Free The Thin Woman by Dorothy Cannell

steadily as I could. As our paths met, the old man raised his battered hat, made a ducking motion of his head, and said, “Morning to you, miss,” wheezed a short hacking cough and started to move on.
    “Nasty day to be out,” I said. “And you with a cold.”
    He squinted at me. “I’ve heard tell a good frost kills germs. But Mr. Merlin, he’ll not be out on a day like this. Might catch his death o’ pneumony, and he’s not one what likes to see others happy. Miss Giselle, that be you, ain’t it? Aye, I know all the ins and outs o’ the lot o’ ye. Next to cheating at cards him likes a chin-wag about what ’e calls the maggots in the family pie. He! He! All came out at once, didn’t ye? He weren’t so sure about ye, but I bet him a quid ye’d be here. Brought a feller, too, is what I hear. A pornographist an’ all! A nice clean-cut spinster like you!”
    “We’re engaged,” I snarled, and battled my way back to the house. Aunt Sybil was in the kitchen when I went in by the side door. She was draping very holey dishcloths over the piping and did not look thrilled to see me. Probably afraid I would muddy the floor.
    “I met the gardener,” I said.
    “Him! Lives at the cottage just inside the gates. Cliffside, it’s called.” She sniffed, maybe the bleach fumes from those cloths were opening up her sinuses. “You may not have noticed it last night with the weather so bad. Why Merlin keeps Jonas on, I don’t know. Always ailing. But that’s men for you—never happy unless they’ve something to moan about. Merlin’s a different story, of course.” Her bleach-wrinkled hands migrated to her hair, moving a strand.
    “Jonas’s cough sounded real enough and he was out and about.” I shook myself out of my coat.
    “Drawing attention to himself. And if it were not a cold it would be something else. Last summer it was waterworks trouble and before that varicose veins. Not a weed pulled in the garden, except to make up some home remedy potion, and Merlin insisting I fetch Jonas hot drinks of the stuff, morning, noon, and night.” Her jowls quivered. “As if I don’t have enough to do without pandering to hypochondriac servants. Oh, I know we have our duty to the lower classes—and if Jonas were the butler, something clean at least, I wouldn’t mind so much.”
    What a dreadful snob. But I was wondering, behind the mask of evil recluse did Uncle Merlin have one or two salient qualities? At least he treated everyone with equal contempt and he seemed to care about Jonas. Or was that just because the man was a necessary amusement? “Uncle Merlin must appreciate his own health being good,” I suggested.
    Aunt Sybil fixed me with a look which said, “That’s all you know.” She made a great show of peeling potatoes. Skin flew in all directions under the onslaught of her knife. No one but she knew how Uncle Merlin liked his vegetables and my offer of help was firmly refused.
    “Poor dear, he’s lonely,” she said. “He and Jonas are as thick as soup, always got their heads together over a crossword or cards and I worry because”—she fixed me with vague watery eyes—“besides the class thing, I don’t feel Jonas is the best influence on Merlin, gets him to laughing and acting quite silly sometimes. So unsuitable. His father, dear Uncle Arthur, never said anything more than fetch and carry to the servants. But I have so little time for sitting, with trying to keep this house in shape and, as they say, this is a new generation.”
    Uncle Merlin part of the in crowd? Subject to peer pressure?
    “Jonas looked pretty harmless,” I said.
    Aunt Sybil sniffed and continued slashing away with her knife.
    Luncheon was another of life’s experiences best forgotten, memorable only because I lost pounds. Vanessa was more poutingly adorable than ever, my fiancé sullen, and Uncle Merlin did not grace us with his presence. We were informed by Aunt Sybil, as though bestowing a great treat, that he would