“Not at all. Not at all. ‘We shall all pass through this world but once.’ Each do our fair share and the planet won’t fall apart, although can’t say the same about your car—no offence, but the little she-devil looks like she’s held together with paper clips and sticking plaster. Aha!” She lifted up the bonnet and peered inside. “Your sparkplugs need a clean, and if I’m not mistaken that radiator could erupt like a burst appendix at any minute, but at least your confrontation with the cliff hasn’t done more than add a scratch or two—for character.”
A little Austin moving up the hill paused and a face ballooned uncertainly through the window. Completely in command, Argyle Socks flagged the driver on. “Proceed with caution; sufficient room. We are well onto the bank. Take her up in second—steep grade ahead.”
Petrified by the barrage of orders, the Austin shot backwards, stalled, coughed, and plowed on with a horrendous crunch, whipping around the corner without a moment’s pause.
“That, I am afraid, is the end of your bicycle,” I said regretfully.
“Male drivers!” Socks shook her fist at the cloud of exhaust and picked up the flattened metal object as tenderly as a mother holding a battered child. “That’s life.” She patted the dismembered object awkwardly on what had once been a mudguard, laid it gently down on the verge, and blew noisily into a large plaid handkerchief. “A good friend,” she explained, eyes averted.
“Is there anything I can do? I feel so responsible, but for your kindness your bike would be ali—here today, I mean now.”
“Not to worry, brief sentimental lapse. Excuse me just a minute. That’s better, back in control. Now if I could trouble you for a lift?”
“Of course.” I had an idea. “We were travelling in opposite directions, but if you are not in a tearing hurry, come down to the village with me. Perhaps we can find a handy repairman who, with a few new parts, can put your bicycle back together. They,” I said vaguely, “can do marvellous things nowadays.”
“Kind thought, but must face facts. Only part salvageable is the bell, which I will keep as a small memento. Make a clean break has always been my motto. Once I reach a phone box, I will arrange to have someone come and pick up the remains.” Argyle Socks again fished for the oversized handkerchief. A warmer personality than mine would have made some physical gesture of condolence—an arm around the shoulder, a sympathetic handshake. I stood fiddling with the buttons on my jacket.
“Excuse me!” Socks blew noisily. “Not usually given to embarrassing displays of sentiment. If you are ready we can now proceed. I would offer to drive for you, but there’s truth to the old saying—leap back on the horse or you will never ride again. That’s the spirit!”
The car heaved irritably as I did my U-turn, but it did not balk as we moved onto the hill. I let out the clutch, aware that Argyle Socks was totalling up points for and against. She would probably hand me a report card when we reached our destination.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Not far. Large house at the top of the hill, one quarter-mile past the churchyard and rectory, turn left at iron gates, gravel driveway …”
My foot hit the brake.
“Hoy there! Easy does it. Know the place?”
“I should do. I live there.”
“Miss Ellie Simons? Providence again lends a hand. I am an applicant, arriving in answer to your advertisement in last night’s issue of the local rag, Daily Spokesman.”
“My advertisement?”
“For housekeeper. Must tell you right off the bat, have absolutely no experience, not even sure what the job entails but if you want hard work, loyalty, stamina, and honesty that’s me, Dorcas Critchley, at your service.”
Ben was the master-mind behind the employment ad caper. When I introduced Dorcas to him on our arrival back at the house, he confessed to having been on the telephone to the newspaper when I came downstairs the morning we returned to London. He was so delighted with the success of his methods that he was quite blasé when I explained about the tyre and the few scratches on the side of his car. Muttering his amazement at the swift applicant response, he went off to fetch coffee and I followed him into the hall to hang up the coats.
“I left the salary open.” He lowered his voice. “See what she wants and negotiate from there. Looks like a jolly sort. But don’t be taken in. So do most bank robbers; ask for references.”
“Don’t be so suspicious. How many bank robbers would clamber off their bicycles to assist a benighted traveller? By the way, I have a feeling that, given half a chance, she will take that car of yours apart, bolt by bolt, and put it back together so it thinks it’s a baby again. Be good and I may lend Miss Critchley to you when the inside jobs are done.”
“The woman is not a fountain pen.”
“You’d better be careful,” I said. “You’re catching something—humanity.”
Other than Jill, I had never had a woman friend. Meeting Dorcas was another beginning. The decision to hire her had nothing to do with references. Not only had she assisted me in an hour of need, but under that gruff exterior she was like me, vulnerable. Her peculiarities of speech and manner were rather endearing. We would be a team.
Having produced a large envelope containing a three-page reference, Dorcas explained that she was by profession a games mistress and had been teaching at the Miriam Academy, an exclusive girls’ boarding school about fifteen miles down the coast. The old head had recently retired and been replaced by a grim young woman who wanted to cut the sports programme in favour of extra Greek.
“Madness! Girls too cloistered as it is. Unhealthy! But nothing to be done. Had a set-to with her last week and decided to leave, not quite without funds so could manage for a time. Shook the woman’s hand, parted amicably, but working together was out. Would always have been at loggerheads.”
“She wrote you a glowing reference.”
“Can’t place too much store by that, I’m afraid. Woman only knew me for four weeks, had the records though. Also enclosed in that envelope, names and addresses of banker and clergymen. They won’t object to enquiry.”
“I’m sure they won’t.” I smiled. “Men ridicule women’s intuition but the job is yours—if, of course, you still wish to stay, having seen something of the state of the house?”
Dorcas’s long pale face so reminiscent of a kindly horse creased into a smile. “Never one to resist a challenge. One problem—can’t promise to make this permanent. Start to miss the hockey field no doubt, but I won’t leave you in the lurch. If I remained until September would that be satisfactory?”
“Perfect. None of us may be here after that.” And I told her about Uncle Merlin’s will.
At the end of my recital Dorcas slapped her hand on her trousered knee and leaned forward eagerly in her chair. “Marvellous. Always did adore a treasure hunt. Your Mr. Haskell is right. To make chase sporting there should be clues. Haven’t seen any folded bits of white paper propped up on the mantelpiece or hallstand, have you?”
“No, but I haven’t had much time to look. We were in Uncle Merlin’s bedroom yesterday but didn’t give it a thorough combing. Perhaps tomorrow we could search there.”
“Super! Great hoarders, men. So I’ve heard. Mother always said that Grandfather …”
“Yes?”
“Not important. Don’t want to prose on about people you’ve never met, old-maidish behaviour—boring.”
“What about me? I just bored you with a character sketch of all my relations.”
“Different matter, relevant. Need to know who’s who in case I catch any of them skulking around the house. Forgive my saying so, but don’t like the sound of one of them, except possibly the boy Freddy—should have gone into the army. Mark my words, the rest will be up to tricks. But not to worry; between us we can foil any little schemes to do you out of your just inheritance.”
“Have you ladies reached a decision?” Ben kicked the drawing room door open with his foot and came in carrying a tray of ja
ngling crockery. “Good!” He nodded at our pleased faces. “Sorry there aren’t any biscuits.” He poured tea and handed cups round. “Our food situation, I regret to report, has now reached the famine stage. Super for you, Ellie, on your starvation programme, but I can now feel my spine when I touch my stomach.”
“Complain, complain! Was it my fault this morning’s shopping expedition had to be aborted?”
Ben shrugged suggestively. “All I know is that your driving wouldn’t win you any gold cups. You screeched down the driveway at top speed, tearing up the gravel.…”
“Why is it”—I slammed down my cup, spilling half the contents—“that men have accidents and women make mistakes?”
Raking his fingers through his thick curly hair, Ben sucked in a hissing breath. “All I meant to suggest was that you probably picked up a nail or a chunk of glass.…”
“What I suggest”—Dorcas raised a restraining hand—“is that Ellie and I go down to the village now and do the shopping. No point in harsh words, you two. A little breathing space and Bob’s your uncle, you’ll be the best of friends again.”
“Never!” I stood up, jamming the teacups back on the tray. “Dorcas, you have been very straightforward with me and as you will be closely involved with our lives here, I think it only fair to inform you that Ben and I are engaged in name only. Let’s fetch our coats and I’ll tell you the whole lurid story in the car.”
“Good show! Wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Life in this house is going to be more exciting than a tied game at the end of the first half.”
“Don’t hurry home, ladies.” Ben picked up the tray and bowed us out of the room. “Phipps and I will do the washing up. You have fun.”
“That’s the ticket!” Dorcas gave him a friendly smack on the back, straightened her cardigan and followed me into the hall. “You can’t complain,” she said. “Not a bad lad; don’t come down too hard on him. He’ll iron out in time.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Picking up my bag, I checked to make sure I still had the shopping list. “If he improves drastically it will be like parting with a dog when he finally gets housebroken.”
“Hard cheese! But never say die!” Dorcas administered one of her bracing slaps, adding, “Don’t want to put you about, but perhaps we could pick up my suitcase and other gear. Left it at the station which isn’t too far outside the …” She was still talking when we went out into the garden.
The village of Upper-Biddineton-Marsh consisted of a bramble of small lanes dotted with picture-postcard thatched cottages, surrounded by walled gardens thick with fruit trees and rose bushes. Market Street was entered through a crumbling Roman archway and, apart from the modern traffic, might have looked much the same two centuries gone. A clock tower dominated the small square in the street’s centre. Anxious to explore, we picked a parking place on the outskirts of the square, gathered up our shopping baskets, and stepped out onto the pavement.
“How about lunch?” I looked hungrily across the road to the Muffin Man bakery, nose twitching as a tempting aroma of hot meat pies wafted by on the wind.
“Not for me, thank you, never eat after I’ve been travelling, but don’t let me stop you if you wish to indulge. Happy to join you for a cup of coffee.”
“Better not. If the waitress came by juggling a couple of pies I might forget myself and bite off both her hands.”
“Bad as that, is it? Never had a weight problem myself, but sympathize. Must be rough rowing.”
“You’re a pal,” I said. “If you only knew how many people have told me that all I need is a little willpower! As though that were an item I could purchase at the grocery shop for fifty p. Speaking about my weight, I’m supposed to get a certificate from a doctor documenting my poundage at this time. Perhaps I could go along to the surgery now and take care of that little matter. I would hate to lose out on the will by default.”
A woman with a toddler clinging to her skirts directed us to Dr. Melrose’s surgery. He received me warmly and readily signed the form recording my weight. To save me a trip to Mr. Bragg’s office he offered to post it for me. Our next port of call was the grocer’s.
It seemed wrong somehow, when eating was to become a voyeur sport for me, that I should stagger to the car a half-hour later completely doubled under the weight of our purchases. Dorcas carried her share, she just had better posture. We took time out to review the rest of the shopping list. “Aspirin, sticking plaster, malt, and a few other precautionary items from the chemist.” I turned over the paper to make sure I had not overlooked anything scribbled on the back, and read the words Post Office.
“A bit cryptic. Ben probably jotted that down this morning when I told him to read over the list and add whatever he needed. Trust him to expect me to have psychic powers. Does he want stamps, airmail envelopes, or what?”
“Meant to write the item down no doubt and got sidetracked,” said Dorcas. “Often happens, the phone rings or someone comes to the door.… I’d play safe and go for a book of stamps, always useful.”
“We would go to the chemist’s first, I thought, and then I could phone Ben to find out what he wanted at the post office.”
Our visit to the chemist’s was short and not particularly sweet. The man in the white coat brusquely refused me any panacea that would have made my dieting less traumatic.
“Revolting man!” Clutching my little brown bag of aspirin and sticking plaster, I stalked out the door talking fiercely to Dorcas’s back. “I despise spotty little men with skimpy ginger moustaches. That one looks like a goalkeeper on a dart team.”
“Now, now! Wasn’t the man’s fault. Only doing his job. Unfortunate manner, but no point in wallowing. Sky looks a bit like rain. A good time for that liquid refreshment over at the Hounds and Hare, around the corner? Not usually one to frequent public houses, but I wouldn’t say no to a ginger beer shandy.”
“Sounds great to me.” To the Hounds and Hare we duly went, all thoughts of telephoning Ben temporarily forgotten. A rather brassy-looking woman poured our drinks and then came round the bar to hover at our table. Arms akimbo over her tight black taffeta dress, she was obviously starved for a nosey natter. Newcomers must be a rare commodity in the village if two dowdy women excited such interest. Brassy would have been an asset to any police department. She quickly elicited our vital statistics: who we were, where we came from, and our connection with the village.
“Moved into that blooming big ’ouse, ’ave you? Ooh, in’t you brave! I’d rather die than live up there. Fair give me the creeps, it would.”
“Fortunately, you don’t have to sacrifice yourself.” Dorcas sounded very much the games mistress repressing a chatterbox pupil, until she ruined the effect of her quelling gaze by asking avidly, “Have you heard sinister rumours about the house? Anything mysterious—apparitions? Smugglers? Licentious carryings on in the olden days?”
“Don’t know about them things.” Brassy reached casually over to another table and handed Dorcas a coaster. “But me granny says she wouldn’t set foot in that chamber of ’orrors if she was paid a thousand quid. The ’ouse of misery, she calls it. Worked there donkey’s years ago as a maid she did. The old bag’s eighty-three and sharp as a tack. Remembers back to the days when the old gent were a young lad. Eh, but that one turned out queer, didn’t ’e, living like a bloody ’ermit and all? I ’eard tell ’is fingernails was two foot long and his. ’air all matted to ’is scalp like a scab.” Brassy’s pale yellow eyes behind the gummy mascaraed lashes bulged slightly with excitement. “Go on, you can tell me!” She smiled ingratiatingly. “Close-mouthed Sally they call me. I never spread nothink around. What was the old brute really like?”
“Enough of that, my girl!” Dorcas’s long thin nose fairly quivered with indignation. “You are speaking of a person recently deceased.” A gentle nudge of my foot told the defence league to cool it. I had no desire to dry up this source of information. Brassy’s disclosures might be full of inaccuracies,
but they could still provide some insights into life at Merlin’s Court.
“Can’t fault a person for being interested.” Brassy gave her apron a pert twitch.
“Of course not,” I said soothingly. “Especially when Merlin Grantham led such a secluded life. Isn’t it true that no one from the village had seen him in years? Well, there you are! He became the local monster, sprouting horns and a tail. Even the family doesn’t know why he shut himself off from the world, with my great-aunt Sybil standing guard at the gates.”
“She’s another funny old ’en, an’ all.” Brassy tilted the coffee pot and added a trickle to each cup. “Granny says Sybil Grantham was born with false teeth and an ’airnet on. She used to come to the ’ouse for long ’olidays when she was small. Strange, Mr. Merlin didn’t leave the place to ’er, but they always was an odd package was the Granthams. Makes me laugh, does me granny; she says Mr. Merlin’s father had a face fit to curdle a pint o’ fresh cream and put a hen off laying. Made ’is wife’s life a living ’ell. Passed on she did when the boy were young.”
“I had forgotten that,” I said.
Brassy pulled up a chair and joined us. Fishing into the pocket of her frilly white apron she unearthed a battered packet of American cigarettes and lit up. “Sad, i’nt it”—she blew smoke into our faces—“when a kid loses ’is mother. From what gets said in these parts I ’spect the late Mrs. Grantham done ’erself in. Well, in them days, with a bugger for a ’usband, what else was a woman to do?”
“What indeed?” Dorcas and I looked at each other. Brassy watched avidly while I searched in my purse for a tip. Feeling rather like an undercover agent sliding a little something into the hand of a paid informant, I handed her all my loose change. “Your granny sounds like a woman with a long memory.” If I hoped this hint would encourage her to suggest a meeting with the old lady, I was to be disappointed. Brassy merely shrugged and tucked the coins in her pocket.
“Typical old age pensioner, can’t remember where she last stuck the chamber pot but can tell you who was Lord Mayor of London in 1926. If Gran says that ’ouse is spooked, it is.” She paused in gathering up the cups. “Haven’t you never thought it weird that in a house that big there ain’t no cats nor dogs? I saw a flick at the town ’all once, all about extra-sensory prescription it was; and animals have it worse than people. They won’t go nowhere that the vibes ain’t right. Think about it! Mr. Merlin never as much as kept a Chihuahua about the place.”
The Thin Woman Page 10
