The Thin Woman (10 page)

“Fiddlesticks!” Aunt Astrid swept out of her chair in one majestic movement. For a moment I cherished the exciting notion that she would fling her brandy glass in Maurice’s face. Ben, too, I could see, was having a whale of a good time. Our eyes met and he lowered one lid in a discreet wink.

“I gather you are not even in the running,” he whispered. “Pity! I always find heiresses so attractive.”

“Come, Vanessa.” Aunt Astrid had unfortunately decided not to make a vulgar scene. “We will not remain in this room any longer listening to such complete folly. Sound investment advice from you, Maurice? How singularly amusing! I think you had better put your own house in order. From the rumour I happened to overhear at my dressmaker’s last week, your financial expertise has reduced you to dire straits.”

“Don’t you think,” I said, “that everyone is being a trifle premature, not to say greedy? Remember, Aunt Astrid, you are the one who suggested that Uncle Merlin would probably leave everything to a cat home. Maybe he liked your idea, although I think it far more likely that he left his money to
the one person who has stood by him all these years, Aunt Sybil.”

Right on cue she came through the door. In her black felt hat with the shadowy brim elamped down over her grey hair, and her dark coat reaching almost to her lace-up shoes, Aunt Sybil looked like the nanny in a melodrama—the kind where all the children turn into ghouls and the parents have to run away from home. “I think”—she glanced at the clock above the mantelpiece—“that we should be leaving for the service. Those who wish to drive may, but I shall walk. The church is only five minutes away, and Merlin abhorred motorcars. His remains are being conveyed from the undertaker’s in a horse-drawn carriage.”

She added, “I believe the means of transportation chosen was not only because of a distaste for motor vehicles, but a matter of sentiment expressed in a written request to his lawyer. Mr. Bragg will be returning with us after the funeral so you will have a chance to talk with him.”

“Won’t that be fun!” gloated Freddy in my ear.

A heavy mist had descended over the area since our arrival at the house. Our little party clustered close together as we manoeuvred our way down the narrow cliff path, which was rutted with crevices and pockmarks. A railing strategically placed where the sharp drop-off to the sea was dangerous would have given some feeling of security, if I had been able to see clearly three feet ahead. Before long I had wrenched my ankle, and Ben took my arm.

“If you keep dragging on me like this,” came his disembodied voice, “you’ll have us both down, and we will go rolling over the edge to find ourselves impaled on the rocks below.”

“What a misery you are, seeing gloom at every turn.”

“You’re damn right,” he agreed amicably. “I see something very gloomy coming around the curve at this very minute, a vapourish chariot pulled by two snorting stamping horses, driven by a phantom driver.…”

“He’s there; we can’t see him because of the mist,” I explained patiently and almost tripped again—this time over
Uncle Maurice, who had stopped short. “Can’t you visualize the coffin rattling around inside the carriage?”

Ben did not return my friendly squeeze. “I’d much rather not,” he said.

Uncle Merlin was buried in the family vault, a small chapel-like building standing close to the church.

I hated the raised tombs, the older ones topped with marble effigies, the newer ones by brass plates. The coffin was carried in, high on the undertakers’ shoulders. No friend or relation rose up to share the burden. Uncle Merlin was dead and nobody, including me, really gave a hoot. Why couldn’t he have been buried out in the churchyard where the grass would blow above him in the wind? I turned to see the old gardener standing hunched and somber, separated by polite distance from the family. A tear sneaked out the corner of one eye and slid in slow motion down his wrinkled cheek. Was he wondering how soon his turn would come—another name ticked off the list? “I’m leaving,” I told Ben.

I made myself useful back at the house tidying the drawing room, removing all the dirty cups and traces of stale food, and making tea. I had finished dusting the mantelpiece with a wad of scrunched-up newspaper when I heard a tramping in the hall. In addition to the family, we were joined by Dr. Melrose, who had attended Uncle Merlin on his deathbed. He went around shaking hands and apologizing for not arriving until the funeral was almost concluded. “I’m sorry I was unable to better assist Mr. Grantham,” he remarked to Uncle Maurice. “Pneumonia was the crunch, but the man had a very serious heart condition. Very foolish of him not to have sought medical assistance sooner. He must have guessed.”

“But if nothing could be done,” said Aunt Astrid, “and bearing in mind that even with National Health, there is always some expense …”

The vicar, Mr. Rowland Foxworth, arrived and offered condolences in his charming voice. He was a very attractive man with prematurely silvered brown hair, strong eyebrows, and warm grey eyes. He was much taller than Ben.

I cast a considering eye over Ben and went on pouring tea. Mr. Foxworth and the doctor had barely left when the doorbell chimed, announcing the man we had all been waiting for, Mr. Wilberforce Bragg, solicitor at law from the firm of Bragg, Wiseman & Smith.

To do the family justice, I think we presented quite a charming drawing room scene. No one was sitting sharpening his claws or ostentatiously smacking his lips. Mr. Bragg was a man in his sixties, with a squashily plump figure, like very soft dough. His complexion was a ruddy network of purple veins, his hair did not look as though it had been combed for a week, and his jacket and trouser legs were an inch too short.

“I don’t think his mother allowed enough room for growing,” whispering Freddy as he cast a regretful eye on the sherry and helped himself to a cup of tea.

“May we begin?” Mr. Bragg’s liverish lips parted in what appeared to be a smile and he pushed a pair of half-moon glasses onto his nose. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today …” A tap at the door interrupted him, and into the room shuffled the old gardener, flannel cap twisted in his gnarled old hands. His eyes shifted around the group. “I heard word that I were wanted here, your worship.”

“You are Jonas Alfred Phipps? Quite right, my man, we do desire your presence.” Mr. Bragg nodded with the graciousness of a man who considers himself above class distinctions.

Aunt Astrid did not share this view of social tolerance. She watched, flinching, as the gardener wiped his muddy boots in the doorway, and inched her skirts away when he clumped behind her to take up his position at the edge of the group.

“Now if we are indeed ready,” the solicitor hemmed, “I will begin the reading:

“ ‘I, Merlin Percival Grantham, being of sound mind, hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament revoking all other wills and codicils.

“ ‘Article First: I name the Stirling Trust Company Limited as executors under this Will and hereby direct them to settle all just claims against my estate.

“ ‘Article Second: After the payment of all my just debts, I direct my executor to dispose of my estate as follows:

“ ‘A. To Jonas Phipps, the only servant foolhardy enough to remain in my service, in gratitude for the amusement he has given me in turning my grounds into a showplace for weeds, I bequeath the sum of one thousand pounds and the right to live in the rooms above the stables on my property for the course of his life.’ ”

The recipient of this largesse ducked his head and said, “Thank ye kindly, your worship.” Mr. Bragg read on:

“ ‘B. To my third cousin Maurice Flatts, whose only claim to distinction is his sprightly pursuit of women young enough to be his daughters, I bequeath a pair of fireside slippers.’ ”

Babble broke out, Aunt Lulu’s voice shrilling above the others. “Throw it on the fire. Burn the will!” Uncle Maurice looked dangerously close to a heart attack. “Libellous! I’ll, I’ll sue!”

The solicitor raised his hand. “I must caution you, ladies and gentlemen, that whether I approve or disapprove of this document is irrelevant. Legally it is airtight. Anyone who tries to overset it will do so at great expense and with slim chance of success. On that point I feel quite secure. The will was prepared by me, and I flatter myself I am one of the foremost probate experts in this part of the country. Merlin Grantham’s wishes will stand.”

“You mean there is worse to come?” For once feckless Freddy sounded quite sober.

The lawyer ruffled the pages. “There will be no further interruptions or I will arrange for the will to be read in chambers, before his honour, Judge Abernathy.

“ ‘C. To Louise Emily Flatts, who on one unforgettable occasion disgraced the family name by cheating at whist at the church hall, St. Mary’s-at-the-Mill, I leave a deck of unmarked cards.

“ ‘D. To my fourth cousin several times removed (alas, never permanently) Frederick George Flatts, who regards poverty as a mystical experience, I leave an empty wallet.

“ ‘E. To my relative, Vanessa Fitz-Gerald, who thought it amusing to pose nude for the New Year’s Eve “bash” at the Retired Rectors’ Club, I leave something I hope she will find equally amusing—a pair of overalls.

“ ‘F. To my relative, Astrid Rose Fitz-Gerald, who hastened her unfortunate husband’s end by her constant nagging, extravagant use of charge cards, and insatiable sexual demands, I leave a year’s supply of saccharin.’ ”

Her eyes fixed in a ghastly stare, Aunt Astrid emitted a scream, powerful enough to reach Uncle Merlin in his tomb, made an abortive lunge at the solicitor, and crumpled into a deep swoon.

“Mummy! I do wish you would act your age.” Vanessa regarded her recumbent parent with scorn but made no move to revive her. With a slight tremor of her graceful hand she reached into her bag for a packet of cigarettes, lit one, and inhaled deeply. Aunt Lulu and Uncle Maurice both appeared unmoved by Aunt Astrid’s recumbent form. The gardener stood looking at his boots. The rest of us clustered about the body, the lawyer
tetch-tetching
while Aunt Sybil produced an evil-looking bottle of smelling salts and jammed them under the sufferer’s nose. Aunt Astrid returned briefly to life, shouting, “Kill him! Kill the swine,” before sinking back into unconsciousness. Mr. Bragg blanched, wondering perhaps whether she meant him or Uncle Merlin. By the consent of all those present, Aunt Astrid was placed on the sofa, covered with a wool rug, and left to sleep it off.

“If I may now continue.” Mr. Bragg inspected his pocket watch and cleared his throat.

“ ‘G. To my cousin, Sybil Agatha Grantham, but for whose appalling cooking I might still be alive today, but mindful of her (unsolicited) devotion, I bequeath my property, Cliffside Cottage, and the sum of ten thousand pounds.”

All eyes were now fixed on Aunt Sybil. She appeared to swallow, then I realized she was humming one of the funeral
hymns. Well, she had lived in the man’s house for over fifty years; she was used to his jibes. Humming was probably a mental kind of cotton wool in her ears. Mr. Bragg turned a page and lifted a hand as though calling for order. My turn must be coming up next. What had dear old Unc left me, an application form for a new body? The fire had petered out, and I, usually such a warm-blooded filly, felt chilled to the bone. After another surreptitious glance at his watch, Mr. Bragg continued:

“ ‘H. To Giselle Simons and Bentley Haskell in equal shares, I leave all my remaining estate.’ ”

Someone gasped: Was it me or Ben?

“ ‘Subject to the following conditions:

“ ‘1. That Giselle Simons and Bentley Haskell shall reside at my residence for a period of six months from the date of my death.

“ ‘2. That Giselle Simons shall divest herself of four and one-half stone, no less, in body weight, within said six months and can prove same by presentation of a doctor’s certificate.

“ ‘3. That Bentley Haskell shall write and complete a book of marketable length and submit same to a reputable publisher within said six months, and said manuscript shall contain not one word of blasphemy or obscenity. My esteemed solicitor, Mr. Wilberforce Bragg, has agreed to read same masterpiece and to be present when it is delivered into the hands of the post office.

“ ‘4. That Giselle Simons and Bentley Haskell, singly or together, shall within said six months discover the treasure connected with my house. The answer to this quest, described in a sealed letter to be held in the possession of my solicitor, Mr. Wilberforce Bragg, to be opened six months from the date of my death. In the event that either Giselle or Bentley fails to attempt or meet all of the four conditions within this time span, their shares shall be both divested and shall be divided in equal shares among Maurice Flatts, Louise Emily Flatts, Frederick George Flatts, Vanessa Fitz-Gerald, and Astrid Rose Fitz-Gerald, or the survivor or survivors of them.’ ”

A stunned silence swamped the room. Freddy drew a ragged breath and raised a wineglass, twirling it in an exaggerated arc above his head. “A toast!” he cried. “To the late great Uncle Merlin, a very sporting gentleman. The game has just begun.”

“Yes,” agreed Vanessa, lips curving into an unsweet smile, “by fair means or foul!”

CHAPTER
Seven

Ben and I decided not to return to London that night. We needed time to talk. Aunt Sybil in a rather formal voice agreed to stay on for a few days until the cottage could be prepared for her, but she went to her room when the front door slammed on the last of the other relatives, all of whom spurned our offer of hospitality for the night. As late afternoon darkened the windows, only the solicitor remained with us, and he was impatient to be off. He kept glancing at his watch.