Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

He looked so taken aback, even frightened, that she clicked her tongue in annoyance at his slowness. “These eggs are a disgrace. Supposed to be free-range, and you can hardly tell the yolk from the white. Stick a bit of straw in the carton and they think they can get away with anything. I shall give that fellow a piece of my mind.”

“I’m not hungry, Mrs. Huddle.” He grimaced at the double egg cup. “Thanks, all the same. And late, I’m running late for the office.” Mr. Shale bolted.

There was no end to men’s folly and vanity. Dieting now, as if skirt-chasing was not enough. And from the sickly look and other evidence, suffering a morning-after penalty for wasting his money in pubs. She had heard him come in, all right. Tiptoeing about downstairs, floorboards creaking, in and out of the bathroom, cistern growling and swooshing into the small hours. Being sick, she deduced, dirty beast. Nobody would be washing themselves, or clothing, in the handbasin so late and so repeatedly. At least he had locked the front door behind him, saving her going down to do it: She’d listened for the sound of the key.

As for it not happening again, handsome is as handsome does, and so much for men’s promises. That very evening, unprecedentedly, he did not return until past eight o’clock; cod in batter, homemade batter, too, none of your shop-bought rubbish, not to mention the peas and carrots, all ruined...

“I’m really sorry,” he said listlessly, a “please don’t start on me” note in the apology. “I got kept at, at—” The stammer was a fresh development. “—At work. All seen to now. I hope.” The last was to himself.

He was a terrible colour. “I... I think I have a migraine, better turn in early.” Migraine out of a bottle, she jeered silently as he fled.

Next evening she let him get his coat off, change into slippers, wash his hands. (Turning the hall broom cupboard into a downstairs cloakroom had been a worthwhile investment, Esme reminded herself, nearly worth the cost.)

“I’m in the lounge,” she called, for Mr. Shale was making towards the dining room, by training. Breakfast in the kitchen, the dining room for high tea, Esme Huddle knew how to maintain standards.

“The police were here,” she greeted him. “Never had them in the house, then two at once. Plainclothesman... well, I say plain clothes, he was got up like they used to for student rag weeks, with his leather jacket and tennis shoes. Him and a girl PC. That uniform isn’t becoming, she did look dowdy.”

“They came here,” he repeated, final word a squeak. And he looked around, radiating dread.

“No,” said Esme, “this was before lunchtime, why would they wait? Wanted to know where you were on Wednesday night. Here, I said, same as usual. Tea, you watched the quiz with me, some silly comedy show afterwards while we were chatting. Then upstairs to play with your stamps. Your light went out about half-past ten, I noticed that when I went to the bathroom.”

David Shale studied her curiously, lips parted. She sighed impatiently. “That’s what you told them, I expect.”

Still digesting what he had heard, Mr. Shale dithered.

His, “Er, yes, that’s what I told them,” was belated, followed with, “I should have mentioned it, I’m sorry. That’s why I was late yesterday, the police asking me questions. There was a murder, and I must be somebody’s double—”

Esme raised a hand. “There’s enough murder on television and in the papers without talking about it.” She was airing a pet grumble.

Stumbling on regardless, he mumbled, “Not murder, it was... accidental.” Mr. Shale contrived a motionless shiver, implied by his troubled eyes. “Accident, definitely,” he whispered.

Some people wouldn’t listen — what had she just told him about discussing such matters? Raising her voice, Esme rapped, “I dare say.”

And a shade less harshly, immediately breaking her own ban: “What do these women expect, carrying on that way. Promiscuous, the sergeant fellow said. Married woman, and a string of fancy men? I should just about think she was promiscuous.”

David Shale seemed to shrink within himself. Esme smiled grimly. “They didn’t tell you that, what sort she was? A sensible man wouldn’t need telling. Touch tar and you dirty your fingers. There’s a lot of truth in old sayings.”

Flinching, he asked almost inaudibly, “What now?”

“A nice bloater, it’s fish night. Answer or Bust starts in twenty minutes, we must look sharp.”

“No! I mean...” He broke off to smile wryly, bitterly, at his own stupidity. “Money, you’ll be wanting more money.”

Esme Huddle’s ears sang and she willed herself to breathe steadily, riding out a surge of anger. Her voice shook. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”