The Thin Woman (11 page)

“You will each be sent a copy of the will,” Mr. Bragg said, “And here is the memorandum your uncle left in my keeping regarding his funeral arrangements, which I have fulfilled to the best of my ability. As you can see, the terms, like those of the will, are eccentric.”

I passed the paper to Ben and he read aloud: “I, Merlin Grantham, request that I be accorded the same manner of funeral given my mother, Abigail Grantham.”

Ben whistled. “Sentimental old geezer, wasn’t he?”

“I only met Mr. Grantham once when he came about his will, and he was not well then, kept coughing into his handkerchief.” Mr. Bragg was looking round for his coat
and gloves. “Naturally I did all I could, but the funeral arrangements posed an almost impossible task.” He pursed his lips in dissatisfaction. “Miss Sybil Grantham remembers staying in this house at the time of her aunt’s funeral, but she was only a child of five or six. She did recall the use of a horse and carriage but the other details are as dead as Merlin Grantham and his mother.”

“Rather careless of Uncle Merlin to be so unspecific.” I folded the paper over and pressed it between my fingers. “But I suspect he had other things on his mind—composing his list of schoolboy howlers for his Last Will and Testament.”

“Reprehensible, but all perfectly legal.” Mr. Bragg buttoned his coat. “Do not be persuaded otherwise. I wish both of you good fortune. May you find the treasure and live happily ever after. Well, I must be off. As stated in the final paragraph of the will, you will be the recipients of the income from your uncle’s investments during the interim, six month, period.”

“Goodnight.”

We followed him down the hall and shut him out into the rising wind and lowering skies. It was confrontation time.

“You can wipe that Cheshire cat expression off your face.” Ben headed back into the drawing room. “I refuse to be inveigled into this farce or to compromise my integrity for the sake of …”

“You wouldn’t be so noble if you thought you stood a chance of qualifying for the dough.” Tossing a cushion off one of the fireside chairs, I sat down and smiled smugly across at Ben as he lounged in the wingback opposite.

“Hark who’s talking! I’ll bet my whole share of the take that I could fulfil my part of the bargain while you are still sinking your teeth into cream buns and murmuring”—his voice rose to a dreadful muffled twitter—“ ‘Just one more teeny-weeny stuffing session and, cross my size forty-two chest, tomorrow or sometime next week I positively will—God’s honor—go on my diet.’ ”

There you go!” I cried triumphantly. “You are incapable
of stringing two sentences together without the use of obscenity or blasphemy. Whereas I when motivated am a woman of willpower.”

“Don’t make me laugh!” Ben did just that—hateful snickering creature. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen your knees since you were two years old.”

“That piece of spite is not even original. I expect your writing is equally trite.” Standing up, I declaimed with wide-flung arms, “ ‘Our stalwart hero Porno Hardcore ripped the clothes from the protesting body of lithesome lovely Tessie Tease, pressed his rapacious hand upon her curvaceous beep, beep, Deep and cried, “Gee, sugar cube, I’d really love to beep-beep your beep-beep-beep!” ’ ”

Ben’s lips quivered. “You have just made my point. I write spy stories and for them to be credible the characters must sound like real people. No one in this day and age shrieks, ‘Oh naughty, naughty!’ when an alligator stomps up the river bank and nips off their left leg.”

“True,” I said, slumping down again and absently reaching for a piece of leftover fruitcake, dry as the Sahara, “but there’s an easy way round that problem. You transport your story to another era. The eighteenth century was a little raunchy; you’d do better in the Victorian reign, when being a gentleman did not necessarily mean you were impotent, or …”

Ben shook his head. “Too limiting for my medium. A spy story needs the fast action of wireless, air travel, chemical warfare, and all the intricacies of modern-day espionage, nuclear secrets, intrigue.…”

“All right.” I cracked off another piece of fruitcake. “If you insist on remaining within the twentieth century your hero must be from another world.”

“Tremendous,” said Ben, pitching a scrunched-up piece of paper into the grate. “I’ll make him a pointy-eared little green man from Mars, running on a transistor battery, who …”

“Must you take everything literally? By ‘another world’ I meant cast your hero in a different mould from Mr. Average
Spy with his upturned raincoat collar and limp trilby hat. Make him a college professor with a passion for Keats, or an opera singer with laryngitis. Make him a woman.”

Ben’s eyes flashed. “Ellie,” he said, “you have given me an idea.”

I held out my hand. “Half the royalties?”

“Nothing doing.” Ben stood up and began pacing between our two chairs. “At the end of the six months I want to be able to shake my fist at Uncle Merlin and tell him where he can put his inheritance. A roof over my head for a while is one thing but …”

A tap at the door interrupted my exuberant whoop of triumph at Ben’s apparent capitulation. In came Jonas Phipps, head bent and the inevitable scuffed old hat dangling between his fingers. In the half-light all I could see of the gardener’s face were the jutting grey eyebrows and bristly scrubbing-brush moustache. Electricity would be one of the first amenities I would install in Merlin’s Court.

As a novice at the lady of the manor game I wondered how I should address this elderly retainer. Aunt Astrid would have said, “Don’t stand there gawking all day. Out with it, my man!”

“Yes, Jonas,” said Ben, offering his hand. “Is there something Miss Simons and I can do for you?”

“Be I to sleep up at the cottage as usual, sir? Now that it rightly belongs to Miss Grantham I don’t want to do nowt to upset her, but what with there being no bed in the rooms over the stables and me lumbago acting up, sir, I was awondering …”

“No problem. Miss Grantham is spending the night in her old room. Ellie and I have not discussed the matter yet, but it seems a shame for the old lady to be uprooted—unless of course she would like the privacy of her own place. And I am sure you do not relish being evicted from your home. In any event you must remain at me cottage until a decision is made.”

“I’ll not go against the will, sir.” Phipps was probably a simple soul, subject to a superstitious terror of falling foul
of the legal system, to say nothing of the thwarted ghost of Uncle Merlin,

“Mr. Phipps, have you eaten?” I asked. “I believe there is some cold roast beef in the kitchen.”

“Nay, I cook me own meals, mistress. I’ll be on my way and thank ye both for seeing me.” Bowing over his hat, the old man backed out of the room.

“This is the life,” yawned Ben, “complete with faithful servant and the spinster chaperone upstairs.”

“Fear not,” I said, “your virtue is safe with me. Tell me—was outward respectability the reason you suggested having Aunt Sybil remain here?”

“I think it rather a shame to oust the poor old girl when she has lived here forever. And yes, Ellie, I do feel that having someone eke in the house would provide a little”—he searched for the word— “
balance
.”

“If you are so frightened for your virtue,” I hissed, “you can always have an iron bolt installed on your bedroom door and shove a chest of drawers up against it.”

Ben closed his eyes and ground his teeth. The muscles on his neck stood out like ropes. “Can we never have a conversation without you climbing up on your high horse? Two single people living in one house, even when there is no romantic attachment, has to be a sensitive situation.”

“Very!” I gave the paltry fire a shove with the poker. “But this sensitive situation has its practical plusses—six months free room and board, to say nothing of the chance to win the grand prize: a half-share in my ancestral home, a substantial bank account, stocks and bonds, and who knows what else? All, Mr. Bentley Haskell, because my uncle supposed you to be engaged to me.”

“Are you suggesting,” scowled Ben, “that should I wish to become endowed with all these worldly goods that I am honourably bound to offer you marriage?”

“Come to think of it”—I swung the poker menacingly in his direction—“such would be the right and proper course for a gentleman. Poor Uncle’s wishes ought really to be considered a sacred duty. As a tribute to his memory, I think I
could be persuaded to sacrifice my finer feelings. Down on one knee, young man!”

Ben removed the poker from my clenched fingers and tried to repress a grin. “You are a fool,” he said. Perversely the words sounded like a compliment but I didn’t let flattery go to my head.

“But not so great a fool that I’d tie the knot with you. Frankly, you are not my type, and when I get skinny I intend to have my pick of the litter. That vicar is a possibility—handsome, intellectual, amusing—but I am in no rush.”

“Personally, I thought him a shade too hearty.” Ben’s brief good humour evaporated and he returned the poker to the grate. “But your life is your own. I am glad we are laying our cards on the table. You see, there is this girl in London with whom I have an understanding.”

“How quaint,” I said lightly. “Sounds like one of those arrangements made by families when their infants are still in the cradle. Won’t your sweet young thing object to your moving in with me?”

“Not under the circumstances. Susan is very accepting.”

“She must be. Of course, she promises to benefit also from our arrangement. With a bit of luck I’ll be able to hand you over with a handsome dowry.”

“Susie … Susan isn’t mercenary. You’d love her. But are the locals going to be as accepting of a young couple living together without benefit of clergy? Your vicar for one can hardly approve.”

“Ben, you surprise me. I’m beginning to suspect that along with your other hang-ups you are also a latent conformist. Are you afraid of getting tossed out on your ear from the village pub by the local morals committee? Given the choice of having Aunt Sybil fussing underfoot or being accused of living in sin, I’ll opt for the latter! Calm down, Lancelot, no one could seriously suspect me of being a vamp.”

“For once,” snorted Ben irritably, “I think you underestimate yourself. You’ve admitted you have designs on the unsuspecting vicar.”

“True, but I intend to restrain them until I am reduced to a shadow of my former self. By that time you will have written your masterpiece and it will be time to put the house up for sale and divide the profits.”

“Complaisant, aren’t you? But, Ellie, you are overlooking the one condition of that will which may defeat even your ingenuity—the discovery of the treasure.” Ben was pacing again. His eyes under black knitted brows glowed like blue-green opals. “If old Merlin had played by the rules he would have provided us with clues.”

“What do you expect?” I jeered. “Rhymed couplets written in invisible ink on ivory-coloured parchment?”

“They would make a heck of a lot more sense than a random search of this warren of a house. We could spend months, tapping desperately on every piece of paneling and floorboard in frantic hope of an echo, or dismantling old bureaus and sideboards searching for a secret drawer.”

I could see his point. Perhaps though, we were underestimating Uncle Merlin. Some instinct told me that we had not heard the last of the deceased.

“Oh, don’t look so crestfallen.” To my surprise Ben reached over and touched my face lightly, only a comradely gesture, unfortunately. “I know I sound like a defeatist,” he continued, “but I must say that if I have to get involved in such a harebrained scheme, I would sooner it was with you than anyone else. Together we will evolve some brilliant strategy.”

Ben and I parted for the night on amiable terms, having decided we would return to London the following morning to settle our affairs. For me this would entail donating my furniture to the Salvation Army and informing my boss he should hang a Help Wanted sign in his studio window. Having mentally disposed of my former life, I lay in the big double bed which I had inhabited on my former visit and thought about Ben and his lady friend Susan. Was she, I wondered hopefully, a mythical creature invented to act out the role of emotional chaperone? Possibly, but a man as eminently attractive as Bentley Haskell was bound to have
some woman in his life. The fiancée might exist, but would he remain loyal, faithful, and true to her memory during an absence of six months? He could hardly entertain the creature here at Merlin’s Court while supposedly engaged to me, and treasure hunting would, I hoped, leave little time for trips up to London.

I fell asleep to dream of the new me. “Have you seen her?” chanted a chorus of animated dumplings. “My word, that girl is thin—emaciated. Really most unbecoming! Her stockings bag around the knees. You should have seen her when she was well-padded. She had such a pretty face!” This flattery was so enjoyable I hated to wake up. But my window had not latched properly and a strong draught was blowing over me. Struggling out of my happy fantasy, I padded across the room and parted the curtains. Tonight there was no moon. As I reached for the latch, a pinprick of light stabbed the darkness. The gardener must be awake at his cottage, perhaps going downstairs to make himself a cup of Ovaltine. A very sound idea. Reaching for my dressing gown, grateful that I was no longer reduced to a bedspread, I knotted the cord around my middle and went out onto the landing. At least this time I would not collide with Uncle Merlin in the pantry. Getting rid of that antiquated dumbwaiter would be one of my first projects. My hand moved down the smooth curve of the bannister rail; this beautiful staircase should be restored and preserved. Was Uncle Merlin manipulating me from the grave, knowing full well my professional instincts would be aroused? Mr. Bragg had emphasized that substantial funds would be made available to us during our stay. And the house certainly would fetch a better price after even modest renovations. In its present state of dirt and decay, even squatters wouldn’t want it.

The kitchen was worse than the last time. Unable to face it earlier that evening, I had steered clear by sending Ben to fix sandwiches for supper. Tomorrow, before we left, I would roll up my sleeves and boil water. At the moment I was not ready for an assault on squalour. I found a tin of biscuits and then made myself a cup of strong tea. The
milk was sour so I did without. One could only be surprised that Uncle Merlin had not died from dysentery years before pneumonia claimed him. Aunt Sybil was the limit. The effect of my disapproval was uncanny: As if to defend herself against mental attack, she materialized, literally, on the doorstep. I heard a stamping noise and turned in my chair as the garden door opened.