Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 39, No. 13, Mid-December 1994

Out of Order by Maude Miller

Someone had been in her flat. She knew this because the inlaid box on the telly had been turned. Instead of facing the armchair in front as it usually did, it now faced the bookshelves to the side. Miss Dewey had returned from the greengrocer’s to find it so. In an ordinary flat, it would have been a matter of little concern, even passed by unnoticed. But in Miss Dewey’s flat, well, nothing was ever out of order.

The items in her fridge were alphabetically organized, eggs and juice on the left, margarine and milk on the right. Her books were also shelved in alphabetical order by author, the tinned goods in the pantry likewise. She had an obsession for ABC order, the natural result of her many years as a schoolmistress in a primary school north of London. She hadn’t liked her profession, and it was a great humiliation to her that she never became headmistress, but she had endured it until she could retire and collect her pension.

Miss Dewey had spent the better part of her spinsterhood in the company of whiny, simpering children always begging for the attention she was loath to give them. Such disgusting, runny-nosed little creatures with no reverence at all for order and tidiness. They were always making a mess, a mess that she was expected to pick up. It was nothing less than a miracle that she had survived it.

But now matters were quite different. She no longer had to pretend she liked children, or anyone else for that matter. She had let this small but well-equipped flat in a quiet, safe section of London, and no children were allowed in the building. It was the perfect situation for her orderly life, and she was grateful that she would never have any reason to leave. She finally had a home of her own, and she would never have to worry about children coming to visit. In fact, no one at all ever came to Miss Dewey’s flat because she had no friends. Her appearance alone did not invite friendship, what with the steely gray hair pulled severely back into a tight bun, the hard, dark eyes, and the sharp-featured chin and nose that appeared hawkish because she was so thin. In combination with her sharp tongue and harsh criticisms of almost everyone she came in contact with, it was not surprising that Miss Dewey had not had a true friend for well on fifty years. But, that was just as well, she told herself reassuringly. Friends were wont to make messes and whine for attention, just like those annoying students had done for so many years. She had spent forty years teaching so that she could escape those grim responsibilities and do as she pleased, without the bother and inconvenience of having to live with someone else in order to cut expenses. Miss Dewey had been forced to earn a pension, and she had wisely done so. It never occurred to her that she had chosen a profession she was ill-equipped for.

She had carefully selected this quiet, orderly block of flats. There were only four tenants in the building, approved of because they kept to themselves and had no children. There was an elderly couple to the side of her flat, a young single man above them, and a thirtyish single woman above her who had just recently moved in (all remaining nameless to Miss Dewey). They were necessarily quiet; she would have it no other way. She hoped they were neat, but she couldn’t be sure of that because she had never entered their flats and didn’t plan to. Except for Mr. Trainor, the owner of the building, who also took charge of the maintenance and management.

He and his sister lived at the rear of the building, and circumstances had compelled her to become more familiar with him than she cared to. Eyeing the incongruously placed inlaid box (she was careful not to move it because it was evidence), she knew she would have to speak to Mr. Trainor directly. Miss Dewey had been to the door of his flat on several occasions out of sheer necessity. First of all, she had no telephone. There was simply no need to go to the expense of having one installed, since no one would ever ring her, but sometimes she did need to use it. Mr. Trainor allowed her to use his, as she felt he should. Second, there were sometimes other matters that she had to draw to his attention.

“Someone has been in my flat, Mr. Trainor. Nosing about, I expect.”

Mr. Trainor was a heavyset, fortyish man with a pleasant, ruddy face and a rapidly balding head. “And how do we know that, Miss Dewey?” He was by now painfully familiar with Miss Dewey’s complaints, ranging from the petty (I was disturbed by the phonograph upstairs last evening), to the ludicrous (must we allow pets in this building? I could smell cat dander through the vents). Cat dander can be dangerous, he had responded facetiously. But Miss Dewey had not smiled. He had never seen her smile.

“My inlaid box has been moved. It is now facing west instead of north.” She pointed her long index finger in the direction of the box so he could make no mistake about her claim and pursed her thin lips tightly, just covering the rather large and ill-fitting dentures.

Mr. Trainor grinned indulgently, his heavy lips still covering most of his teeth. “Is it possible you could have bumped it yourself in cleaning, perhaps?” He had seen her flat on more than one occasion, and from the looks of it she spent most of her waking hours tidying up.

Miss Dewey could see that he did not understand. “I am telling you that someone came into my flat and moved it — on purpose.”

Mr. Trainor’s gracious smile was quickly giving way to irritation, which he tried hard not to show, being the pleasant man that he always was. He envisioned himself standing there listening to Miss Dewey’s charges for at least another fifteen years. How would he respond then, when he was sixty and she over eighty? Would he still be placating her with his smile and soothing words? He imagined he would, because it would be so unlike him to do otherwise. He was such an agreeable man.

“I don’t really know what you expect me to do, Miss Dewey,” he replied tonelessly.

She nearly spat at him as she put her face close to his in a defiant pose. “I expect you to make sure there is proper security in this building. Whoever was in my flat is probably planning to nick something in future.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine that, Miss Dewey. This is a very safe area. Very few break-ins, you know.”

Well, she could certainly imagine what Mr. Trainor refused to, and she did so for the next few days until she finally turned the inlaid box back to face the north. The incongruity was driving her dotty.

Nothing occurred to disturb her until nearly a week later, when she returned home from her daily walk in a nearby park. The sun shone brightly outside, and the crocuses were beginning to bloom. Spring was finally here, and Miss Dewey felt almost happy. Until she entered the kitchen.

Opening the oak cabinet in her sparkling kitchen to retrieve a tin of food, she noticed with alarm that the tinned salmon she had planned on for lunch was not in the usual S spot. With even more alarm she found that the tomato soup was aligned with the applesauce and the peaches were over with the beans. It was quite clear that someone had been in her flat again, disturbing her things, bringing disorganization into what was otherwise an orderly life.

It was, however, not at all clear to Mr. Trainor.

Miss Dewey stood by the cabinet door, flinging her hand in the direction of the tinned food on the shelf.

“Just look at this!” she wailed.

Mr. Trainor was puzzled. “Look — at what, Miss Dewey?”

“You mean you can’t see it?” she asked incredulously.

He screwed up his left eye and jutted out his bottom lip as if he might somehow see better with his face contorted.

“The tins — they’re not in alphabetical order any more!” The beady eyes flashed with triumph.

“Oh yes, of course they’re not,” he nodded vigorously. Then, looking up with even more confusion, if that was possible, he uttered a monosyllable. “So?”

Miss Dewey hooted with impatience. “I keep all my tins in alphabetical order. I insist on organization, Mr. Trainor, something you are obviously not familiar with or you wouldn’t be so uninformed about what goes on here at Waverly Mansions.

“Anyway, as I told you last week,” she continued without taking a breath, “someone has been in my flat. They’ve rearranged all the tinned goods so now I can’t find a thing. And I think whoever it is might be dangerous.”

Mr. Trainor considered for a moment the absurdity of this possible scenario. Someone creeping into Miss Dewey’s flat and deliberately mixing up her tins of food out of pure meanness or, even more unlikely, as a threatening gesture. He almost laughed out loud but refrained because he did so pride himself on being eternally calm and agreeable. Miss Dewey, however, was continually testing his good nature.

“I shall keep an eye out, Miss Dewey. I am sure you are quite safe here at Waverly Mansions, though.”

Miss Dewey wasn’t sure about that at all. She didn’t feel safe any more, not after the inlaid box and the tinned goods incidents. She determined that Mr. Trainor had no imagination, since he insisted on trivializing her concerns, reminding her of the scores of students she had tutored who lacked the ability to imagine anything outside of their own wretched little lives. Mr. Trainor might have been one of her own students, he was so dreadfully uninspired.

That evening she reorganized the cabinet, meticulously placing everything back in alphabetical order. She opened the tin of salmon she had found coupled with the apricots and ate it for dinner. Then she proceeded to clean her flat, scrupulously so. She scrubbed where there was no dirt and polished where there was no dust. Finally satisfied when the flat was shining and smelled strongly of ammonia and furniture oil, she tried to forget about the tins and the inlaid box, checked her heart medicines to see if they were still in order (they were), and went to bed.

A few hours later, Miss Dewey was awakened by a thumping sound coming from overhead. At first she thought it must be the antiquated central heating system, knocking against the pipes as it sometimes did. But that particular noise was usually more hollow sounding and less frequent than this methodical dull bump in the night. There was nothing to do, she thought with determination, but to go straight upstairs and put an end to it.

That new female tenant directly above her on the first floor, who had thankfully remained nameless like the others (excepting Mr. Trainor, of course), must be making this infernal noise, and Miss Dewey was not about to let her get started. She must be told in no uncertain terms that Miss Dewey demanded peace and quiet from her neighbors.

She rapped on the new tenant’s door loudly. She rapped again and continued to rap until the skin on her bony knuckles began to wear thin. She also rang the bell several times in between, but it didn’t appear to be in working order. She had a notion to go downstairs and wake Mr. Trainor from his undoubtedly sluggish sleep to resolve this situation. But he would just smile in that patronizing way of his and say something falsely reassuring like, “Are we a bit out of sorts tonight, Miss Dewey?” She really could not face it, not at two in the morning.

She finally gave up and returned to her ground floor flat. The bumping continued for a short time, and then it abruptly ceased.

In the morning an especially peevish Miss Dewey, if it was possible for her to be more peevish than she usually was, marched up the stairs to the new tenant’s flat and resumed the rapping and ringing of the night before. Perhaps she had gone out already, Miss Dewey decided as she retreated to her own flat. But a few moments later she dismissed that notion when she heard running water from directly upstairs through the vent in her bathroom. The woman upstairs was clearly at home, so she had purposely refused to answer her door. Would she be leaving soon for work? Did she even have some sort of employment? Miss Dewey suddenly regretted that she had not paid more attention to the daily activities of the tenant upstairs at least. She decided to wait outside her own door so she wouldn’t miss the woman when she finally came down. She would have to come down eventually.

Miss Dewey stood vigil at her door for another thirty minutes or so until the woman from upstairs appeared, passing Miss Dewey on her way outside, looking straight ahead.

“You kept me up half the night,” Miss Dewey snarled as she stood at her doorway, arms tightly folded, her pointed chin jutting out. After standing there for so long, her temper was strained, and her legs ached. She would have to put on her orthopedic hose when she was finished with this interview, that much was certain.

The woman from upstairs stopped and stared blankly in Miss Dewey’s direction. “Pardon me?”

“I said you kept me awake last night with that bumping sound. I’ll give you to know that I don’t tolerate noise of any kind, and I expect you will be more solicitous of my need for quiet in future.” Miss Dewey’s skinny hands were planted on her bony hips; she stood her ground solidly.

The woman did not apologize.

“You don’t remember me, do you, Miss Dewey?”

She supposed the woman upstairs could have learned her name from Mr. Trainor or from the letter boxes, but she didn’t like it when she used it so familiarly.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. We haven’t met, until now, that is.”

“Oh but we have, Miss Dewey,” the woman smiled coolly. “You were a schoolmistress at the primary school I attended, and I was one of your pupils.” She rattled off her name, but Miss Dewey didn’t recognize it and quickly forgot it.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember you.” Miss Dewey had scarcely remembered her students’ names when she had them in her classroom, so she certainly couldn’t be expected to remember them now. She had always referred to them as a whole rather than individually. They were all so bloody unremarkable.

Miss Dewey cleared her throat before continuing. “But anyway, I must speak with you about the noise.”

The woman upstairs ignored her last remark and went on in the same level, unemotional tone of voice. “I’m not at all surprised you don’t remember me. I was a rather plain child.”

Miss Dewey noticed that she was still quite plain, nondescript even. Her long, straight hair was an artificial blonde (capped by suspicious dark roots), her eyes a vacant blue, and her complexion pasty. Her figure was thin and undeveloped.

“You didn’t notice me then, so I could hardly expect you to remember me now, could I?”

Miss Dewey supposed that she would be expected to ask the woman what she’d been doing since she left school, the sort of thing which she couldn’t have cared less about but which was part of polite conversation. Then she promptly reminded herself that she had given up polite conversation since she retired. It was no longer required. There had been too many times in the past when she had to pretend she actually liked her students just to keep her position, but in reality she could not befriend her pupils and teach them at the same time. She taught them the necessary curriculum so they could pass their exams, because if they failed she might lose her position. In retrospect, she supposed that many of them hadn’t enjoyed school, but that was of little concern to her. It wasn’t necessary that they enjoy themselves, for heaven’s sake. She certainly hadn’t.

“Back to last night. I think it was very rude of you to make such a racket, and then to avoid answering your door like a coward when you surely must have heard me banging on it.”

“Oh, were you? I didn’t hear anything, I’m afraid. It was a bat, actually.” She paused for dramatic effect. “When I’m feeling a bit out of sorts, I hit the floor with it.” She stared placidly at Miss Dewey, the watery blue eyes unwavering.

“A cricket bat?” Miss Dewey asked uncertainly.

The woman nodded calmly. “It relieves my anxiety. Stops me from doing something much worse with it.”

Miss Dewey blinked her eyes and straightened her thin neck, trying to decide whether the woman was putting her on. “I’ll thank you to stop doing it, especially at night. Or I’ll... I’ll telephone the police,” Miss Dewey threatened, with considerably less spirit than before, however.

The woman from upstairs, still unruffled, smiled unpleasantly and strode out the front door without an apology.

Miss Dewey was highly dissatisfied with their interchange. The woman from upstairs didn’t seem to care at all that her neighbor was so upset, and she even seemed vaguely pleased about it. Miss Dewey tried to recall her name but couldn’t. It was just as well, really, because she wasn’t about to occupy her mind with such an insignificant person. She had cleaning to do.

Later that afternoon Miss Dewey bumped into Mr. Trainor when she carted her garbage out to the dustbin. She descended upon him with a vengeance. “I can tell you I didn’t get any sleep last night. If you won’t speak with that woman, I’m going to call the police.”

Mr. Trainor considered briefly the inanity of such a claim. The coppers wouldn’t give Miss Dewey any serious attention over it, but he still didn’t want policemen hanging about. It might cause him some inconvenience. “I’ll speak with her about it, Miss Dewey. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble again.”

“Well, it’s easy for you to be so sure about everything. You’re not the one who has to endure all this irritation. I rue the day when I came upon Waverly Mansions.”

Mr. Trainor rued it, too, for without Miss Dewey to complain, his life would be quite pleasant. Tonight he could have settled down for an evening of the telly and a kidney pie, followed by a gooseberry fool, perhaps. He’d put on a stone or two in the past couple of years, but what other pleasures did he have? He deserved some enjoyment, after all.

But this evening such delights would have to be postponed because Miss Dewey had made sure he had another absurd task to complete for her. He couldn’t see that this situation would ever end, and it made him inordinately tired. He sat down heavily in the armchair in his comfortable flat and took a long nap.

The following day Miss Dewey went out for her daily constitutional, but when she returned she found that Jane Austen was in the T section. She discovered with horror that all her books had been disarranged. E. M. Forster was mixed up with the Brontës, and D. H. Lawrence now accompanied Dorothy Sayers. Miss Dewey had never actually read any of her books, other than the Dorothy Sayers, but she did like to see them sitting there intelligently upon the shelf, organized and easily located.

She whined to Mr. Trainor but to no avail, because he was still decidedly skeptical about the truth of her claims. For the next few days, when she went out for her walk or to the shops, she always returned to find something disturbed. The artificial flowers strewn on the floor, the cooker turned on, little things that were slowly driving Miss Dewey to distraction. Mr. Trainor kept insisting that she might have done these things herself, unwittingly, of course, but his theory brought her no comfort.

There was only one solution. She’d stay at home.

This plan worked for a few days, until one night when Miss Dewey again awoke to the sound from above. It soon became intolerable, so she repeated the useless trek upstairs. The thumping conveniently stopped as soon as she left her own flat, but Miss Dewey rapped long and loud on the woman’s door anyway. Predictably, there was no answer.

She trudged slowly back downstairs, heading to the back of the building where Mr. Trainor’s flat was. She reconsidered knocking at his door, however. He’d be no help at all. When she finally returned to her own flat at the front of the building, exhausted with her efforts, she noticed with alarm that her door was open. Had she forgotten to shut it?

She closed the door tight behind her and locked it. As she walked into her bedroom, something swung down from the door frame and hit her squarely in the face, causing her to cry out.

She switched on the lights and saw that it was a cloth doll with a rope tied tightly around its neck. The doll had brown yam hair, malevolent painted eyes, and a final disturbing detail. There were tears painted on the cloth face.

Miss Dewey pulled the doll down, setting it on the coffee table in front of the settee. This time Mr. Trainor would surely believe her. She would speak to him first thing in the morning. She didn’t want to leave the security of her own surroundings that night, although she nervously wondered if there was really any safety left there now.

Miss Dewey lay on the settee half the night staring into the darkness. She was, for the first time in her life, quite frightened. Before, someone had been in her flat when she was away. Now someone had entered her flat when she was in the building. She got up several times to check the door and the windows to see if they were still shut securely.

She must have finally dropped off to sleep because she awoke with a start just as sunlight was beginning to filter in through the closed window blinds. She was still on the settee, and the doll sat conspicuously on the coffee table. Miss Dewey felt a crick in her neck as she tried to get up. She rubbed it harshly. The fear she had felt the night before had now reduced itself to anger. She was not going to let whoever was doing this get away with it any longer.

She tidied up her bed first. She couldn’t have the police finding her flat anything but neat. She must contact them now; there was no other choice. She went into the washroom and smoothed back her iron hair into its usual severe bun, scrubbed her face, put her teeth in, and splashed some lavender cologne on. Then she chose a crisp gingham housedress, put on her orthopedic hose and sensible black shoes, and went into the kitchen. She took her heart medication and then proceeded to go directly to Mr. Trainor’s. She felt triumphant and quite sure of herself. He would, of course, believe her this time because she had evidence he could not deny.

A heavy-eyed Mr. Trainor answered the door only after Miss Dewey had knocked for well on five minutes. He was untidily whiskered, and what little hair remained on the sides of his bald head was sticking out, as if it had been styled that way. He had a yellowed T-shirt on that barely stretched over the substantial girth of his belly. He was yawning like a cat when Miss Dewey released her torrent of grievances.

“It’s about time,” she spat. “My flat’s been broken into again, while I was there, mind you!” Surprisingly, Miss Dewey didn’t comment on Mr. Trainor’s unkempt appearance; she was far too involved in relating her story.

He listened patiently, as he always did, to the details of her charges. He then attempted to smooth the sides of his sparse hair down, but they stubbornly popped back up again.

“Did you hear anything unusual last night?” he finally said. “Anyone moving about, perhaps?”

Miss Dewey smacked her lips with annoyance. “I told you, man, I was asleep. Are you daft?”

Not quite yet, he thought tiredly. “Did they nick something?”

“No, they didn’t take anything. I told you they left me something instead, something malicious. We’ll have to ring the police. Follow me,” she added with authority, motioning for him to come along.

Mr. Trainor pulled on a jersey that lay over the well-worn armchair just behind the door. It was a tatty, faded blue, but it did cover the much worse looking T-shirt. Besides, there was a definite chill in the air.

Miss Dewey grumbled all the way down the corridor. “I told you someone had been in my flat, but you just wouldn’t believe me. Well, now maybe you’ll take me seriously.”

Mr. Trainor thought that was unlikely, considering the nature of her past complaints. He yawned again and trudged heavily along behind her, like an obedient dog. Miss Dewey stopped sharply at her open door.

“I know I shut this door,” she said firmly. She turned to look back at Mr. Trainor; he raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

“I did!” There was a note of panic in her trembling voice. She hurried inside as Mr. Trainor trod along behind her, stopping short in the sitting room, her mouth open in surprise.

The doll was gone.

Miss Dewey scuttled frantically from room to room, searching for the doll. She mumbled incoherently to Mr. Trainor about a doll hanging from the doorway to her bedroom while she began busily overturning drawers and clearing shelves.

Mr. Trainor was uncommonly worried. Miss Dewey’s neat, tidy little flat was being destroyed, and she was doing it all by herself. It occurred to Mr. Trainor as he witnessed this scene of mayhem before him that Miss Dewey might be mental, and this alarmed him. It would never do to have a mental case at Waverly Mansions. The other tenants might get frightened and leave. Mr. Trainor could ill afford vacancies.

For once, Miss Dewey didn’t harass him for not believing her. She didn’t suggest that they call the police. In fact, she didn’t speak at all. She eventually collapsed on the floral patterned settee, staring blankly at the disaster she had created around her.

Mr. Trainor thought it best to say nothing about her behavior. He meekly returned to his own flat.

Later that day, Miss Dewey came to her senses and began the process of putting things back together again. She stayed up half the night, not even stopping to eat, until all her books were back on the shelf in ABC order and the tinned goods aligned in the pantry. Feeling weak but too fatigued to care for herself properly, she flung herself on her bed and fell asleep, almost immediately.

She slept heavily and woke up late, feeling groggy rather than refreshed. When she awoke, she was still curled up, uncovered, on top of the duvet. As she slowly focused her eyes and rolled over in a stretch, she turned to face the doll again, lying on the pillow beside her. The gloating eyes stared at her, and Miss Dewey screamed. Bloodcurdling and shrill. But no one heard, or at least no one came to her aid, except for the woman upstairs with the name she couldn’t remember and the face that was so nondescript it almost faded into oblivion.

“Are you all right, Miss Dewey?” the woman asked in a concerned voice when Miss Dewey dragged herself to the door in response to the bell. “I heard your screams through the vents, or I must have, because they were quite clear,” she added solicitously.

Miss Dewey opened her mouth to tell the woman upstairs everything that had happened, about the doll and the disarrangement of her flat. She was so distraught she felt an overpowering need to tell someone, but then she brought herself up short. She could not trust the woman upstairs, what with her obsequious gestures and her knowing eyes.

“I’m quite all right,” she replied gratingly. “I just saw — a spider. I have such a fear of spiders.” Miss Dewey was not even remotely afraid of spiders, but she had to make up something. Whenever she saw a spider, she simply squashed it with her shoe. Spiders were easily removed.

The woman nodded, this student of hers whom she couldn’t remember. “Well, if you need anything at all, just let me know,” she said, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Miss Dewey.

Indeed, thought Miss Dewey. A woman who doesn’t even answer her own door could hardly be relied on for assistance. She called out after her, “I’ve forgotten, what is your name?”

The woman smiled ingratiatingly and replied, “Mind you keep your door locked, Miss Dewey. An old woman like yourself is not safe here alone.”

Miss Dewey began sweating. She had kept her door locked, hadn’t she? And had it stopped the intruder? No. She went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. She opened the cabinet containing her vast store of medicines. Miss Dewey had something for everything; today she chose a tablet for anxiety and chased it down with the water. She retrieved the doll along with her handbag and rushed thoughtlessly out.

She scurried back to Mr. Trainor’s and pounded on the door. He breathed deeply when he saw who it was, as if bracing himself for another onslaught.

Miss Dewey rattled on breathlessly, “You must give me a lift to the police station. This is an emergency. I’ve found the doll!”

He stared at her blankly, unimpressed by this revelation.

“The doll that was left hanging in my flat yesterday, Mr. Trainor. I must speak with the police!”

Of course, he thought humorlessly. Why not? He sighed and put on his windcheater because it was breezy out and looked like rain. It was just as well he took her now rather than suffer the endless recriminations that would follow if he refused. But it was really quite a bother. It was Saturday, and he was planning on kippers and tomatoes for breakfast, then sitting in front of the telly to watch a cricket match. Mr. Trainor found nothing more pleasant than watching cricket, and it was infinitely less demanding than actually playing the sport. He envisioned himself relaxing for hours undisturbed, eating the food his sister had prepared for him. Ah well, maybe this excursion with Miss Dewey wouldn’t take long and he could get back in time to watch the end of the match.

Mr. Trainor refused to accompany her into the station. He didn’t want them thinking he was mental as well. And maybe, he thought with a sudden glimmer of hope, they would realize she was absolutely crackers and even suggest that she be committed. The possibility of that’s happening was especially remote, but the idea did give him some momentary comfort as he sat waiting outside in the red Mini.

Miss Dewey entered the doors to the station with the doll tucked inside her handbag. She couldn’t bear looking at those reproving eyes any longer. She presented a disheveled figure, still in the clothes from the day before, strands of hair falling out of the bun. She was suddenly embarrassed that she had forgotten to tidy herself up, but it was too late now.

The nice young officer listened tolerantly to her grievances, looked doubtfully at the doll (he couldn’t say it was necessarily intended as a malicious act), and told her to keep her doors shut tight, just as the woman upstairs had done. But while his words were intended to be comforting, she suddenly realized that the woman’s were not. The woman upstairs seemed quietly menacing, somehow. Could she possibly be Miss Dewey’s tormentor?

“I think I might know who’s been getting into my flat,” Miss Dewey announced with indecision, telling him in sketchy detail about her former forgotten pupil. It was unfortunate that she knew so little about her.

The officer sensed her uncertainty and responded soothingly. “Well, I think, Miss Dewey, that we shall need a bit more evidence than what you’ve got so far. If you can find something linking her specifically to these uh—” he coughed and looked as if he were suppressing a grin “—incidents, then we will be happy to speak with her.”

Miss Dewey could see that he did not understand the seriousness of what was happening, and that he probably didn’t even believe her, as Mr. Trainor had not. And she was tempted to rip that soothing voice out of his throat and smash it. But instead, considering the physical impossibility of such a task, she replaced the doll carefully in her handbag, gathered up what little dignity she had left, and flounced out of the station in frustration.

Mr. Trainor watched Miss Dewey guardedly as he drove her back to Waverly Mansions. The trip took longer than he had expected because they were delayed for quite some time by a traffic accident. Miss Dewey was uncharacteristically silent and he was grateful for that, but he worried about when her next round of grievances would begin.

By the time he dropped Miss Dewey off and parked the Mini in the garage, the cricket match was over. He would never be able to see the same match again, and it was all because of Miss Dewey. He moaned in disappointment, and ate the bangers and mash his sister had prepared for lunch, all of them, for it was now well past lunch and his plans for the morning were ruined. After that, he polished off the trifle in the fridge, comforting himself with at least that meager pleasure. He would have to consider getting a VCR so he didn’t continually have to miss his programs when he was catering to Miss Dewey’s whims. But oh, the expense, he thought regretfully. He could see that the situation with Miss Dewey was not going to improve. It could only get worse.

Miss Dewey glumly returned to her flat. She looked down at her rumpled housedress, the one she had slept in last night, and she felt exhausted and beaten. This was a foreign feeling for Miss Dewey, but the curious thing was, she felt unable to fend it off. Odder still, that woman from upstairs was sitting casually on Miss Dewey’s settee, as if it were her very own rather than the property of someone she barely knew.

Miss Dewey opened her mouth to speak, to tell her that she knew what was going on, but the woman spoke first.

“I want you to sit down, and I want you to sit down now,” she ordered firmly, and with such authority that the former schoolmistress felt compelled to obey. Miss Dewey crumpled into the armchair farthest from the settee.

“I wonder if you know, Miss Dewey, how many children you tortured when you were a teacher. Young, defenseless children you were responsible for.”

“Well, I hardly think that tortured is the proper word,” she replied hoarsely. “You’re implying that I beat them or something.” Miss Dewey was surprised that she was still able to speak up for herself. She also knew that she had a perfect right to ask this woman to leave, but was strangely unable to.

“Yes, I think tortured is a very good word. Do you remember when you forced me to stand in front of the class and announce ten times, ‘I am stupid because I forgot my pencils’? My classmates snickered because they agreed with you. You didn’t pick on everyone, never the strong ones. I learned that much later. You usually selected one or maybe two pupils in each class to degrade and hold up to everyone as examples of what they mustn’t become. We could have started a club or an association even, there were so many of us.”

Miss Dewey looked at her former pupil nervously and stammered, “I don’t remember doing anything like that. I was very strict, of course, but I was hardly cruel. Perhaps you’ve got me mixed up with someone else?” she added hopefully.

The woman smiled that placating smile and tossed back her head, smoothing out the bleached, stringy locks with her free hand. She was all dressed in black, the bones around her neck jutting out prominently where the blouse was cut low. She began picking at her fingernails with a file she had taken from her pocket.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Dewey. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I know exactly who you are, but I do understand why you don’t remember me.” She spoke serenely and matter-of-factly, as if she were discussing the weather or the ingredients in a shepherd’s pie. “I was too insignificant, hardly worth bothering with. Except to belittle. I wonder, did it make you feel better about yourself to make me feel like nothing?”

Miss Dewey couldn’t defend herself, not really. It had been such a long time ago. Beads of sweat began to form across her brow. She wasn’t at all well. Had she taken her heart tablet today? She couldn’t remember.

“I would like you to leave now. I’ve heard enough of this nonsense.”

The woman upstairs fairly cackled at her request. “Oh, I’m not leaving, Miss Dewey, not until I’m good and ready. And I won’t be good and ready until you hear what I have to say.”

Miss Dewey got up to go to the door. She suddenly wished that she had a telephone so she could call for help.

“You’re not going anywhere, Miss Dewey, not until I’m finished with you.”

Somehow her last words frightened Miss Dewey into obedience. Maybe if she humored her former pupil, did what she wanted...

“If I listen to you, will you go away and leave me alone?”

The woman briefly considered this. “Perhaps,” she replied casually.

It was a dubious reassurance, but Miss Dewey held on to a thread of hope that she might be able to satisfy this woman and be allowed to return to her orderly, solitary life.

“I’ve told the police about you,” Miss Dewey said tremulously, her voice cracking as she sat down again slowly in the armchair. She worried that this woman might be violent.

“Oh, and what did you tell them?”

“I showed them the doll and told them about the times you broke into my flat and disturbed my things.” She motioned towards the doll, which was now sitting on the floor beside her chair.

“And did they believe you?”

Miss Dewey fell silent as the woman stared at her with unforgiving eyes.

“Well, did they? Tell the truth now, Miss Dewey. A good schoolmistress is always brutally honest. You were always honest with me, weren’t you?”

“Well yes, I mean perhaps not,” Miss Dewey replied uncertainly, unsure what she was answering to and what the attendant consequences might be.

“You don’t really think they believed you? Look at you, you’re pathetic and even comical. I’m sure they thought you needed your head tested, with all your wild stories of your horrid little mundane life.”

Miss Dewey opened her mouth to defend herself, but the woman interrupted her acrimoniously. “I have a key to your flat. It’s quite convenient, really.”

“You have a key?” Miss Dewey asked dubiously. “But how did you get it?”

“Well, it’s not a key, actually. I use a hairpin, that’s how useless your lock is. I can get into your flat whenever I like.” She paused a moment, then changed the subject. “By the way, what do you think of my figure now?”

Miss Dewey hardly heard the question. “What?” she asked in confusion.

The woman repeated her question. Miss Dewey eyed her carefully and could see at once that the woman didn’t have a figure, all straight up and down, bones jutting out wherever you could see them under the billowy skirt and blouse. But she thought it best not to comment on this.

The woman nodded quickly. “I thought as much. You won’t tell me what you really think because you’re a coward. You’re afraid of me now. The tables have turned, haven’t they? But since you don’t remember, I’ll tell you. I was quite fat when I was your student. Do you remember when you ridiculed me for my untidy desk? ‘This pupil has a piggy desk, so she must be a pig.’ The others laughed, of course. They were so relieved that you hadn’t targeted them. But I didn’t laugh, especially since ‘piggy’ became my nickname.”

“I don’t recall saying any of those things to you. I think,” Miss Dewey added bravely, “I think that you’re making it all up.”

The woman from upstairs laughed shrilly. “I expect the worst thing you ever did was make me wet my pants because you wouldn’t allow me to use the loo. You made me stand in front of the room while you criticized me about the mess I had made, and you drew everyone’s attention to the dreadful stink in the room. Then you made me sit in it the rest of the day while the other children plugged their noses and told me how disgusting I was. You never lifted a finger to help me. That doll you have there was me; you might as well have put a noose around my neck. It would have saved me a lot of pain.”

“What do you want from me?” Miss Dewey asked in a small voice.

The woman answered quickly. “Why, I want an apology, of course. Heartfelt, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s all you want?” Miss Dewey asked with surprise.

The woman bit her lip and appraised Miss Dewey’s relieved eyes critically. “I think so. Let’s try it and see if I feel any better.”

Miss Dewey spoke without hesitation. “I, I’m sorry for whatever I might have done.” She focused her beady eyes on the stern face of the woman from upstairs. “I don’t think I meant to hurt you, but I am sorry.” Of course Miss Dewey wasn’t truly sorry because she couldn’t even recall who this woman was. But if an apology would appease her, she would certainly oblige. Miss Dewey wondered if she was putting her on a bit, but she didn’t know because the woman stood up and was apparently going to leave. This was a blessed relief to Miss Dewey, since she didn’t feel at all well. She was feeling lightheaded, and there was a pain in her chest. She needed to have a liedown before she passed out.

Although it was only early afternoon, the sky outside was dark and threatening, making it seem like early evening. In Miss Dewey’s flat, none of the lamps was switched on, and there was a damp, funereal air. The woman stood for a moment with her back to Miss Dewey, her eyes on the door and her arms folded tightly, as if she were considering something. Then she turned around slowly, facing Miss Dewey again.

“You know, I’m afraid I don’t feel any better after your apology, Miss Dewey,” the woman bantered. “It’s just not enough. I should think you will have to do much more than just say you’re sorry. Did you really think that was enough?”

The woman kept talking, but Miss Dewey couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying. Finally the woman from upstairs noticed that her audience was fading.

“You don’t look at all well, Miss Dewey,” the woman said with a trace of concern. “Should I call a doctor?”

Miss Dewey shook her head. The pain in her chest was mild now, but it held the prospect of becoming excruciating. The nitroglycerin would fix it, though. Miss Dewey walked into the kitchen slowly, adding in explanation to the woman sitting on the settee, “I’ll just get my medicine.” As if that woman was somehow entitled to an explanation. It seemed that she was entitled to everything, Miss Dewey thought with irritation. She took a nitro tablet and slipped it under her tongue, supporting herself by leaning against the cupboard. The pain subsided after a few minutes, and Miss Dewey was able to straighten her back.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked with what Miss Dewey thought was a smirk.

She wanted to answer “Clear on out of here and leave me be!” but instead she turned around and smiled sweetly at the woman upstairs. She had made a decision.

“I’m feeling much better now, thanks. Would you like a cup of hot cocoa? I’m just making one and it’ll only take a minute to put one on for you, too. It’s such a chilly day out.”

The woman looked taken aback, surprised at Miss Dewey’s offer of hospitality. Too surprised to be suspicious, she replied, “Why yes, actually. That would be lovely.”

Miss Dewey heated the milk, adding the sugar and cocoa and stirring it all together. The woman from upstairs sat quietly in the dark, not paying any attention to Miss Dewey while she fussed in the kitchen. Miss Dewey arranged the mugs of cocoa on a tray and took it over to the countertop underneath her store of medicines, out of the woman’s line of vision. She had made an instantaneous but powerful decision. This former pupil would never let her alone. Hadn’t she said, ‘I just don’t think your apology’s enough, Miss Dewey’? And hadn’t Miss Dewey’s heart been failing her more and more ever since this torment began? Miss Dewey could always move out, find another suitable flat (a nearly impossible task), but why should she have to? The woman would probably follow her, and besides, before she had come along, Waverly Mansions had been perfect for Miss Dewey. No, she could not go on like this. Miss Dewey examined the row of medicines on the shelf. She had enough sleeping tablets to put all of Parliament out cold. She chose the most potent in capsule form and emptied the powder of all the remaining capsules into the mug. She did it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The idea had simply occurred to her, and she acted upon it without hesitation. She nearly laughed out loud at her bravura. She hadn’t read all those Dorothy Sayers murder mysteries for nothing.

The strong taste of the cocoa along with the sugar would disguise the taste of the sleeping powders. Miss Dewey tested it with her tongue. Not much taste anyway.

“Would you like marshmallows in your cocoa?” Miss Dewey called out pleasantly to the woman.

“Marshmallows?” she replied uncertainly. “Well, I guess so. Might be fun.”

Miss Dewey was already weary of playing the pleasant host. She couldn’t go on like this forever, either. Smiling at people just to placate them? She shuddered involuntarily. The thought frightened her far more than what she was about to do. Besides, it was self-defense, really. One of them had to go, and if it went on like this, it would be she.

Miss Dewey carried the tray in carefully, remembering that the mug with the marshmallows belonged to that woman. She had wisely left her own mug plain. The woman drank the hot cocoa greedily and all too quickly. But that was a boon because it didn’t take long before the woman started getting sleepy. She hadn’t complained at all about the taste. It had been almost too easy.

“You look like you need to nap,” Miss Dewey suggested.

The woman blinked her eyes like an overfed toad. “I really am very tired. Maybe I could just take a catnap here,” she added, stretching out her legs and lying down. In her dark clothes she looked like a skinny black cat, except for all that peroxided hair sticking out.

Oh no you don’t, thought Miss Dewey. She pulled the woman to her feet and helped her to the door. “You’ll be much more comfortable upstairs in your own flat.” Miss Dewey opened the door slowly and peered out into the front hall. No one about. That was a spot of luck. With the woman’s arm draped over her shoulders, they made it up the stairs and through the unlocked door. The woman’s flat, not surprisingly, was extremely untidy, clothes dropped in the most unlikely places and opened tins of food lying around, collecting flies. Miss Dewey grimaced. Panting heavily, she dropped the woman on the shabby settee.

She wondered whether the dose had been enough to kill the woman. It hadn’t been a well thought-out plan, a crime of passion, really. She couldn’t be sure whether the woman would actually die, could she? And what if she didn’t? Then what? As she considered the possibilities, a significant, unattended detail struck her full force. If the woman died, which she must, Miss Dewey had decided, the police would want to know where the sleeping tablets had come from. They had to have come from somewhere. There would need to be an empty prescription bottle lying about, and Miss Dewey certainly couldn’t give her the one from her own flat, with her own incriminating name on it.

It was most unlikely that the woman had the same prescription as Miss Dewey, but she searched through the cabinets in the w.c. and the kitchen anyway. Predictably, there was nothing. The woman wasn’t on any medication at all. Miss Dewey felt a rising panic. She was desperate now, and it was certainly too late to turn back and reconsider her plan.

She glanced around the disorderly flat and eyed the gas stove in the connecting kitchen. Of course, she thought with relief. That would cover things up nicely. Death from asphyxiation would disguise the fact that the woman had previously been fed sleeping tablets. They wouldn’t even check, would they? The woman was clearly depressed; it would be easy to chalk it all up to suicide. Miss Dewey walked over to the stove and turned it on, leaving the oven door open wide. Before leaving, she checked to see if the windows were shut tight. They were. Then she checked to see if the woman was sound asleep. She was. Miss Dewey looked out into the corridor and saw that it was still deserted. She shut the door and hurried back down to her own flat, feeling lightfooted and understandably relieved. Her chest pain was gone; a considerable burden had been lifted.

Until Miss Dewey returned to her own flat, however, she hadn’t considered that the other tenants might eventually smell the gas fumes. She had to be out of the building, just in case. She went for a walk in the light drizzle, making an unlikely stop at a nearby museum, then checking in at the library. By the time she returned a few hours later, the woman upstairs had been discovered. An ambulance was parked out in front. She heard an officer say suicide to Mr. Trainor, and nothing we could do.

The next few weeks were positively blissful. Miss Dewey felt much better physically, and she had returned to her tidy, predictable life. She didn’t bother Mr. Trainor nearly as often, and he responded in kind by refusing to let the vacated flat upstairs to a couple of musicians (intent on practicing their loud instruments all night). Mr. Trainor had promised to find a quiet tenant, although it would have to be done soon because he was losing money. He could ill afford that.

Naturally, Mr. Trainor had some concerns about what had happened to the tenant upstairs. All that dreadful business with Miss Dewey and then the woman ends up dead? But he didn’t want any scandal (such things cost him dearly), and he certainly didn’t want any more trouble. It was a matter for the police, and they were satisfied. Besides, he had other, more pressing concerns. Such as how to schedule enough television and meals while still managing all the affairs at Waverly Mansions.

Miss Dewey, on the other hand, was basking in the glory of having gotten away with murder. If you wanted to call it that. Miss Dewey preferred not to. Instead, she saw it as taking care of an impossible situation. Self-defense, she reminded herself. It had been so frightening for her when everything was out of order. But now things were back to normal again. She thought she could go on like this forever.

Until one evening when she walked out of her flat and met up with the new tenant upstairs. Mr. Trainor had held to his promise and chosen a quiet person. The tenant hadn’t bothered Miss Dewey in the three weeks she’d been there. But tonight was different. Miss Dewey tried to avoid acknowledging her by not meeting her eyes, but the tenant would have none of it. She stood squarely in front of her, blocking the front door, so that Miss Dewey was forced to look up at a rather large young woman with pale skin scarred by ravaging bouts with acne.

The young woman spoke first, bitterly and in a frightfully loud voice. “You are Miss Dewey. I was friends with the former tenant upstairs. Such a pity she died like she did.”

Miss Dewey met the woman’s firm gaze fearfully.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Miss Dewey’s throat went dry as she shook her head. “You didn’t like me much, I’m afraid. I was one of your pupils in grammar school. Some of us have kept in touch through the years.” The woman sighed tiredly and tossed her head back so that the short, greasy black hair gleamed in the lamplight. “So many years ago, wasn’t it? But I haven’t forgotten it. I could never forget it.” The woman sniffed with disdain, as if Miss Dewey were some kind of rodent.

“Do you believe all that poppycock about suicide? I don’t, not for a minute. I’m sure you don’t, either.”

Miss Dewey’s heart fluttered. She saw a malicious, familiar gleam in the new tenant’s sharp eyes.