The Thin Woman (24 page)

One thing I did admire was his commitment to see this thing through to the bitter end. He had given his word that he would remain at Merlin’s Court for six months and he had kept to that even if I had done something horrendous to turn him against me. One day a flash of genius told me what that might be. I had never thanked him for the silver photo frame. Ignoring the No Admittance signals vibrating through the closed door of his work room, I went in to apologize.

“With all that wretched business about the chocolates and your book,” I said, “other matters got brushed aside but I did love my present. Abigail’s picture looks right at home in it. The more I learn about that woman, the more special I know she was. She wasn’t pretty or—”

“My God,” snapped Ben, thumping the back-spacer with his thumb, “what a creature you are for always harping on appearances. I’m beginning to have some serious doubts about that damned diet of yours—it’s turning you into another bird-brained Narcissus, goggling in every mirror you pass. What’s happened to your sense of values?”

“This coming from you?” Somehow I managed a creditable snicker as I glowered down at him. “Physical attributes don’t impress you? Hypocrite! You never stopped smacking your lips the first time you saw Vanessa. When she and I were in the same room you never gave me a second glance and don’t tell me it was her mind that held you in thrall!”

“I thought we were discussing Abigail.” Back-spacing rapidly, Ben did not look up. “Somehow I got the notion that we were all agreed that she was the perfect example of how a woman does not have to be pretty, as you call it, to be beautiful. Remember when I first saw her portrait I said she reminded me of someone? At the time I wasn’t sure who. For starters I thought of Dorcas—there is a similarity of colouring—but one night when you and I were sitting in the drawing room together, talking away, I realized that the person Abigail put me in mind of was you. Oh, don’t panic, not in looks—in other ways.”

“Like me?” I had to sit down on the nearest chair even though it was already occupied by a stack of paper. Being told I resembled Abigail was like being given a flower, especially when the words came from Ben. To be strong and fine, warm and alive as she had been … I couldn’t think of anything more …

“We saw it by gas light, the lighting was poor, remember?” Ben pounded away on the keys. “And who knows, we may all have waxed too sentimental over that portrait.”

I loathed him then. I loathed his rumpled dark hair and his faded sweater and his neat nimble fingers. I hoped they jammed between the keys and had to be amputated. What had I done to make him turn so hostile—spitting meanly at me the way Tobias did when I mistakenly gave him the wrong food?

“Why don’t you run along like a good girl,” Ben said. “Go and visit the vicar. I’m sure old Roily will be delighted to see you. Oh, I forgot. He telephoned yesterday to reiterate his goodbyes. I gather he had previously offered them in person. Sorry I forgot to tell you.”

By the next week the dining room was ready for use in its proper capacity and Ben had taken over the loggia as his study. It was rather crammed with displaced pieces of furniture, empty pots of paint, and wallpaper scraps, but he had installed his typewriter on a small table near the window and asked with wintry politeness to be left undisturbed. The closed door was as effective as writing on the wall.

One evening Dorcas and I decided to drive out to one of the hotels for dinner, partly because with Ben hard at work I had been doing the evening meal (and while I did much better than Dorcas, Ben had spoiled us), but mostly because I wanted an excuse to wear a rather super blue dress I had just purchased. Most of my clothes had been hanging on me like maternity smocks for some weeks, but superstition had prevented my buying new until now. I was still certain that once I boxed up all my old clothes and sent them to the Salvation Army, I would regain two stone overnight. But this evening I decided to burn my boats and bridges, too. Was it the subdued light in my bedroom (one of the bulbs was out) or the sapphire shade of the dress which kindly made my eyes two sizes bigger and the rest of me two sizes smaller, or that I had drawn my hair into a severe knot on top of my head which emphasized the emergence of cheekbones I had never known I possessed? To be truthful, when I looked in the mirror, I was quite taken with myself.

“You know something, baby doll”—I smoothed out an eyebrow—“you ain’t half bad.” On a tidal wave of newfound confidence I swept down the stairs, through the hall, knocked on the loggia door and, barely waiting for Ben’s unenthusiastic permission to enter, I turned the door handle and went in.

His back was to me and without turning his head, he muttered, indistinctly, “Well?”

Advancing slowly I stood immediately behind him, wishing my knees had not taken up their old nervous rattle and, afraid that my voice would go on strike, I took a deep breath.

“Unless you have come on a matter of national importance,
I do wish you would return later.” Ben ran a hand through his hair, removed a pencil from his lips, and began scribbling something on a piece of scratch paper.

“I won’t take that personally. Unless you have eyes in the back of your head, you can’t know if it’s me or Dorcas, or …”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ellie, all I need are ears on the side of my head. I would know those footsteps anywhere. You always sound like an army sergeant marching up and down the compound on inspection.”

So much for my graceful floating entrance. Better get this thing over. What was needed was a small joke to help the job along.

“That’s because I lost my glass slippers and had to borrow boots from one of the ugly sisters. This is your prime favourite of fairy-tale romance, Cinderella. Outside is Dorcas doing a nice impersonation of Fairy Godmother. But in order to go to the ball I still need our Charming escort, how about it, chum?”

Ben swung round in his chair. His eyes raked slowly over me, seeming to take in every inch of the blue silk dress, the sheer nylon stockings with nary a wrinkle, and my high-heeled navy sandals. Returning at last to my face, he took a long hard look as though studying a stranger before saying coldly and with complete finality, “I’m sorry, Ellie, I don’t do that kind of work any more.”

CHAPTER
Thirteen

All those foolish hopes! The myth that Ben would fall a helpless victim to the charms of the updated, stream-lined version of Ellie Simons was at an end. Had I brought this on myself? In losing weight had I become arrogant, conceited, thoughtless, and complacent? Horrible thought! And, naturally, I would be the last to know. Those were not the sort of tidings one’s best friend would hasten to pass along.

I did ask Dorcas for an honest appraisal, but her opinion was worse than useless. She assured me I was nicer than ever and Ben’s behaviour was probably due to intense concentration. Total involvement with his book. I might have swallowed this if he was not being perfectly charming to Dorcas, Jonas, and even Aunt Sybil on her rare visits to the house.

“An exile in my own home,” I confided sadly to Tobias. Things are getting rough when the only satisfactory male of one’s acquaintance is a cat, and these days he, too; was something of a deserter, jumping onto Jonas’s lap more readily than he did mine.

Most of the work on the ground floor was completed. The workmen had left and I now had only to wait for the
delivery of the furniture, curtains, and carpets before putting the rooms back together. The drawing room looked exactly as I had hoped it would. Bracket wall lights shed an amber glow over the cream silk wallpaper and the rich tones of the freshly cleaned carpet and dark oak surround. On the mantelpiece stood the tall brass candlesticks and Dorcas’s yellow Chinese vase. My only regret was that Abigail’s portrait could not hang above them in the place of honour. I mentioned this one day at lunch, adding that discounting the poor artwork the picture did have a special meaning for the house and it was a shame it had never been completed. Dorcas suggested taking it to a gallery or a small art shop for touching up. Jonas, who had been steadily wiping gravy off his plate with a crust of bread, looked up and announced that he’d always been thought by his teachers at school to be rather a dab hand with a paint box. Not that he’d picked up a brush in years, but he didn’t doubt t’was the same as swimming or riding a bicycle—once push came to shove t’would all come back. Jonas had put us in a bind. To refuse would be a slap in the eye, but what if he bungled? “Sure, Jonas,” said Ben. “Go ahead. You certainly can’t do worse than the original artist.” Jonas was watching me with a sparkle in his wicked old eyes, daring me to say him nay, and Ben had not even cared to ask my opinion. Men! How I hated them and myself for not resisting their tyranny. Samson’s strength had evaporated with the loss of his hair, mine with my lost inches. In more ways than one I was not half the girl I used to be.

On one point though, I did stand firm. I refused to succumb to the old trap of eating to console myself. What I needed was another project in the house, but one that would not require too much time. With the weeks stretching into months, we were now entering September. The sand was running to the bottom of the glass. The six months would be up on October 5. The vicar was still away, but I didn’t fret about that. I had almost given up hope of his uncovering anything that would lead us to the cause of Abigail’s death and through that knowledge to the treasure.

I began work on the master bedroom, unoccupied since Merlin’s death. Stripping off the old wallpaper was a tedious business, but I refused Dorcas’s offer of help knowing how anxious she was to spend as many hours as possible in the herb garden. I called Jonas into service and surprisingly he submitted to his indoor assignment with good grace. No sooner would I send him downstairs in search of a tape measure or a bottle of liquid soap than he would reappear. My nerves were not in the best state those days and once I almost fell off my ladder when he popped up behind me like genie from a bottle.

“Work agrees with the man” was Dorcas’s explanation. “Got more spring in his step than when I first came. Colour healthier, too, lost the wax look he used to have. Madame Tussaud’s wouldn’t take him now, ha-ha!”

“He does seem more fit,” I agreed. “For a man his age he can certainly move and he’s doing a wonderful job with the garden. Uncle Merlin must not have brought out the best in him. I can’t believe the improvement in the grounds this year.”

“More than one change made at Merlin’s Court, Ellie. I’m happier than I’ve been in donkey’s years, and your Aunt Sybil is coming out of the sulks. Always a bit condescending with me but I take no notice. Asked her if she wanted those ancient newspapers left stacked in her old room for her papier-mâché heads. If not they could go on Jonas’s bonfire. Had to laugh myself when I went through them. Not one copy of
The Times
or
Guardian
. Scandal sheets every one! Still, mustn’t criticize. An hour on the tennis court would have left her too winded for such nonsense. But never too late. Glad she’s taken up swimming, except, told me she sees no reason to waste water on her weekly bath now. Ah well, if she’s in good spirits! Wanted to know how you were progressing with the toils of Hercules.”

“You didn’t tell her about the cookery book, did you?”

“Not a whisper. Mum’s the word. Old girl might blab and we don’t need another sabotage attempt. Can’t see they’d have much luck with Ben tucking it under his mattress at night
and keeping it with him at all times during the day, but better safe than sorry. Admire you for wanting that book to succeed even if the final requirement of the will is never fulfilled.” She went out of the door murmuring, “Love is kind, love is not selfish, love is …”

Didn’t the woman realize that I now had no feelings for Bentley Haskell other than a certain respect for his skill at the cooker? Stamping up and down on a ladder in a fit of impotent rage can be perilous to one’s health, particularly when the phone startles one in the middle of a bounce. Fortunately I managed to catch hold of the picture rail as I swung out into mid-air, but my breath was still a bit quivery when I reached the hall and picked up the receiver, something I had not done without a pang of fear since my obscene call. But this time there was nothing to worry about. This was Rowland Foxworth telling me in the pleasant voice that warmed my ear, that he had enjoyed his visit to Israel but had missed his friends. And he had something for me of greater interest. He had found several boxes containing old sermons and other papers dating back to the vicar of St. Anselm’s during Abigail’s day. He would look through them and get back in touch with me.