The Thin Woman

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Doesn’t mean a thing,” pooh-poohed Dorcas. “Not everyone is a canine friend. Chew up slippers, make puddles on the floor. Fond of the little beggars myself, but mustn’t expect everyone and his great-aunt Maud to share the same tastes.”

  Brassy shook her head. “Even if the man ’ated dogs, every old ’ouse keeps a tabby cat about the place. I ain’t never met a mouse yet that knew diddle about birth control.”

  Remembering the calling cards left by mice in the pantry, I began to think the lack of feline protection was a little strange. Buttoning my coat, I informed Brassy that the house now possessed a resident cat. “I brought my kitty down from London,” I said, “and with all the hunting on the premises, he doesn’t have to set a paw outside for entertainment. He thinks he’s died and gone to heaven.”

  “Happen ’e will one of these days if you don’t watch out.” Brassy went off in search of more conversation in the form of new customers and Dorcas and I hurried out onto the pavement. The hour was nearly 5:00 and the street lamps were already lit, but it wasn’t raining. We would, if we hurried, reach the post office before it closed; however, I would have to forget about telephoning Ben.

  “Rubbishy superstition!” Dorcas swung her arms briskly as she marched down the street, the end of her tiger-striped scarf flapping out behind her. “Wouldn’t give that woman’s nonsense another thought if I were you.”

  “She didn’t frighten me.” Pushing open the door of the newsagent’s, which housed the post office in its rear, we stepped over the threshold to the jangle of a small bell. “I’m not afraid that something dark and slimy is going to rise up through the night, clutch Tobias to its scaly breast and fly off with him, tucked between its ivory claws. But that woman did make one observation.… I think, subconsciously, I already realized that the drawing room lacked something.”

  “Pardon my saying so, but no extrasensory perception needed there.” Dorcas closed the door behind us. “Room hasn’t been properly cleaned in twenty years.”

  “But there should be dog hairs adding to the squalour and a scroungy mutt or two stretched out on the hearthrug, hogging all the heat from the fire.”

  “Sorry. Can’t see where all this leads. But not to be ignored of course. Any information you collect will help build a psychological profile of Merlin Grantham, very important that you know what made the man tick.”

  Behind the post office grille a young man was sorting letters. He did not immediately look up. “What would really help”—I set my bag down on the counter and turned to face Dorcas—“would be talking to someone like that waitress’s granny. As a former housemaid she could tell us not only about Uncle Merlin, but about his parents. They must have played a part in forming, or warping, his character, but I know next to nothing about them.”

  “May I be of assistance?” The young man straightened his horn-rimmed glasses looking, I thought irreverently, like a new priest eager to hear his first confession.

  “A dozen twelve-pence stamps, please.”

  “Staying in the village on holiday, or just passing through?” The young man swung open a large green book and began unpeeling a strip of stamps.

  “Neither. We live here, or I should say, a few miles outside the village. A relative of mine recently died.…”

  The young man’s jaw dropped slightly. “Is either of you ladies a Miss Ellie Simons? Yes? Well, I call that a real stroke of luck your walking in like this. We close in five minutes. Did you come by car?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

  The young man disappeared like a magician behind a long reddish-brown plush curtain and returned carrying a large flat package, wrapped in brown paper and bound with string. “Found it here leaning against the counter this morning,” he explained. “No postage, only the names Mr. Bentley Haskell and Miss Ellie Simons. Bit of a cheek really, I thought, no explanations, no stamps. The whole business rather put me on the spot. I recognized the names, you see. In a village this size there’s always talk when new people move in, but technically”—he leaned earnestly forward—“rules and regulations being what they are, we are not supposed to encourage persons to cheat the Royal Mail. My supervisor gets back from his holiday tomorrow and I was going to ask him how we should handle the matter. Still, as you are here, I’ll hand the package over and have you sign this receipt. A good thing you came by car—that hill’s a regular puffer.”

  “Where,” asked Dorcas, as we crossed the square, carefully carrying the package between us, “did you get the piece of paper on which you wrote your shopping list?”

  “From the bureau in the drawing room. I tore it off a little pad. Why?”

  “Because I am now certain Bentley did not write ‘Post Office’ on the back of that list; logical thing would have been to write postage stamps, or airmail letter forms, etc. No need to mention post office at all; such items are not found at the butcher’s or the candlestick-maker’s. Sorry to say it, but dimwits both of us. Tripped over Clue Number One without seeing it. Have to do better than this in the future.”

  “Funny!” I opened the car door and gently eased the package between the front and rear seats. “Only this morning you told me to be on the lookout for suspicious pieces of paper.”

  “Wasn’t speaking literally,” disclaimed Dorcas, taking her seat.

  “The ploy was risky though. I might have written my list on a scrap of cardboard or a piece of paper towel.”

  “Treasure hunting is a game of chance, not an exact science. But I’d say the odds for success were good this time. Most natural thing in the world to look in that bureau for the right-sized piece of paper and tear off the top sheet.”

  I backed carefully out of our parking space. “Okay. Now we have to ask ourselves who is in cahoots with Uncle Merlin. That package did not shuffle into the post office on its own, and it seems sensible to assume that the note was written after his death. He would hardly have left it lying on his bureau collecting dust while he waited to die.”

  Dorcas nodded enthusiastically. “My guess is that on the day of the funeral, the go-between, who we will assume is a neutral person, possibly either the lawyer or the vicar, followed instructions and under cover of the general turmoil at the reading of the will, quietly replaced the old pad of paper with a new one.”

  “The doctor was also present for a while, but the person I think Uncle Merlin would have included in his little schemes is Aunt Sybil. Whether she agreed with him or not she would carry out every order and keep her mouth shut, which means there is no point in our trying to ferret anything out of her. She could have caught the bus down here this morning. There’s a bus stop not too far from the gates. She could wait until the post office was busy, lean the package up against the counter, and walk out unnoticed.”

  “And she, more than anyone, had the opportunity to leave the note,” agreed Dorcas.

  We had reached the station, and the next five minutes were taken up with locating Dorcas’s luggage and stowing it aboard. Back in the driver’s seat I followed the wavering beam of the headlights up the ridge of the hill, still thinking about Uncle Merlin. “Something about this situation,” I said to Dorcas, “strikes me as a little too pat. The family is called down for inspection, the stage is set, and the old man conveniently kicks the bucket. I know the doctor said he had a heart condition but …”

  Dorcas’s long thin nose quivered like a bloodhound on the breakfast trail. “Are you suggesting that Uncle Merlin took a leaf out of his mother’s book and did himself in?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past the diabolical old fossil. He wasn’t the type to sit around kicking his heels when he had cleverly arranged other people’s lives to his satisfaction. The kicker is I really can’t see now he could have accomplished it. The doctor did say pneumonia.” I reached the iron gates and drove on down the driveway.

  “An interesting theory.” Dorcas nodded. “And murder would be even better, but I expect the truth is simpler. The man
set his plans in motion and then closed his eyes in final sleep.”

  “Yes, even God would think twice about keeping Uncle Merlin in the waiting room beyond his appointed time.” I drew the car up under the archway between the house and stables. “Help me out with this package, will you? The groceries can wait. We must find Ben and show him the Number One Clue.”

  “Hope he isn’t one of those fanatics who refuse to cut string and insist on unravelling it knot by knot with their teeth,” said Dorcas.

  CHAPTER

  Nine

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” cried Ben, “let us start the bidding at one hundred and fifty thousand pounds for this remarkable painting, subject auburn-haired Edwardian lady holding lap-dog, artist unknown. Come on art lovers, all proceeds to the Bentley Haskell personal charity fund. Do I have a bid? Do I see a hand waving in the far corner …?”

  “That,” I snapped, “was an obscene gesture indicating that if you don’t climb down from that chair-cum-soapbox, I am going to tip you off.”

  The proceedings surrounding the opening of the package had rapidly degenerated to a mood of extreme giddiness, mainly because our expectations had been dashed. I think we had all expected a skull-and-crossbones map (laminated to a drawing board for easy viewing) signposted “To the Treasure.” The reality was the portrait described by Ben. The auburn-haired lady might have considered herself lucky if her likeness fetched five pounds at a side-alley second-hand shop. We knew one thing about the artist—he wasn’t descended from one of the Old Masters.

  “I hope I write better than he painted!” Ben put the portrait down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What’s happened to Dorcas?”

  “Your eloquence frightened her away,” I said, sitting on the sofa with Tobias curled up on my lap. “She was afraid she might make a bid which she couldn’t honour, so she went out to make tea.”

  “Is that it? Must have been my imagination then.” Ben was still looking at the portrait. “I thought she looked a little uncomfortable when we undid the package. Wondered if she felt in the way.”

  “Embarrassed I would think by how awful it is, and afraid we would ask what she thought.… Here she comes now.”

  “Return of the wanderer. Will someone get the door?” carolled Dorcas from the hall.

  “You shouldn’t have,” I protested, mouth watering when I saw what accompanied her. “Ben, look at those delicious ham and cheese sandwiches. Mm, and watercress, too! Dorcas, shame on you fetching in the groceries. That was Ben’s job. We don’t want his muscles to atrophy.”

  “Can’t say the same about your jaw!” Ben reached for two sandwiches at once while Dorcas poured tea.

  “Already I don’t know what we would do without you, Dorcas.” I ignored Ben’s rudeness and slid my hand unobtrusively towards the edge of the plate.

  “No, you don’t.” Ben reached out and slapped me away like a troublesome fly and then picked up a couple more sandwiches. “You get a tomato and a piece of cucumber. Half an hour ago you declared that food was of no consequence.”

  “Reduction is one thing, starvation is another,” I retorted furiously.

  “Here, here! Leave the girl alone, Bentley. Machinery has to be oiled if it is to work.” Dorcas passed me a cup of tea. “Don’t believe in skipping meals, three squares a day, that’s my way. Never gain or lose an ounce. But can’t all be alike, Ellie is a big girl.…”

  “You said it, I didn’t.” The glutton, who was downing his ninth sandwich, grinned.

  “Harassment never achieved a thing other than rebellion!” Dorcas turned staunchly towards him. “You write your book and let Ellie do what she has to do. She knows the score. Never did agree with all this pressure to turn women into rows of garden rakes. Look at me! Thin as bone. Does that make me a sex symbol? Huh! No man has ever wanted my figure.”

  For an earthquaking moment I thought from the glint in Ben’s eye that he was about to make her an offer.

  I finished my tea and refilled my cup. “I wonder what killed off our portrait lady?”

  “Rabies, I would think.” Ben looked content and replete lounging in his chair. “From the expression on that pug face he looks ready to chomp down at any minute.”

  “Having your likeness taken can’t be much fun for a dog,” I said. And, Tobias to show what he thought of canine models, yawned and leapt off my lap.

  Ben picked up the portrait which he had leaned up against the coal scuttle. “Did women in those days always wear gloves?”

  “Even in the bath—pretty nearly. One more fight against the lure of the flesh! I wonder if the Victorians and Edwardians ever thought about anything other than sex. But I have always liked the frothy hats and parasols.”

  “Actually”—Ben held the painting away from him—“I rather like her. The portrait is lousy, but she has a quality that appeals. She reminds me of someone.”

  “Oh really!” Dorcas spilled a little tea from the pot and was busy mopping it up, her face a little flushed. Clumsiness in a games mistress must be considered a major vice.

  “Here, Ben, let me look.” Reaching out impatiently I took the painting from him. “She certainly isn’t a beauty, not even pretty—face is too long and flat and her nose too pointed. The hairdo doesn’t help either. I always call that style the bird’s nest.”

  “You’re very critical.” Ben sounded irritated.

  “Not at all,” I soothed. “I’m looking for the source of her charm because I agree with you there is something about her, something in the eyes. She’s the kind they don’t make any more.” Finding the right words wasn’t easy; the woman in the portrait was watching me, listening patiently. “An honest-to-goodness old-fashioned English lady,” I floundered, “the type who made soup for everyone in the village and never turned a beggar away; but not a prig. There is humour and vulnerability as well as strength in that face. She wouldn’t have been scared of gipsies, or afraid to blacken her hands at the stove, and she would have kicked off her shoes to share a cup of tea with her maid.…”

  Ben looked impressed but said dryly, “Don’t you think you are jumping to conclusions reading a whole character dossier from a very mediocre painting? We all agree that the artist should have joined his father’s accounting firm or become a …”

  “Chauvinist!” I said without rancour. “Why assume the artist was a man? If we are looking for an amateur, a female is a much likelier candidate. Girls of that era were all raised to work samplers, crochet, net purses and paint in watercolours and oils. Application, not talent, was considered the necessary requirement. And where would a dutiful daughter find a model? In the lady of the house, of course.”

  “I still think the style is masculine,” objected Ben. Dorcas winced and shook her head slightly but apparently she had decided to stay out of the ring. Was Ben right, did she feel an intruder in the midst of this discussion? I got up and opened the door to let in Tobias, who was sharpening his claws on the woodwork. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed out the news that it was 9:30. Critiquing was turning into a lengthy business.

  Ben grimaced but returned to his artistic commentary. “There are several other aspects concerning this portrait that I consider worthy of note. Ladies, are you ready?”

  “I’m all ears,” I said, returning to my seat. “Tobias, don’t park on Uncle Ben’s foot. He’s a bit off you at present.”

  Ben ignored me. “The lady in the portrait lived in this house. You ask, naturally enough, how I cleverly divined this fact, which …”

  Dorcas promptly raised her hand. I was glad she had decided to participate in “Questions and Answers.” “Fireplace shown in background, very much out of proportion, but it is the one in this room. No mistaking carved cherubs worked into the wooden moulding. Quite unique, I would say.”

  “Very good,” applauded Ben.

  “The man thinks you are almost as clever as he is,” I told Dorcas kindly.

  “May we have a little hush!” Ben took the painting from me and paced up
and down facing us, rotating it slowly so we could see all angles. “What I find interesting about the portrait is not its execution—we have all decided that is poor—but the fact that it is not titled or signed. Our artist may have wished to remain anonymous. I sympathize, but I do not think that is the explanation. Look again.”

  “It’s not finished,” I said slowly. “We have been looking at the woman, not at the background, and I suppose I put ‘the something missing’ down to the artist’s inability to express what he saw, but when I get up close I can see that only the woman is completed and she doesn’t have any feet.”

  “Not wishing to cast a blight on your observation”—Dorcas leaned forward—“but must ask, does it matter whether picture is finished or not? If a schoolgirl did indeed paint the piece, lack of perseverance is typical. Sun shines, out comes the tennis outfit and away go the paint pots and brushes.”

  “Agreed.” Ben accepted the comment in good part. “But we have to assume the portrait is significant in some way, which means searching for straws. As clues go I’m not ecstatic about this one.”

  “Have you prodded the canvas to see if some message is tucked inside it? That’s the way books do it. In The Counterfeit Mona Lisa the portrait has a false back, which fell off in the hero’s hands,” I suggested sleepily. I caught myself yawning. I still had to show Dorcas her room, which meant finding one with the smallest accumulation of dust and putting fresh sheets on the bed. Dorcas was collecting up the cups and saucers while Ben held up the portrait to the light for one last look.