a grain of humour. Something else struck me about him; he had grown a little pudgy. And had probably ‘doctored’ the numbers on his Ideal Weight Chart accordingly.
Now if he would only get out of here so I could get back to Chapter 7 of
When Roxie put in a final appearance at five o’clock, I was on the brink of discovering who was going to be bottled next.
“Lovely little story, isn’t it? Keep it overnight, Mrs. H.” Roxie was magnificent as well as magnanimous in a fuchsia satin toque. Her fur coat bore signs of having been washed in hot water instead of cold.
“By the by, Mrs. H., Her Graciousness Bottomly phoned back. Seems the ladies of the Historical Society want to tour here next Thursday afternoon if convenient. I said it was, seeing Thursday is not one of my days. And now, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll be pushing off. Friday’s bingo night for me. Wouldn’t miss it for the world nor would Hairdresser Sid. Him and me always sit together and have a chum. People can say what they like, but the worst I have to say against him is that he’s teetotal.” She moved to the bed and gave the covers a twitch. “Locked and barred all the doors and windows, I have, Mrs. H. Put me into overtime, it did. But I’m sure you won’t mind the extra under the circumstances.”
I struggled to sit up. “What circumstances?”
Roxie sank down on the bed and tapped a slow dum-de-dum-dum on the footrail. “Now, understand, Mrs. H., I wouldn’t frighten you, not for the world, but a couple of times when proceeding home from here, I have seen this nasty customer loitering near the gates.”
My fingers gripped the sheet. “What sort of nasty customer?”
Roxie looked impatient. “The usual, like in the films or on the telly. Raincoat with the collar turned up, hat with the brim pulled down, scarf at the neck, chewed-up fag in the mouth.”
“A mouthful of dingy teeth?” The stifled feeling was not due to my cold.
“You’ve got it.”
“Eyes like jagged slits?” I had just read that description in Chapter 8.
“Hard enough to cut glass.”
Roxie heaved a sigh, which chilled me right through my flannel nightgown, and stood up. “But you’ve not a thing to worry about, Mrs. H., all’s locked up like a safe. Don’t want to wake up and find the house stripped down to its vest and pants, do we?”
Time to face facts, Ellie. The Raincoat Man is not a figment of your imagination. Make what you will of the fact-he first put in an appearance when your mother-in-law disappeared.
I shrank back against the pillow, picking at Edwin Digby’s book. The desire to read had vanished. The Raincoat Man had to be a detective of some kind. Watching to see if Ben or I made contact with Mrs. Haskell. Perhaps the nosy neighbors of Crown Street had hired him. I was certain now it was he, not Jonas, I had seen in our drawing room in the middle of the night. I cast a fearful glance toward the window. Ben’s claustrophobia provided an open invitation. My mind was writing its own peep-show horror. Mr. Elijah Haskell swam in and out of focus in the starring role of villain. What if he wanted to marry Mrs. Jarrod before either got too ancient? His wife’s Catholic beliefs forbade divorce. My mind twisted down another dark alley-the Raincoat Man metamorphosed from sleazy detective to sleazy hatchet man. No, that didn’t make sense; if he had done the foul deed and murdered Ben’s mother in return for a lifetime of free vegetables, he wouldn’t be hanging around for close on five months, sizing up the reaction of the family.
My nose tingled. I was about to be overtaken by a gigantic sneeze. My hand flapped feebly at the tissue box. There was a positive side to all this-during the past weeks I had stopped picturing my mother-in-law with prayer sores on her knees. Indeed, she had acquired a cherished place in my heart. This was the woman who had brought Ben into the world. So she hadn’t jumped for joy when he married me! Who could blame her! It wasn’t anybody’s fault that Ben had found that girl Angelica Evangeline from Crown Street somewhat sexually repellent.
Speaking of things repellent, my bedroom door handle was turning-slowly. A sneeze stalled. In anguished immobility, I watched another quarter revolution.
“Whob there?”
A muffled, almost animal grunt; a metallic click, like a safe being cracked.
“I hab a gun amb a red-hot poker.”
The door opened an inch. My lungs squeezed shut and my mouth opened in a soundless scream. Then luckily I came to my senses. The trick in this sort of situation is to stay calm. My options were numerous. I could play dead. I could make a break for the window and dangle from all that lovely ivy outside… No, no! First place the intruder would look. Ditto under the bed. But if I could wedge myself between the mattress and box spring… Too late, too late! I was floundering off-side when the door opened wide. A man with a blackened sack hoisted on his shoulder staggered drunkenly toward the bed. A handkerchief mask flattened his features. I opened my mouth to scream.
“For God’s sake, Ellie!” The sack tumbled onto the hearth and Ben ripped off the mask. His next words were lovely and concerned. “My poor darling-you look even worse than this morning.”
Actually I felt pretty good. Mary Birdsong was the real culprit. I had let my imagination run away with me. Propped up on one elbow, I pointed to the sack. “Have you come selling turnips?”
I couldn’t tell whether he was amused. His black head was bent, and he was rubbing a finger. “Coal, actually. I thought you might enjoy the cheer of a fire. My difficulty with the door was that I didn’t want to set the sack down and get coal dust on the carpet and I have never been very adept with my elbows.”
“What’s wrong with your finger?”
He stopped bending it and held it up to the light. “Tobias scratched me just now when I told him he still couldn’t come in here.”
“Poor pet.”
“I’ll live.”
I had meant Tobias. But I did so love the way Ben’s eyes darkened when he was being noble. Even more wonderful was that he showed no signs of being repulsed by my bloated visage. True, only the reading lamp was lit, but I was so gratified I decided not to utter a word of complaint about his sending for Dr. Melrose.
Such a loving evening. Firelight bathed the walls with a roseate glow and set red-gold angels to dance upon the ceiling. Dinner on a tray and Ben didn’t expect me to eat a lot. Beatles records on the stereo. The two of us talking, laughing. I didn’t miss my friends in America. I even loved Freddy. I hoped Jill would give him a reprieve and swoop him off to a guru who did weddings, but not immediately-Ben was anticipating between four and five hundred people at Abigail’s premiere.
When Ben touched me, looked at me, his eyes glowing hotter than the fire, my blood started flowing backward in my veins and I turned all floaty, light as tinsel. It wouldn’t have surprised me a bit if I had levitated off the bed. Tonight would definitely have been the night for violins. A pity about my nasty colb.
“Goodnight, Ellie.”
“Goodnight, Ben.”
Did ever a man look more heart-stoppingly debonair as he adjusted his surgical mask and turned out the light?
My dreams should have been all humming bees and sun-drenched meadows. Instead, Mrs. Amelia Bottomly filled up my mental screen. A dozen identical men in raincoats took to stalking me, round and round for hours. I would be exhausted in the morning. A ghost with Ben’s features wearing a black lace mantilla and a rosary strung over her arm was beckoning me to follow her into the mist, which turned thick and hot. Toss and turn as I might, I could not escape being sucked into it.
When I unglued my eyes the next morning I found that the brass candlestick, which usually stood upon the mantelshelf, had levitated to the window sill. Even more eerie was the fact that the candle was alight. For a ghastly moment I suspected a nocturnal visit from The Raincoat Man, until I saw the candle wax on my hand.
Sunday afternoon found me sufficiently recovered in body and soul to begin convalescence on the drawing room sofa. Ben came and stood in my light as I was deep in the pages of another Edwin Digby/Mary Birdsong book.
“My finger still hurts.”
“What finger?”
“The one your damn cat scratched.”
