “Glad you enjoyed the joke, mate. Been toying with the idea of pulling this stunt for years. But I can tell you, I couldn’t come up with any couple that meant so much to me that I was prepared to shave off my beard, bleach my hair, and bribe old Alvin into lending me his soggy kid. Not until you two. Something to tell the grandchildren, eh? But I tell you, my girdle is killing me.”
    From the Files of
The Widows Club
    29th November
    The Gardening Committee did unanimously elect to change the date of the dried-flower Christmas ornament project, from 3:00 P.M . on the 1st of December (a Friday) to 7:00 P.M . on the 4th of December (a Monday).
    The meeting place to remain at the home of Evelyn Jones. As previously arranged, Mary Phillips will bring the cheese and biscuits. The Gardening Committee will provide the coffee and wine.
    This change of dates was deemed