The Thin Woman

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Those times when I stopped at the cottage I had the feeling you were disappointed—that you hoped I was someone else,” I said.

  She continued smoothing cement. “I even flirted with that twerp the vicar at your party to make Merlin jealous, silly me. And very foolishly I imagined that if you and Mr. Hamlet gave up and left, life would return to the old pattern. Merlin never suspected I was the one who put those chocolates in your room, Ellie, and washed that really stupid book. If you had wanted lessons in pornography you should have come to the expert—me. Wasn’t it clever of me to invite Freddy to come and look things over at the house? Told him not to say anything, but that I was worried about you. Knew he’d panic, that his father, being so desperate for money, had been up to something. And I wanted you to suspect him. You see, I was worried that one of you might begin to wonder about me, but you foolish dopes”—she reached out and aimed a playful poke at us—“you were so easily duped it took the fun away.”

  “Sorry.” We were now standing directly across the tomb from her. I dug my fingers through the wet cement and squeezed part of Uncle Merlin’s hand.

  “I do wish I had a palette knife,” murmured Aunt Sybil. “Yes, my feelings for Merlin changed. You giddy young things don’t realize that a woman scorned is the same at any age. Until that night of your dinner party I forced myself to overlook his cavalier treatment of me, but when he insulted me in front of the vicar for calling his mother what she was, and referred to me as a dried-up spinster, I knew he had to die. In the heat of the moment I almost called him by his own name, but later I was calm; I planned it all, luring you from the house, so I could jimmy the dumb-waiter and if possible snare the cat. Dorcas, old stick-in-the-mud, was a problem, but I fixed her tea. I asked Lulu to telephone at a precise time and keep the woman in conversation for several minutes. She was too stupid to ask why.”

  “Perhaps she guessed what you were up to, and approved your marvellous methodical scheme,” said Ben.

  “Oh, I would like to think so,” sighed Aunt Sybil. “One does so like to be appreciated. I was rather proud of the dumb-waiter. I knew Merlin was still in the habit of using it.”

  “Of course,” I said. “He did have that uncanny habit of popping up where least expected.” Aunt Sybil had worked her way up to Merlin’s chin.

  “That was one of the things that bothered me.” Ben seemed determined to keep her talking. “The chance of Ellie or me stepping inside that contraption was so slim.”

  “Yes, but she had to be such a busy little bee.” Aunt Sybil looked sullen and then brightened. “I took the cat as an extra treat. Merlin was meant to find it when he came out of the stables in the morning. But fate was unkind. This afternoon, too, how could I have foreseen when I crept up from behind and pushed that cart that Mr. Hamlyn had borrowed Merlin’s hat and coat. I was so sure I had finished him off at last, and if Ellie went too that was the icing on the cake. Oh well, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, and try again! Don’t you think I’ve made a lovely job of him?”

  “Superlative!” came our unanimous response.

  Aunt Sybil stood back and admired her handiwork. “Is there anything else you two meddlers want cleared up? Any more questions? Good. I would like you to know that whilst I did resent your moving into my home, once I began to hate Merlin I scarcely gave you a thought. Petty jealousies seemed so insignificant. I do hope you understand.”

  “Oh, we do.” Ben and I nodded in fervent agreement.

  “Because,” Aunt Sybil cosily smiled, “I would not like your taking my having to kill you personally.” She came slashing towards us with the spade. Ben dived for her legs, but she was too quick; whamming down on his head she shrieked with gleeful laughter. “One down and one to go,” she chortled as he grunted and rolled over. “My, doesn’t time fly when one is having fun!”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the granite figure of Uncle Merlin rise slowly upon his tombstone bed. “Run, Ellie,” he crackled. Aunt Sybil turned ready to flatten the mummified Lazarus. For now she had abandoned me, and I was free to make a break to try and find some help, but I couldn’t let her drive that sheet of metal down on Uncle Merlin’s head. I was amazed at her strength as I leapt on her back. We wrestled frantically, both of us clinging to the handle of the spade. If only I had taken Jill’s judo lessons more seriously! Aunt Sybil was winning, dragging me backwards with her. We almost tripped over Ben’s inert body. I felt Merlin’s agonized gaze upon us, powerless to intervene. We were at the door locked in a hideous embrace. Despite her age and rotund build, she was as spry as a cat. I could not hold on much longer. My hands were slimy as cold cream on the wooden handle. It slipped from my grasp.

  Something thumped into the back of my head. At first I thought it was the spade until I realized that the metal blade was still pointing towards the floor. “Don’t move,” ordered a familiar voice, and I realized the blow had been struck by the door opening inward. “Drop your weapon. I am fully armed. Don’t suppose I mentioned it, never one to boast, but our school represented England for archery. Didn’t take me a minute to make this bow from a curtain rail and some twine. Knitting needles make marvellous arrows.”

  “Would you mind telling me,” I asked sharply, “which one of us you intend to shoot?”

  “Neither of you, if you behave sensibly. Ellie, move away from Sybil.”

  “More interference,” snapped Aunt Sybil, sounding genuinely peeved. “I was so certain you were tied up safe and sound in my cellar, and here you come butting your long nose into my business. Oh! And things were going so well.”

  “To a Girl Guide leader,” said Dorcas austerely, “knots are child’s play once that drug you gave me wore off. Climbing out that tiny window was something else, but I managed in time. Now will you please drop that spade? That’s right. Ellie, you take it and see if you can dig out Uncle Merlin, he’s beginning to set.”

  “How did you know he’s Merlin and not Jonas? And what about Ben? He’s an unwitting victim, not like that devious old man who brought much of this on himself.”

  “If you really love Ben”—Dorcas ignored my first question—“you’ll let him sleep this one off.” Standing legs apart she pointed the arrow at Aunt Sybil’s chest. “He’s going to have a killing headache when he wakes up.”

  “How you do remind me of your grandmother,” Aunt Sybil remarked nastily. She turned her head slightly towards me. “You do realize that she is a by-blow of that nefarious relationship between Abigail and the artist. I recognized the likeness at once, same long nose, scraggy build, and gingery hair. How did you like my little note on the refrigerator door? ‘Who is Dorcas? What is she?’ My own version of dear Willie Shakespeare’s lovely poem. That’s one way clever Dick here guessed. She remembered my passion for the Bard, and came hoppity-hop knocking on my parlour door, or rather she sneaked in with my spare key, and then you know what she noticed? That someone had been in the cottage. Those heads of Merlin weren’t on the mantelpiece as they had been on the day you came to the cottage and found my note. Of course not, I took them down a week ago and ground them up in my blender. What is old eagle-eye? She’s the granddaughter of a whoring slut and a baby-faced homewrecker.”

  The bow quivered in Dorcas’s hand, but she steadied it. “Do not sully the memory of my dear grandparents with your unsavoury comments. Two finer people never lived.”

  Aunt Sybil took her advantage. “Really?” she asked blandly. “And did your mother enjoy being a bastard?” Dorcas gasped, her arrow slipped long enough for Aunt Sybil to ram her into the wall and make good her escape through the door.

  “After her,” bellowed Dorcas, clambering back on her feet.

  “I’m ready,” shouted a cement-caked Uncle Merlin.

  We must have made a weird trio as we pounded into the churchyard, one red-headed woman pointing a makeshift bow and arrow, a crumbling granite man, and a young woman wielding a spade, all in pursuit of a stout elderly lady dodging among the tombstones. What would
have happened if deliverance had not arrived in humble guise—Fready and Jill vaulting tombstones in perfect Olympic form—I will never know.

  “Don’t hurt her,” cried Freddy to his teammate. “She probably can’t help it. This may have been coming on since she hit thirty.”

  Jill said later that she subdued Aunt Sybil by the ultimate nonviolent weapon—hypnosis. True, she barely touched her. As Jill leapt, arms lifted and outstretched, eves blazing, hair spiking, she looked like an avenging angel from the land of fire and brimstone, and when she screamed, “Look into my eyes,” Aunt Sybil fainted.

  EPILOGUE

  I experienced a wave of sadness when Aunt Sybil was taken, babbling incoherently, to a small private hospital where it seemed likely she would spend her final years. A remorseful Uncle Merlin would make payment for past sins by visiting her every Sunday and taking her flowers from the garden. He could do this in safety because Aunt Sybil was a little girl again living with her beloved Uncle Arthur. For her, Merlin Grantham no longer existed. In a sense she was right.

  As he sat up in bed in the early hours of the morning, sipping his favourite Ovaltine, he told me he had decided to continue on as Jonas Phipps. “He was a great friend,” he said, “and in bequeathing me his name he gave me a new beginning, a new life. God bless you, Jonas.” He lifted his mug and looked upwards. “I’ll try and do you proud.”

  “Well, it looks like you may have plenty of opportunity.” I bent forward and kissed his still pale cheek. “Dr. Melrose spoke to us after examining you and he says your constitution is remarkable. You should live to be a hundred.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at it, if you and Ben and Dorcas would agree to stay on here.” He looked at me sheepishly over the rim of his cup. “Sybil was right. I have been a blind wilful old fool, playing games with life and death. I should have known. She was peculiar even as a child. Dorcas tried to warn me last night. Seems she had begun to remember things my mother had told her about Sybil.”

  “The future is what counts. One of the first changes we are going to see around here will be officially naming this house Merlin’s Court. I think your mother would like that.” The old man smiled. “You brought her home, Ellie. Everywhere I look there are reminders of her, and now Dorcas can talk to me about her and fill in all those lost years. When she left, the only things I had of hers were the portrait and the journals. I hid them so my father would not destroy them along with everything else. He had already ripped out the soufflé recipe because he knew my mother regarded it as her highest achievement as a cook, but I rescued those pages from the fireplace, and a few months ago—well, you know the rest.”

  “Admit it,” I said, “you’ve had a lot of fun. Dorcas and I thought Aunt Sybil had planted the clues, but you did that yourself, didn’t you? Well, the fun and games are over. I’ll be here to watch over you and keep you on the primrose path, with occasional time off for good behaviour.”

  “Sounds like I’m in for a rough time,” he grumped, almost back to his old self, “but I’ve done my share of watching, too. That day you went into the churchyard I was right behind you. I was having some doubts about that will. I tried to look after you, but it’s true there is no fool like an old fool. Going down to Sybil’s cottage and tackling her about Dorcas’s disappearance nearly cost all of us our lives besides what being bumped over to the vault in a wheel barrow will have done to my lumbago.”

  I bent and kissed his cheek, which was beginning to show a little more colour. “For all your wicked ways, I do love you. Goodnight, Jonas.”

  Neither Freddy nor Jill was in the kitchen when I went down stairs. They had gone for an early morning jog, but I had already thanked them for our rescue. As they had explained it to me, they had both felt restless and decided to take a browse outside. They had met in the garden and Freddy had told Jill that he was worried about the whole situation, especially about Sybil. When they reached the churchyard, they heard the hubbub and took action. What surprised me was that lethargic Freddy had cared enough to get involved—another of those groundless assumptions based on the way people look. I was as guilty as all the rest and I should have known better. Freddy had told me that he had come down for the luncheon with Aunt Sybil and the others, that day just before my birthday, but before it was time to go to the Hounds and Hare he had walked through the marketplace, seen me happily chatting with Dorcas, and decided he didn’t want to spend an hour listening to people gripe about my manipulative powers. I remembered now I had Dumped into a tall person with a pony tail, and the vague uneasy feeling I had experienced. Somehow I had always hoped Freddy was not the one, and now it was time for his reward. Ben and I would pay off his father’s debts, and if Freddy should ever get married, we’d see he was all right. As I went through the kitchen door I wondered if Jill could get him to cut his hair.

  Dorcas was administering a potent brew of hot whisky and spices to my favourite casualty. Ben was looking very rakish in the bandage supplied by Dr. Melrose and assured me he was well on the road to recovery. Sitting chummily at the table it was hard to believe that the night’s terrifying events had ever happened. It was time for Dorcas to tell her story. When she had read the advertisement for housekeeper she could not resist returning to her grandmothers old home, but fearing that due to the old scandal she might not have been welcome, she had kept her identity a secret.

  “Wasn’t easy though. Hated deceiving you and Ben, but couldn’t switch mid-stream once I knew the treasure was connected with Grandma. You know my convictions about always playing the game fair and square. Telling you who I was would have seemed like cheating. Once you knew Gram hadn’t died here you’d soon have put two and two together. Can’t tell you the moral battle I fought, wanting to speak out but knowing you’d want to play by the rules. Felt horribly uncomfortable when the portrait was unwrapped. Thought you might recognize the likeness, said it reminded you of someone, didn’t you, Ellie? And me sitting not two feet away. The living image of Abigail, I am, so Gramps used to say. Then Ben told me I was to be treated like one of the family—felt such a fraud.”

  “But you saved us.” I reached across and held her hand. “Dorcas, don’t leave us. We need you, don’t we, Ben?”

  “We certainly do,” he said. “With Ellie and me floating on clouds we need someone with her feet on the ground to look after us.”

  “I suppose,” Dorcas replied, eyes blurring, “that the village school could do with a games mistress, and if the cottage is vacant, and if Uncle Merlin agrees …”

  “He wants you here. He can’t wait to talk with you about his mother. Dorcas, what did happen to Abigail?”

  “She and my grandfather, Miles, had a good life. They never were having an affair under her husband’s nose. He admired her, and one day when Arthur ill-treated her, Miles put his arm round her and got caught in the act. For her birthday he had given her the locket. Silly thing to have done, I suppose, but as Gramps told me, he looked upon her as the finest lady that ever lived. Gram didn’t want to hurt his feelings by returning it, but knew what Arthur would think if he found out, so she buried it in the herb garden.”

  “So the ‘M’ was for Miles, not Merlin,” I said. “Another clue we walked right past. Dorcas, your grandparents were happy, weren’t they?”

  “Gram said she never got over losing her son, but in every other way her life was good. Gramps, I suppose, deep down already loved her and she grew to care for him very deeply. Remembering her and Gramps walking arm in arm in their garden on a summer evening …” Dorcas pulled out one of her enormous handkerchiefs and blew loudly.

  “Uncle Merlin will want you to have the locket,” I said.

  “Would like that, but mustn’t get mushy. They had my mother and started a business, very prosperous, too. Mrs. Biddle’s Best Jams, everyone knows the slogan, ‘I’d Walk Miles for a Pot of Mrs. Biddle’s Jam.’ ”

  “Do we have some?” I asked eagerly. “Strawberry is my favourite on a crusty slice of bread with la
shings of butter.…”

  “Nothing doing,” frowned the man from Eligibility Escorts. “You have better things to do with your time than stuff your face—helping Dorcas refurnish the cottage, writing to my parents and your father, sewing your wedding dress.”

  “Don’t be silly, darling, I can’t possibly finish a dress by the end of the week, even if I could learn to thread a needle. Dorcas and I will go shopping, and what will you be doing, my hero?”

  “Checking into starting that restaurant I spoke with you about. I hear the Hounds and Hare is up for sale. Then I may tackle another book. What do you think about a gothic horror with an overweight heroine, a devilishly handsome hero, and …?”

  “You stick to your cooking,” I said, leaning forward and kissing him to soften the chauvinist sting. “I’ll write the story of Merlin’s Court.”

  For my parents Charlotte and Ashley Reddish

  who gave me a childhood filled with love and books.

  OTHER BANTAM BOOKS BY

  DOROTHY CANNELL

  God Save the Queen!

  The Widows Club

  Mum’s the Word

  Femmes Fatal

  How to Murder Your Mother-in-Law

  How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dorothy Cannell is the author of seven mysteries, including The Thin Woman, The Widows Club, which was nominated for an Agatha Award as Best Novel of the Year, Mum’s the Word, Femmes Fatal, How to Murder Your Mother-in-Law, God Save the Queen!, and How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams. She is also the author of Down the Garden Path. She was born in Nottingham, England, and currently resides in Peoria, Illinois.