The Murdering Wives Club Page 19

  That just puts the tin hat on my annoyance. “Child? Me? For days? You cannot be serious!”

  “Ask Giles – he’ll tell you that you’ve become reliant on me and it’s high time that you stop acting like a spoilt schoolboy.”

  “Might I remind you, Miss Walsh, that I’m your employer,” I say slowly. “And I don’t take kindly to you being insulted. And leave Giles out of this!”

  The thump of the car over a bump almost jolts my stomach into my chest. A woman should never have been allowed to drive an expensive and loved vehicle.

  “And might I remind you, Laurie Davenport, that you don’t employ me,” Norah says haughtily. “And I don’t like your tone and manner. I’ve been nothing but good to you.”

  “Yes, and you did throw yourself into my arms too. Let’s not forget that!”

  The car skids to a halt. Bits of my tyres are no doubt in the tarmacadam. I instantly regret what I said but stubbornness refuses to let me apologise. I cross my arms for she is no doubt glaring at me.

  “Did you really say that?” Norah whispers. The car door opens. “Do you really think that I’m a trollop? I care for you very much, Laurie, and that has hurt.”

  “If the cap fits,” I say. I’m on a roll that’s hard to stop.

  “Fuck you!” Norah says and the cold winter air blasts into the vehicle for she has opened the door fully. “I kissed you because I felt sorry for you! There now, you have it, you bastard!”

  The door is slammed. I’m alone and the car is still running. She’ll be back.

  I wait. There’s no sound other than the idling of the engine. No Norah, no footsteps, no door opening. Where are we? Where is Norah? Where am I?

  I sit into the driver’s seat and cut out the engine. The silence is truly deafening. I feel the steering wheel under my palms and curl trembling fingers around the warm grooves.

  Again the realisation of my injuries hits me. Living is almost worse than being dead. I’m not a man any more. I cannot go where I please or do what I want. Norah did more than slap me when she left me alone in the car. I squint to try to figure out where I am but to no avail. She has left me helpless and that is better than any retort. But she also has told me that she pities me. That stings almost as much as my vulnerability.

  I know I deserve a harsh rebuke but the cruelty of abandoning me somewhere on the road home is too much. Tears spring up and I gulp them down.

  “A real man doesn’t blubber,” Charlotte once said.

  “Real women should nurture, shouldn’t they?” I’d replied. Of course Charlotte was not the nurturing type.

  I know nothing about women. I know nothing and can see nothing. I sniff in self-pity and still nothing changes my situation. I lean a very tired forehead against the steering wheel and think about driving into a wall or off a cliff. Anything is better than this existence.

  Then I hear something or someone approaching. It could be Norah but the sound is different. Is it someone who means me harm? I hold my breath.

  There is a slight tap on the window to my right. Norah has returned.

  I shuffle taller in the seat and fix my tie and find the mechanism to roll the window down.

  It is Giles for I can smell his hair lacquer.

  “Sir, is everything all right? You’re not driving, are you, sir?”

  “No,” I sniff. “I got into the seat to turn off the engine. I miss my old life, Giles. I miss it terribly.”

  “Where is Norah, sir?”

  “I don’t know. She just left me here.” I rub the back of my hand across my eyes. “Where am I, Giles? How did you happen to find me?”

  “You don’t know? You’re just outside the gates to the house, sir.”

  I am amazed and confused. So Norah hadn’t abandoned me unprotected in the countryside after all. Yet wasn’t it cruel of her to make me think she had? I feel utterly humiliated.

  “So you didn’t see her?” I ask Giles.

  “No, sir. Perhaps she went in the servants’ entrance to speak with Cook. They’re quite good friends now.”

  “Well, I’m afraid that Norah and I are not good friends. We’ve had a falling-out.”

  “A lovers’ tiff?” Giles says with a chuckle.

  “She pities me,” I murmur, knowing he’ll still hear me. “And we’re definitely not lovers.”

  “Dear me,” Giles says. “It’s starting to rain, sir. Let’s get you into the house and I’ll ask Norah to come and move the car.”

  Giles has never learned to drive.

  He opens the door and leads me, like a child, back to the house. The irony is not lost on me that Norah considers me one and she has made me an infant quite easily.

  “Women are unsavoury creatures,” I say to Giles while we walk across the gravel. “If I knew we were this close to the house, I could have managed to come home by myself.”

  “Of course you could have, sir,” Giles replies. “It was nasty of her to leave you there.”

  “I was a little cruel but I was trying to stand up for myself.” I sound whiney. Mother would roll her eyes at me bemoaning my lot. I’m regressing in age and maturity far too easily. “I think it is because I’m uncertain about everything. I tend to be snappy. But she is feisty.”

  “Admirably so,” Giles says. “Norah will be putting herself in danger for your benefit, sir.”

  I’m reminded that Giles is privy to the plan. It makes me feel doubly inadequate. Because of my wife, Norah will be in danger and I’m not a very good detective if I’ve told our plans to my butler!

  “About that, Giles, please don’t tell her that I said anything.”

  “Mum’s the word, sir. I would never divulge anything. That goes without saying. I promised discretion.”

  “Thank you. I had no idea our avenue was so long,” I say, panting slightly to keep up.

  “Sir, you should speak to Norah and mend things. Shall I look for her after I have settled you down?”

  “You think I should apologise to her? But you didn’t hear her,” I protest. “And she was changing gears constantly. She isn’t a good driver.”

  “Her driving is fine, sir, and you need her,” Giles says, patting my arm. “And you should tell Norah that you care for her before it’s too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “Before you say something to make her leave the manor for good.”

  I hold my heart and feel it pound in my chest. There’s no way that I want Norah to disappear. It’s inconceivable.

  “Or before you give her a reason to kill you,” Giles says with a chuckle. “Here we are. Home now, sir.”

  Chapter 32

  Laurie Davenport

  Giles has hit a nerve. Without meaning to he has planted a seed that is hard to uproot. Anxiety floods my thoughts. Lying on my bed does not calm me in the slightest. Maybe Norah is killing me slowly? I’ve been feeling out of sorts. Emotional and not myself. This is all her doing. I cough and feel my forehead. I’m not feverish but that doesn’t mean anything at all. Is it love-sickness or a poisoning? I know nothing about Norah. Well, very little. I do love her but suddenly I also fear her.

  When my mind wanders, it seems plausible that Norah is in league with Charlotte and the others.

  I’m losing a grip on reality. Every day I’m listening to a woman who murders many and she makes sense of it. My own wife has tried to kill me – what would make Norah any different? It seems that all women are out to get me and the fears magnify when I think of Norah's wish to join the Sinful Roses. What normal woman would care to be in such a position? Unless she’s not frightened of them at all? Norah never flinched on listening to Eve’s tales. Why not?

  Because she is a Sinful Rose herself, that’s why! She is slowly poisoning me with tea or whiskey. The fire in Armagh could have been her doing.

  My heart almost stops when I think that she wanted to get at Freddie too. I would almost be a practice shot for the General’s demise. And of course Norah could disappear easily back to Ireland or whereve
r she came from. My heart pounds and pounds.

  What do I really know about Norah Walsh? What were the abilities Freddie referred to? Why did she not want me talking to Eve alone? It’s because I might find out things about Norah’s mind, Norah’s motivations. It would be easy for Norah to kill me if she had a mind to. She knows Charlotte’s failures well.

  I might be bumped off any day now. It might happen today. Now. She’ll not make mistakes – she’ll be successful for her women friends. My breathing is laboured. Norah has made herself dependable, and reliable. She even tried to seduce me. She also disappeared when Charlotte and Lady Dornan arrived. They were worried that I would suspect their alliance. A man in love or lust is most definitely blind! Norah knows what she is doing. I’m a total fool. A very-in-love ass of a man!

  The knock on the door makes me jump. I ignore it. It comes again.

  “Sir?” It’s Norah.

  I hold my breath for the door is unlocked.

  “Laurie?” she says. “I have news. May I come in? That address Eve Good mentioned is indeed Alice Longmire’s.”

  For weeks I’ve wanted Norah in my bed and now I’m even afraid for her to enter the room. The door creaks open because of my fearful silence.

  Norah stops just inside the room. “Are you listening to me, Laurie? I have news.”

  “Yes,” I say, croaking on a dry throat.

  “Alice Longmire’s husband died following a mugging.”

  “My goodness,” I say quietly.

  I can see Norah’s shape in the light from the door. She’s a blurry shadow. If she lunged now and stuck me like a pig, I might just see it coming.

  “I refuse to apologise to you,” she says. “We both said things that are regrettable. Let’s move on.”

  I nod for I cannot speak. There’s a huge lump in my throat. Disappointment and fear mingle.

  “I shouldn’t have left you in the car,” Norah says. “Giles gave me a good telling-off. You men stick together. But I agree with him. It was not a nice thing to do.”

  “I’m very tired.” I lean back onto the pillows, hoping that she’ll leave and not kill me today. “I did get a shock.”

  “Don’t milk it,” Norah says. “You’re not a weakling and you were only at the gate.”

  “How was I to know that?” I stand. “I had no idea where I was!”

  She shuffles her feet. I hope that she’s looking suitably perturbed but I doubt a murdering woman would be in the slightest put out by a helpless blind man playing the victim.

  “I’m a little bit sorry,” Norah admits. “But you said some terrible things.” She’s talking quietly but does not seem upset. “I’m not going to apologise for standing up for myself.”

  “Standing up for yourself? Is that what that was? Leaving a cripple in the middle of nowhere on purpose is standing up for yourself! All this female liberation nonsense has gone to your head if that is what you do to a poor, blind man who depends on you!”

  “Poor blind man,” Norah scoffs and laughs. It isn’t a cruel laugh but it’s a laugh nonetheless. “I left you at the gate of your own house. And I had work to do. Mrs Fellows, for instance. I thought we might speak with her, but I’ve found that she died just last year. She survived Eve Good’s attempted murder but passed away of natural causes in a care home. The poor woman had no family left, God rest her soul.”

  “Anything from Lady Dornan or Charlotte?”

  “Nothing,” she replies. “What were you expecting?”

  “Perhaps a confession or some sort of proof that they and others are murdering bitches.”

  “The General’s update went well and he has promised to leave Eve in England for the present time and you can visit her soon. He has a few women looking out for the Ravenscairn advertisements. But he specifically asked for you not to mention Charlotte’s plots to kill you to anyone. It all seems more implausible than ever now and Charlotte’s father is even more influential. Freddie is worried you will step on toes.”

  “Freddie? Is that what he’s called now?” I snap and then think for a second with a finger to my chin. “Oh but wait, you’re betrothed. I suppose it’s only right that you call him that.”

  “I refuse to keep arguing,” Norah says.

  “Giles did warn me that if I wasn’t careful you might try to kill me,” I say and flop back against the pillows.

  There’s an eerie silence.

  I suddenly feel utterly stupid for saying such a thing. “He was joking, of course, Norah. I was trying to make you laugh.”

  “That’s not funny, Laurie. Not funny in the slightest. I’ve never given you any reason to say that.”

  I bend my elbows and thrust my hands behind my head. She could easily stab me now and I sense her eyes are doing just that. Piercing me with dagger stares. I shouldn’t think such awful things of the woman who’s been so good to me. I could rise, apologise and take her in my arms and kiss her instead. But I don’t. The door slams.

  I cannot bear that she’s so cross with me. She’s right. She is nothing like the women I fear. What have I been thinking? There’s nothing to even suggest she’s like Charlotte and the others. And now I’ve totally ruined things. Typical Laurie Davenport. Stubborn and stupid fool to the last.

  I somehow make a mess of everything. I adored Charlotte and went with her to Belfast and Lady Dornan’s house – like a lamb to the slaughter. She said we should look into me expanding my connections in Ireland. It made sense to travel. Even attending the party seemed like a good idea. The best of the best people were there. And everything was modern but tasteful and they knew all the right folk to invite. There were many glamorous women there that evening, but I only had eyes for the stunning Charlotte. She shimmered in a red evening dress. I recall the music we danced to was “Tomorrow is Another Day” by the Dorsey Brothers, a lively tune with cheery lyrics and it was a good omen – or so I thought. “You’re enchanting,” I said, blushing. Her blue eyes were amused and her hand warm. I wonder now – did she ever tell me the truth, did she ever love me, could any woman ever love me now?

  I’ve got scars and blindness to further burden a personality that drives women to abandon me at best and murder me at worst. I am doomed. Effectively and efficiently doomed.

  Chapter 33

  Eve Good

  The nights here are very dark and remind me of Newburn Crescent. There wasn’t much street lighting there and when the night fell and I was all alone, I’d listen to the sounds of the house. The creaks and groans of timbers and the sigh of a house settling into its night-time peace.

  Thistleforth House sounds larger than usual tonight. I heard some of the guards mention its name. When I close my eyes, other senses do seem heightened. That must be how it is for the blind Mr Davenport. The doors bang and clunk and the echoes get further away. There’s a peaceful stillness in knowing you are locked in, but for the past few evenings I’ve found I’m unsettled. Feeling vulnerable again suddenly, the hairs on my arms stand and a shiver traces down my spine. I’m a sitting duck for the Roses. Miles from any system that might have protected me in the past, across an ocean of water and still in danger.

  Laurie Davenport’s face smiles at me in my mind. What a pity to see such handsomeness disfigured. He’s also lost the swagger a man of his age has. The war has a lot to answer for. The ring on his finger means he’s married. To Norah Walsh? I doubt that. She’s not of his class and she’s Irish. And why would he introduce her by her maiden name? Unless they were trying to conceal the relationship from me? I cannot place what she feels for him. Davenport is weak and she’s far from that.

  When the grub comes I try to ask the guards about her. I get the sense that she’s not trusted by many. It’s the way they smirk or raise an eyebrow when I ask about her. It’s like she’s not one of their own and under suspicion. I don’t blame them. She’s got an edge to her that reminds me of other women I once knew.

  These will be my last instalments. I write quickly as the night-time routine will sta
rt soon. I can picture what will happen. I know what is going to come ...

  When the place settles down to sleeping here, it’s still early. I might not have a clock but I know there’s a clearing out of corridors and a blacking out of windows. There’s little to do then but sleep. Sometimes I hear planes or engines, or running in the hallways and I day-dream about being far away somewhere exotic and warm. But mostly, I’m left. Forgotten. Abandoned for most of the day and night.

  I sit upright on the bed, cock an ear, listen intently but continue to write. Those sounds are new for this hour. Opening of gates, or locks, the clip-clip of a woman’s heels in the corridor. That’s odd. At this time of night? Guards all wear softer soles. My heart races. The sound of those steps is purposeful.

  Then there’s no noise for a long time. My breath heaves in my chest. Holding it, I listen hard. Like my life depends on it. Nothing.

  I continue to write as quickly as I can, speeding over the page, listening at the same time, straining against the house noises for a sign of where the woman might be now. Nothing but the thumping of my own heart.

  I pause. The air drains slowly from my lungs as I again strain to hear anything at all.

  There are no further footsteps. I must have imagined them. I sometimes do. I know I am not safe. Locks and bolts won’t keep the Sinful Roses out.

  I write on.

  I’ve always had a vivid imagination and also a gut that screams truths at me. I knew John Good’s fall would be the death of me. The bastard toppled to his end to spite me. I laugh to myself. Not for the first time, I snigger at the hand of cards I’ve been dealt. A murdering harlot lost her good husband to a threadbare piece of carpet on the stairs. And it all led me down a path of destruction. There was no need for the Roses at all. The irony. And now, I cannot get rid of the bitches. Even in here …

  What was that?

  There’s a turning of a key in my door.

  They have come.