The Thin Woman

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Have I?” Ben spun the wheel rather too sharply as we made a turn and the car gave an angry bounce. “What I have thought is that comparing yourself with someone like Vanessa is totally ridiculous. I told you what I thought of her at our first meeting.”

  “Yes, that making a pass at her was irresistible.”

  We had just passed the vicarage. Reaching over, Ben snapped off the radio. “Home sweet home,” he said. “Do you plan to conclude this halcyon day by sulking in your room?” With an angry flourish he swung between the iron gates, failing to negotiate the towering mound of dry cement that had not been there when we left.

  “What the hell is that?” he bawled through the swirl of fine grey dust that blew up against the windscreen.

  “If you ever paid attention to the mundane details of our every-day life you would remember that I arranged to have the gate supports fixed and at the same time resurface Aunt Sybil’s foot path. What galls me is that this was supposed to have been delivered and the work done last week. And it is not as though Messrs. Grimsby and Strumpet, Stone Masons, have been caught up in mass-producing tombstones. They told me summer is usually their slow season for cemetery work.”

  Ben had backed up, manoeuvred around the pyramid, and stopped at the edge of the driveway. “While I’m cleaning off the windscreen,” he said, quite mildly, showing how little our tiff had meant to him, “why don’t you check Aunt Sybil’s cottage? One reason she did not show today might be that she has decided to return home, making a luncheon meeting with us superfluous.”

  “Smart thinking,” I said coldly, and climbed out of the car. The cottage stood unlit and forlorn, but as I peered through the curtains, I had the odd feeling that Ben might be right in that Aunt Sybil had returned. Had something stirred, a shadow perhaps, to give me that sense of someone within? Whatever it was, no one answered my repeated knocks, and I told myself in no uncertain terms that I was becoming a basket case.

  Ben parked the car under the archway and I went into the hall, where I met Dorcas coming downstairs wrapped from neck to foot in a plaid mustard-and-green dressing gown which would have turned anyone bilious. She looked like death warmed up. Groggily she informed me that she had been felled by a splitting headache and had been forced to take to her bed for the whole afternoon. She was still a bit woolly with sleep but feeling more the thing. At first the attack had been so severe she had felt disoriented and could barely remember climbing the stairs.

  “Funny,” said Dorcas, rubbing a hand across her face, “had been feeling fine, getting on with the garden. Only stopped to take a five-minute time-out with a cupper from the thermos, then went to get up and felt like my head was full of glass splinters and my legs had left home. Must have been the storm coming on. Only time I get headaches is when the weather is about to change. By the way, Ellie, some woman rang up for you just after you left, told her you were out, but rang off before I got her name.”

  “Sounds like Jill,” I said. “Always in a mad rush. I hope she calls back.” When I told Dorcas about Aunt Sybil not keeping our lunch date, she said she was not sure if she would have heard even if the phone had rung after she was taken bad. Too far under. But not to worry, she was back on her feet and on her way to the kitchen to serve Tobias his supper—if she could find him. Shortly after Ben and I left she had seen him exiting from an open window; with the weather about to turn nasty she was anxious to see if he had returned.

  “Sorry about all this.” Dorcas rubbed a finger across her brow as if trying to erase the memory of pain. “That headache hit me for six, nothing to be done but seal the room in darkness, crawl into bed, and try to sleep it off.” She winced and rubbed her forehead again. “Thought I heard Tobias yowling as I got up. Hope he hasn’t been in a fight.”

  “Dorcas, you are the limit.” Opening up the bottle of brandy that stood on the glass cabinet, I poured a generous measure and insisted the invalid knock it back. “Here you are worrying about that gadabout cat, when you should be flat on your back in bed. Relax. To set your mind at ease, I will hunt him down.”

  “Make me feel a lot better.” Dorcas pursed her lips, scrunched up her face, and took a tentative sip. “Do more for me than this brandy—can’t abide spirits—knowing Tobias is in the house.”

  Ordering Dorcas to stay put, I went into the kitchen, filled Tobias’s bowl, rattled it suggestively a few times and when this ploy failed, went through the house, opening doors and calling for the old rascal. Ben was in the dining room setting the table.

  “Dorcas still feeling lousy?” he asked.

  “Migraine,” I replied succinctly. “And she’s working herself into a fizzle because Tobias may be prowling around outside, and it’s beginning to thunder.”

  “Then there’s nothing to get worked up about.” Ben laid down another fork. “Tobias won’t linger outside once his whiskers get wet. He’ll turn tail and gallop home.”

  But Tobias did not come in. As another vibrating roll of thunder tore the skies apart, I slipped on one of the raincoats hanging in the alcove by the garden door, picked up a torch, and ducked out into the courtyard. Its frail beam was useless. The gale bore down upon me, whirling me this way and that. Not looking where I was going, I almost tripped over the edge of the courtyard into the moat. I was saved from a damp spill by a brief flare of light, a sizzle of lightning making an angry red graph against the black.

  “Tobias!” I called, but my voice didn’t travel. It hung in the air unable to penetrate the wind.

  “Are you totally insane!” I couldn’t see Ben, but his hand caught me roughly by the arm and yanked me backwards. “That lightning came down damn close to the house. Forget your bloody cat, he’s got eight more lives than you have.”

  “I can’t leave him out here,” I sniffled. “He’ll be scared out of his wits.”

  “If he had any, he wouldn’t be out here.”

  “Bug off, I have to find him.”

  I tried to pull away, but Tarzan had me fast. “Dear Lord,” prayed Ben, “what sins have I committed that you cast this affliction upon me?” With these pious words he threw me over his shoulder like Santa’s sack of goodies and staggered back to the house, where he tossed me unceremoniously on the drawing room couch and ordered poor Dorcas to watch me. “Get out of that coat, you stupid girl. I’ll go and fix you and the invalid a hot drink.”

  Dorcas finally was persuaded to go to bed, on the understanding that I would awaken her, whatever the hour, if and when Tobias reappeared. For the first time in several months Ben and I sat through an evening together. Saying he did not trust me to leave the drawing room, he brought our dinner in on trays along with a pot of strong black coffee. “If you are going to wait up half the night you need a stimulant.” He handed me the cup and poured in a swig of brandy. To my amazement, he solicitously attempted to cheer me up. “That cat’s an ingrate.”

  “He’s never stayed out through a storm before.” Unable to finish my cup of coffee, I put it down and went to pull back the curtains, staring into the sullen darkness.

  “You won’t see anything out there.” Ben sounded thoroughly exasperated. “Okay, all right! No sacrifice is too much for Lancelot here! I will don my Wellingtons and macintosh and sally forth into the raging elements. Don’t thank me!” He raised an imperious hand. “I enjoy a leisurely walk after dinner. Getting drenched will be an added bonus—I won’t need a bath tonight.” He sounded like Aunt Sybil.

  Hopes raised, I paced, waiting for Ben’s return. The gilt hands of the Buhl clock on the Queen Anne desk scarcely moved. It was stupid to feel this panicky about a cat, especially one used to fending for himself in the heart of London. Probably at this very minute he was holed up somewhere warm and dry. The stables—Jonas! What a fool I was not to have thought of him before. Tobias often paid the gardener a visit in his rooms. Would Ben think to try there? Possibly, and yet … I cast a vengeful glare at the clock; the suspense was suffocating me.

  This time I did not take a raincoat. Head d
own, I ran the short distance across the courtyard. Even so, I was dragged back by the wind, my movements laboured as though I were a swimmer in turgid waters. Lifting the latch on the stable door was a battle. “Tobias,” I called, just in case he was hiding there. Which was silly; if he had made it this far he would have gone up to Jonas. Remembering the light switch at the bottom of the wooden steps I groped my way until my fingers caught on the nub of the switch. The stables sputtered into wavering yellow light.

  “Hell and damnation! Who’s blundering about down there in the middle of the night, can’t a man get a mite o’ sleep?” Jonas came strumming down the steps, moustache bristling, grey hair rumpled aggressively. When he saw me he paused, but didn’t look any too pleased. “If you’ve come running round to see if I’m still alive and kicking you can about turn and go home. A bolt or two o’ lightning don’t bother me none. Like it, I do. Always have, and I don’t need to be mollycoddled by a young thing who sees herself as Florence Nightingale.…”

  “Why, you conceited old prune.” I am ashamed to say I lost my temper completely and insulted a defenceless old man. “I’m not here to see you, but to ask if you have seen my cat, who let me tell you is worth a dozen men like you or Ben or …”

  Jonas’s eyebrows leapt up into his forehead. “Tobias? Missing, is he? In this weather?” As I nodded miserably, Jonas went spryly back up the stairs shouting abruptly over his shoulder that he would fetch his boots and jacket and be right down. He had reached the top step when the stable door blew in. At first I thought it was the wind, but then I saw Ben, and I knew from his eyes that there was no need to continue the search party. I knew even before I looked down and saw the sodden bundle he carried.

  “You found him,” I said almost matter-of-factly.

  “In the moat.” Ben’s voice was wretched, and I was calm enough to feel sorry for him. I couldn’t think about Tobias, my furry pal, the warm body snuffling onto my lap on cold winter nights. The sobs started and wouldn’t stop. Jonas was beside me, patting my shoulder.

  “Hold tight, girl. I know this is rough, but …”

  “Ellie, I’m sorry,” stammered Ben, not moving from the open doorway. “And the worst of it is this wasn’t an accident. Someone deliberately set out to get Tobias out of the way. He was tied inside a sack. With all the debris floating in that moat, I didn’t see him at once. If I hadn’t dragged you back into the house earlier … if I’d helped you search …”

  “Enough of that,” growled Jonas. “If we stand here up’n till Doomsday chastising ourselves, we can’t bring the little fellow back. Ye’re sure he’s dead then, Mr. Bentley?”

  “Damn it, Phipps,” muttered Ben, “I’m not a coroner, but if something doesn’t move, is stone cold and …”

  I started to shudder again and Jonas told Ben to get me back to the house. He would take care of Tobias.

  The telephone was ringing when we entered the kitchen. Ben refused to answer it. “I’m not leaving you, even to go as far as the hall,” he said. Having put the kettle on to boil, he sat me down at the table, and after a while the phone stopped buzzing. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered. Tobias my chum was dead Ben was just being kind. People treat total strangers like blood relatives in times of tragedy. Ben hadn’t even liked Tobias. But he hadn’t hated him. Someone else had, though. Here was a question that did matter: Who?

  Ben ladled sugar into a cup of strong tea and stirred it around. “Ellie, I want to do something, but I don’t know what. I wish I could make you understand how sorry I am.” Leaving the cup he came up behind me and placed his hands gently on my shoulders. “If I could get hold of the person who hurt you this way—you loved Tobias so much.” Ben stopped speaking, perhaps sensing I was not really listening. The pressure of his hands tightened and he pulled me back against him. He was trying to comfort me the way he had after the obscene phone call, but this time my body did not respond. I didn’t want to be comforted and pulled away. With a wry half-laugh in his voice he continued, “The fuss you made of him, sometimes I’ve felt quite jealous of Tobias.”

  “Don’t make jokes now,” I said, reaching for the cup of tea.

  “I’m sorry, Ellie, that sounded flippant and it wasn’t meant—I’m not helping, am I? What I want to do is stop you from thinking.”

  “But I must. Don’t you see that we are dealing with the same evil person who destroyed your book and sent the chocolates? This is infinitely more sadistic but it’s the same type of sickness. What could be gained by murdering my cat?”

  “Fear,” said Ben.

  The kitchen door opened from the hallway, and Dorcas came in, her hair spiking up all over her head and her face drawn. “Thought I might find you down here, Ellie, tapped on your door and no response.”

  “Dorcas, you should have stayed in bed.” I looked down at my hands, hoping she’d go back upstairs so I wouldn’t have to tell her tonight. I also wished Ben would let go of my shoulders. I wanted to be alone, removed from any contact with this horrid wicked world.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Dorcas stated baldly. “Just received an unpleasant phone call—rather frightening. Never have considered myself the nervy sort, but felt as though a hedgehog were crawling down my spine. Kept reciting nursery rhymes this voice did, sort of snuffled. Remember thinking adenoids needed removing, kept chanting Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet. Was on the brink of asking to speak to the brat’s mother and telling her what I thought of children babbling into telephones, when it giggled and whispered in a husky, unmistakably adult voice, ‘Ding dong bell, Pussie isn’t well.’ That’s when I got the prickles. Heard people speak about evil—always said I’d never seen it Tonight I heard it.”

  “Ben, tell Dorcas,” I said, rising and pulling out a chair for her. I gripped it hard to steady my hands. Before he could comply, a thunderous knocking jarred the back door, and he went to open it.

  Jonas stood in the glare of light thrown from the small outside lantern. He reminded me of an old walrus, grey moustache dripping rain and matted tweed coat. The only humanizing effect was the striped pyjama legs stuffed into the inevitable muddy boots. “Can’t stand here all night.” Moustache twitching fiercely, he scowled into the kitchen. “What is this, a wake—sitting about idly sipping tea? Where is the warm milk and rum?”

  “Warm milk?” Ben said as he closed the door. “Have you changed your drinking habits? I thought you were addicted to Ovaltine.”

  “So I am,” came the surly reply. “But this fellow likes his milk.” Folding back his coat collar, the old man looked down, his face a concertina of wrinkles. Jonas was smiling into Tobias’s glazed but watchful amber eyes.

  None of us saw our beds before dawn. Jonas was not modest. Assuming the dignified mien of an ancient prophet who neither cultivates nor abjures the adulation of the masses, he told us about his successful attempt at artificial respiration, which had probably worked because Tobias was suffering more from shock and cold than drowning.

  “Seems to me the old fellow must have kept pretty much afloat, probably landed on a piece of junk floating around in the water. That mud puddle moat is awash with dead branches broke off trees. But more like it were that old bicycle tyre that must have belonged to Mrs. Abigail.”

  “The would-be killer is not going to appreciate being foiled by a floating bicycle tyre.” Ben poured another round of tea.

  The centre of all the attention was curled up on my lap, warm and safe—apparently emotionally unscathed. “Ben,” I asked, “what did you mean when you said earlier that the motive might be fear?”

  “Ours, not the assassin’s. I don’t suppose he’s suffered a qualm—quite the contrary. The enemy wants us to squirm—to start looking back over our shoulders into the shadows. What happened to Tobias is a warning. The next victims will be us.”

  “You mean …” I was afraid to finish the question.

  Ben continued to scratch behind Tobias’s ear. “Don’t panic. I’m not seriously suggestin
g we will all set bundled into sacks and dumped into the moat.” He looked up, his eyes deadly serious. “But I think we can expect a threat so menacing that the temptation to leave this house will begin to seem irresistible. Another thing, I don’t think we will have too long to wait before this next move is made. Remember, the six months will be up in just under two weeks.”

  Jonas grunted. “You’ve been seeing too many Alfred Hitchcock movies, young man.”

  “That’s fine coming from you.” I forgot temporarily that this was the hero who had saved my baby’s life. “What was all that stuff you fed me the other day after Freddy left? All your talk about vultures swooping down to pick our bones.”

  “Aye, lass, but that were just to put you on your guard when your relations come tapping you for money. They are a parcel of vultures, but they’ve not the courage to do you or Mr. Ben bodily harm as them murder yarns phrase it.”

  “I wish I could agree with you.” Ben rubbed his fingers across his eyes as though struggling to see more clearly. “My view is that we are dealing with a sadist who has moved beyond the bounds of simple greed. One of your relations, Ellie, no longer falls under the heading of lovable eccentric. Foisting those chocolates on you, laundering my manuscript, attempting to execute your cat, and then calling to gloat by reciting some perverted nursery rhyme. These have to be the actions of someone who is more than a little mad.”

  “Afraid you may be right.” Dorcas jammed her hair behind her ears, obviously positioning herself for the fray ahead. “I say we rally the team, pull up our socks, and plan our strategy. Hate to be a pessimist, but have a feeling if we lose this match we may all wake up one morning with our throats cut.”

  Three pairs of eyes looked steadily at her.

  “Sorry about that! Well, it would be one way of making medical history.” She stood up, headache forgotten, and went to fill the kettle. “More tea anyone?”