Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

Mother’s Clever Idea by Celia Fremlin

For something in a lighter vein, we turn to Celia Fremlin, and a tale told tongue-in-cheek...

I wonder, thought Joanna resignedly as she helped her mother-in-law out of the train, I wonder what Mother will have forgotten this time?

“Two suitcases, a hatbox, your umbrella — oh, and Polly’s cage, I didn’t know you were going to bring her! — is that all, Mother? Are you sure that’s all?”

Both women peered anxiously in through the compartment window. Doors slammed. The train trembled towards departure.

“Well, I can’t see anything...” began Joanna.

“No, I’m sure that’s all, dear.” But Mrs. Trent’s rosy, childlike face framed in grey curls still looked a little worried.

“I think that’s all— Oh!” She clapped her hand to her mouth like a schoolgirl and stared in horror at the departing train.

“There! I knew there was something!”

“Well?” said Joanna patiently.

“My dear — I just lent them to him for a moment — the little boy on the train. He was so sweet, and I was afraid Polly would bite him if he kept on playing with her, and he was getting so tired of doing nothing — such a long journey for a child — I know what it’s like, I remember when Robert was little — he was a bit like Robert, too, the same blue eyes and way of—”

“What did you lend him, Mother?”

“Robert’s binoculars,” said Mrs. Trent in a hollow voice. “You know he always wants them at the seaside. So I looked them out and put them in my case straightaway so that I couldn’t forget — you know what my memory is like — and now...”

“Well, it can’t be helped,” said Joanna. “I expect they’ll be handed in. Robert will have to ring up...”

Anyway, she reflected as she propelled Mrs. Trent and her belongings towards the station entrance, Robert can’t blame me. It’s his mother, and his binoculars, and he must have known something like this would happen if she travelled down alone. We should have brought her with us last week, of course, only it seemed such a good idea to have at least one week of the holiday on our own.

“On our own.” The words made her smile wryly; and as she set down the suitcases and prepared for the long wait for a taxi, she found herself thinking once again about Corinne.

Corinne. A name that barely a week ago had meant little to her beyond a vague bundle of half-forgotten anecdotes, but which now meant a neglectful husband, a ruined holiday. It meant Robert’s ex-fiancée whom he had not seen for five years — until last Sunday afternoon.

It had been a hot afternoon, the second of their holiday. Joanna was wrestling with the outside water tap which served their beach bungalow, and whose vagaries, it seemed to her, had occupied more of their time than all their other holiday activities put together. Robert, already bored with his masculine role of conscript handyman, was leaving the job to her this time. He was lounging by the porch, looking handsome, and saying at intervals, “Come on,” or “Can’t you leave it for now?” And into this scene, looking more out of place than anything Joanna had ever seen in her life, stepped Corinne. Dressed in a tightly fitting black town suit, high-heeled black sandals and enormous gold earrings, she came stepping daintily through the tufts of grass and powdery dry sand, bending her head elegantly to avoid the lines of assorted garments that dangled everywhere between the bungalows.

Joanna saw her first. Saw the beautifully made-up face prepare itself to look astonished; saw this astonishment sweep over it most convincingly at exactly the right moment, as Robert looked up. And that was why, during subsequent arguments with Robert, Joanna found it so hard to believe that Corinne (having married and discarded two husbands since she had last seen him) had come “quite by accident” on her former fiancé. She “happened to be staying” at the largest hotel at this seaside town; she “happened to have two tickets” for this and that. Disgustedly, Joanna wondered how any man could swallow it, as Robert appeared to do with ease.

“Sorry, Mother, I didn’t catch what you said.” Joanna roused herself to attend to the old lady’s chatter. Whatever happens, she thought, I mustn’t let Mother find out about Corinne. She’d be terribly upset, she thinks that Robert and I are an ideal couple, and that I am the perfect wife for him. I must say, she is very sweet that way — you couldn’t have a kinder, more approving mother-in-law.

Though you could have a more efficient one, she amended grimly, as Polly’s cage door swung open at exactly the moment when their turn for a taxi had at last arrived. By the time the parrot had been retrieved and the crowd of delighted small boys dispersed, they had missed two more taxis, and Mrs. Trent was abject in her apologies.

“I’m so sorry, dear. I keep forgetting the latch...”

But the arrival of the next taxi cut her short; and it was not until they reached the bungalow that Joanna realised just how difficult it was going to be to prevent Mrs. Trent finding out about Corinne. How, for instance, was she to explain Robert’s absence at this very moment, as she staggered unaided through the front door with the two suitcases and the hatbox, followed by Mrs. Trent with the parrot and the umbrella?

“Robert’s awfully sorry not to be here to welcome you,” she improvised hastily. “He’s had to go into the village to see about — about the paraffin. For the stove,” she added, firmly.

But could that really account for the whole afternoon? If — as she suspected — Robert was playing golf with Corinne again, he certainly wouldn’t be back before suppertime. And anyway, he would be sure to say, “What paraffin?” if his mother mentioned it this evening. If only men had a little more tact, one wouldn’t mind these things quite so much. For once, Joanna was thankful for her mother-in-law’s erratic memory. With any luck, she would have forgotten all about the paraffin by the time Robert got back.

But hardly had this comforting thought come into her mind than she heard a sound which made her hold her breath. A coy tap-tap-tapping on the door she had just closed, and a familiar voice full of synthetic warmth and brightness calling: “Joanna? Are you in, Joanna, dear?”

Mrs. Pratt. Joanna cursed silently. Mrs. Pratt, the widow who lived in the cottage on the cliff, and whose hobby was watching the affairs of the summer visitors at the bungalows, and forcibly making bosom friends of as many of them as she possibly could. Joanna was well aware that Mrs. Pratt’s small brown eyes had taken in every detail of the Corinne affair; scarcely a day had passed this week without her dropping in and trying with ill-concealed gusto to extract from Joanna some sort of reaction on the subject, which she could then pass on to the other bosom friends on her beat.

“There you are, my dear,” she said, popping her head archly round the door. “Hiding away from little me like this! I haven’t seen you all morning! Come on and tell me all your news. And — dear me—” appearing to notice Mrs. Trent for the first time “—this is...?”

“This is Mrs. Trent, my husband’s mother,” said Joanna stiffly. “Mother, this is Mrs. Pratt, a neighbour of ours.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Pratt. “How nice to meet you! It’ll be very nice for Joanna, I’m sure, to have a little company at last.” She waited, and as neither of her listeners responded to the shaft, she tried again.

“Where is Robert, my dear? Surely he is here this afternoon at least, when his mother has just arrived?”

“He’s gone to fetch the paraffin,” said Joanna coldly.

“The paraffin? Surely, my dear, you must have made a mistake? They always deliver the paraffin. In those great drums — let me look.” Before Joanna could stop her, she was on her knees examining the paraffin drum in the corner of the room.

“It’s nearly full! What can your husband be thinking of! The poor, dear man, all that long hot walk for nothing! If I meet him, I’ll tell him how sorry I am.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Joanna icily. “And now, I’m afraid Mother and I are going to be very busy unpacking.”

Gently, she tried to edge Mrs. Pratt towards the door.

“Of course, of course, I don’t want to keep you. I just thought” — Mrs. Pratt lowered her voice ostentatiously — “I don’t want to cause any trouble, and I’m sure it’s all right really, but as I came along I couldn’t help seeing your husband sitting on the cliff among the bushes with that young woman from the hotel. Corinne, I think the name is. Corinne Fairbrother. Sitting side by side.” She paused. “Of course, I’m sure it’s all right. He must have just met her by chance, coming back with the paraffin. Though it’s a funny way to come back. Right out of his way, you’d have thought. Still, that must have been it. And he must have sat down for a bit of a rest. It’s a long walk, of course. I’m sure you’ve nothing to worry about, my dear. I’m sure it’s all right.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” said Joanna briskly. “Goodbye, Mrs. Pratt.” She allowed herself to slam the door, but only a little, because otherwise it would set the water pipe gurgling in that sinister way it had when it intended to produce nothing but a few brownish drops the next time you turned it on.

Turning back into the room, she noticed that her mother-in-law’s usually rosy face had gone quite pale.

“Corinne, did she say?” she asked anxiously. “Corinne Fair-brother? Then it must be Robert’s old girlfriend. The one you got him on the rebound from.”

Joanna nodded — though she felt that the thing could perhaps have been phrased more elegantly. Somewhat to her surprise — and certainly to her relief — Mrs. Trent asked no further questions either then or when, later, Robert arrived back, tired and somewhat wary, to be confronted with the news of the lost binoculars. Usually, he treated his mother’s absent-mindedness with tolerant amusement, teasing her over her little mishaps and making her laugh; but not this time. Under the cloud of his not unjustified displeasure, his mother’s usual flow of chatter was dried up at its source; and though Joanna did her best to keep some sort of a conversation going during the evening, it was uphill work; and in the end the uncomfortable silences were broken only by Polly, who had learned to make exactly the gurgling noises produced by the faulty water pipes when they were about to go wrong.

By bedtime, Joanna was at her wit’s end. If this was how it was going to be, then how on earth were they to get through the rest of the holiday? If only, she thought, Robert would at least pretend to be enjoying the company of his family; would make an effort, at least part of the time, to act the part of a loving husband and affectionate and dutiful son.

And up to a point, this was exactly what happened. The very next morning brought the news that the binoculars had turned up safe and sound, and this of course lightened the atmosphere considerably. Thereafter, Robert really did seem to be trying, intermittently, to please his womenfolk, honouring them with his company for at least a part of each day, and disappearing on implausible pretexts rather less frequently than before, and for rather shorter lengths of time.

In fact, as the days went by, it was her mother-in-law’s disappearances that began to worry Joanna, rather than those of her husband. Even Robert began to notice them.

“Where’s Mother?” he asked her one afternoon, joining her on the beach rather earlier than she’d expected. “I thought she was here with you.”

“She’s gone off for a walk on the cliffs, I think,” said Joanna vaguely, and with a slight sense of unease.

“Again? She’s always doing that. What’s the matter with her, Jo? She’s so quiet these days, and keeps going off like this. What is it?”

“I think she goes to see Mrs. Pratt on the cliff sometimes,” said Joanna guardedly, wondering as she spoke what new ideas Mrs. Pratt might even now be instilling into their mother’s all too suggestible mind.

“And another thing,” continued Robert. “She’s becoming so — how can I put it? — so reliable, somehow. Like yesterday: you asked her to go to the farm for a dozen eggs and a pint of milk. And what does she come back with, if you please? Why, a dozen eggs and a pint of milk! Not a cauliflower, mark you! Not half a pound of butter and a kitten! What’s the matter with her?”

He laughed as he spoke, and Joanna laughed with him; but behind the joking, she sensed an uneasiness in him which she could not but share. After a quick swim, impelled by a vague and unspoken anxiety, they made their way back to the bungalow.

Joanna was walking a little ahead, and so it was she who saw it first: a carelessly folded sheet of paper lying just inside the front door. Only after she had picked it up and read the brief message did she notice that it was addressed to Robert:

Together they stared at it.

“It’s just a bit of play-acting, of course,” said Robert at last, though his voice shook a little. “She’s always threatening this sort of thing. It’s... I... Look, Jo, I’m sorry! I think I’d better tell you the truth...!”

“If you mean the truth that you’ve been having an affair with the bloody woman and ruining our whole holiday, then don’t bother!” burst out Joanna. “I know what you’ve been doing! As if I care! Go to her if you want to... Smash our marriage if you want to, I’m not stopping you...!” And with tears streaming down her cheeks, she rushed towards the back door.

“Jo...! Jo...!” He grasped her arm and pulled her back. “Jo, darling, it’s over! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I met her for the last time today, at the pub, and I told her once and for all that I’m not breaking up my marriage! No way am I getting into her clutches again — once in a lifetime was enough, thank you very much! She can blackmail me all she likes with these fake suicide threats — it’s over. Do you hear me, Jo — it’s over! You’re the one I love... You have been all along—”

How quickly Joanna would have allowed herself to be convinced, and to wallow in the joys of reconciliation, would never be known, for no sooner had he begun moving to take her into his arms than a sudden commotion made them both turn round. Stumbling, half-running through the sandy grass beyond the door, came Mrs. Trent; gasping for breath, her face scarlet, her grey curls plastered against her forehead and a wild look in her eyes.

“Corinne!” she gasped. “She’s dead! She jumped over the cliff and killed herself!”

Robert gripped his mother’s arm to support her.

“What do you mean? How do you know?”

“I saw her! I happened to be walking along the cliff, and I looked down and I saw her! Stone dead on the rocks below!”

“Look, Mother, sit down and tell us about it quietly. You found her dead on the rocks. How do you know it wasn’t an accident? How do you know she killed herself?”

“Why, she left a note, didn’t she? I—” Mrs. Trent suddenly grew more scarlet than ever, and burst into tears. Robert’s voice was very grave.

“How do you know about the note? Come on, Mother, tell us exactly what happened?”

“I didn’t mean to say anything about the note! Oh dear, I’m all in a muddle. I meant people to think she’d written it, of course. Oh dear, it’s no good! Oh, Robert, I pushed her over the cliff! I did it for you, Robert! To save your marriage.”

“Mother! How could you? How could you think...? Oh, God, now what in the world can we...? Listen! Listen, Jo — the first thing we must do — before we think of anything else — the first thing we must do is to work out how to cover up Mother’s tracks before the police get onto it. You know what she is — she’s bound to have left clues galore all over the place.”

“I have not!” retorted his mother, with a semblance of returning dignity. “You talk as if I’m senile! I’ve never been senile, I’m only careless; all I had to do was to take care. Besides, you know what a lot of detective stories I read, I’ve thought of everything. Listen!”

She told them her story; and her precautions did indeed seem to have been astonishingly prudent.

She had telephoned in the morning to ask Corinne to meet her on the cliff top “to talk privately about her problem with Robert.” She had gone there (in gym shoes, to leave no discernible footprints), taking a flask of tea just sufficiently drugged to make Corinne fall asleep in the course of their conversation. Thus there would be no struggle — just a quick push (with gloves on to avoid fingerprints) to send the girl rolling down the grassy slope and over the cliff edge. Then — the alibi. Immediately afterwards she hurried as fast as she could to Mrs. Pratt’s cottage, which stood out of sight farther back on the cliffs. Once there, she sat down for the usual cup of tea and gossip — in the course of which she made an opportunity to exclaim: “What’s that? I heard someone cry out!” Mrs. Pratt, of course, heard nothing — but, knowing Mrs. Pratt as she did, Mrs. Trent was shrewd enough to realise that once the news of the tragedy became public, Mrs. Pratt would not only have heard the cry, but would claim to have recognised the voice, and in fact practically to have witnessed the whole thing. And, of course, her friend Mrs. Trent would have been sitting drinking tea with her the whole time, and thus could not possibly be suspected.

Really, it all sounded foolproof.

Except for one thing.

“That’s all bloody fine, Mother!” protested Robert. “But what about me? Half the village must have been listening in on that row we had in the pub, with me obviously trying to break off with her, and her threatening all hell if I dared do any such thing! And then, the next thing they hear, she’s fallen over a cliff! What’s that going to look like for me, eh?”

“Oh, Robert! Oh, my dear! I never thought...! Oh, what can I do...?”

“You can’t do anything. We’ll just have to— Oh, I don’t know — we’ll just have to— Oh, God...!”

And though the little family talked far into the night, no conclusion could be reached except to let matters take their course. The police would come; they would do their job; and whatever would happen, would happen.

It was a long time before Joanna slept that night; and just as she was dropping off she fancied she heard a tap-tapping sound from the front of the house. Someone tapping on the door? Polly practising, in the silence of the night, the sound of Robert’s typewriter? Too weary to get up and investigate, she drifted at last into an uneasy sleep — from which she was awakened by her mother-in-law, beaming down at her.

“It’s all right!” Mrs. Trent was saying. “Robert is in the clear! I’ve typed a note as if from him, and dropped it in at that girl’s hotel, saying how sorry he is about the row, and how he loves her deeply and can’t live without her, and will run away with her just as soon as she likes. And I’ve signed it ‘Rob’ — that’s what she used to call him — in that big scrawly writing of his. So you see, when the police find it, they’ll know beyond any doubt that Robert didn’t, after all, want to get rid of her, and so couldn’t possibly have any motive for murdering her! Wasn’t that a clever idea?”

Indeed it was. In fact, there was only one flaw in it. Corinne, naturally, was overjoyed when she found the note, and rushed immediately to the phone.

Mrs. Trent, who took the call, looked stunned for a moment. Then she clapped her hand to her mouth in the familiar gesture.

“There! I knew there was something! She took so long to go to sleep, and then I was in such a rush to get to Mrs. Pratt’s in time for my alibi, that I clean forgot to push the girl over the edge!”