Auntie Mayhem (13 page)

“Trusts would be set up for Alex and me, with annual allowances,” Nats went on after a brief pause. “Claire's parents would be remembered, but I got the impression that the amount would be rather modest. Aunt Pet had never quite forgiven George and Emily for going off to Swaziland and staying there. If Aunt Pet ever made that will, she changed it later, after she got so mad last August. And that's too rotten—Uncle George and Aunt Emily will spend it on Bibles or put it in the bank, and then Charles and Claire will end up with everything after all.” Now it was Nats who seemed on the verge of tears.

Renie breezed into the kitchen, stuffing her face with a tongue sandwich. “Where's the tea and coffee? Tichborne's with the police, and Arthur Tinsley is ready to drink out of the hose nozzle in the formal garden.” She caught sight of Nats and stopped dead. “Excuse me, I didn't realize I was interrupting a therapy session. Bill hates it when I do that, especially when he's counseling a true sociopath. They tend to get rambunctious.”

Nats wiped at her eyes and glared at Renie. “Obviously, I've said too much. Aunt Pet always told me I tended toward indiscretion. In many ways.” With another flounce, Nats rose from the chair and started out of the kitchen. At the door, she turned back to look at Judith. “I'm sorry to be such a bore. Maybe it comes of losing your parents when you're still young. There's no one left to talk to. Alex is fun, but he's totally self-centered. I envy people with understanding parents and sympathetic siblings. They have all
the luck.” Nats flew off into the dining room.

Judith gazed at Renie. “Our dads have been dead for years. We have no siblings. And our mothers are—”

“—our mothers,” Renie finished for her. “Nats should stop feeling sorry for herself.”

Picking up the tray, Judith let Renie hold the door for her. “You're forgetting something,” Judith murmured. “We've got Joe and Bill and our kids. We've also got each other.”

Renie grinned. “Nats is right. Some people do have all the luck. Like us.”

 

If the atmosphere in the drawing room hadn't exactly lightened, at least the verbal sniping had stopped. Everyone seemed absorbed in the sandwiches. Only Charles and Arthur were engaged in conversation, huddled together on a matching pair of Chippendale chairs. Charles dominated the conversation; Arthur shifted uneasily in his seat.

Mrs. Tichborne returned, indignant and offended. “The police ask so many pointless questions! How should I know if Miss Ravenscroft had any enemies? I'm told she caused quite a stir with her anti-Labor Party letters to
The Times
!”

Charles interrupted his tête-à-tête with Arthur. “Come, come, Mrs. Tichborne—Inspector Wattle is the soul of tact. Or tries to be. He was most deferential with me.”

But the housekeeper didn't agree. “Cheek,” she murmured, taking inventory of the sandwich tray. “Wattle's predecessor was a much superior man. No wonder he was promoted.” With a sniff, Mrs. Tichborne left the drawing room.

Dora Hobbs already had been led away by Sergeant Daub. Judith felt sorry for the maid, fearing she might go to pieces under questioning. “How old
is
Dora?” she asked of no one in particular.

Walter Paget was pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Dora's seventy-six, I believe. She's been in service here since…” The steward hesitated. “I'm not really sure.”

Again, Charles broke off his conversation with Arthur. “Forever.
Tante
Genevieve once said she couldn't recall a time when Dora wasn't at Ravenscroft House. Quite the
old-fashioned sort of servant. Alas, such loyalty has gone out of vogue.”

Mrs. Tichborne returned with a fresh pot of coffee, then beckoned to Alex, who was on his third drink and humming to himself.

“The inspector would like to see you,” the housekeeper said briskly. She leaned down to speak in Judith's ear. “I'm taking Dora upstairs. She's quite worn out. If anyone needs anything while I'm gone, would you mind seeing to it? I'd be ever so grateful.”

Judith assured Mrs. Tichborne that she could count on the cousins. Alex swaggered off, singing “The Wild Colonial Boy” in a loud, yet surprisingly melodious, voice.

Walter was checking his watch. “It's going on one o'clock. I do hope the police hurry. I must go down to the stables.”

Judith took a chicken salad sandwich from the tray. “Say, do you think we could come with you to see the horses? We haven't actually toured the farm.”

For a fleeting moment, alarm seemed to cross Walter's stolid face. “Well…later, perhaps. I've no help working today. I'm afraid I'll be quite busy.”

“That's okay,” Judith said, though she knew she sounded disappointed. “We may still be here tomorrow. As it is, we've missed our train.”

Renie's expression was droll. “Surprise, coz. Did we really believe we'd get out of here today?” With a resigned air, she checked the silver teapot. “I'm going to get some more hot water. Want to help me turn on the faucet?”

Judith was willing. As the cousins entered the hall, two policemen were coming down the main stairs. One of them carried something in a plastic evidence bag. He and his companion headed for the parlor and knocked on the door.

Renie kept going across the entry hall's wide expanse, but Judith gave her a push in the direction of the pedestal that held Minerva, with her marble helmet and spear.

“We're hiding,” Judith whispered to a startled Renie. “Don't breathe.”

Renie rolled her eyes, but complied. Sergeant Daub
opened the parlor door. “We need to see the inspector,” said the policeman with the evidence bag.

Wattle came out into the hall, closing the door on Alex's raucous laughter. “Well? What's this?”

“A box of chocolates,” the policeman replied, holding the bag out to his superior. “Half of them are gone, sir. It looks as if at least two of the others may have been tampered with. We found them under a pile of magazines in the nightstand in Miss Ravenscroft's bedroom. We think they could be the method by which the poison was introduced.”

Claude Wattle didn't speak for several seconds. “Good work,” he allowed at last. “Take it to the lab. But no jumping to conclusions, eh? It's early days, and we need the chemical analysis first.”

Judith and Renie couldn't avoid being seen by the policemen on their way out of the house. “Hi,” Judith said brightly. “Seen any good clues lately?”

Scowling, the officers continued on their way. They didn't respond.

Renie sighed. “They think we're nuts.”

Judith shook her head. “They know we're Americans.”

“Same thing,” said Renie.

 

Upon Alex's return, he promptly passed out in a Louis XVI lyre-backed chair. When he slid onto the carpet, everyone in the room tried to pretend that nothing had happened. It occurred to Judith that maybe Alex's behavior was taken for granted.

Nats was now in the parlor with the police. Arthur Tinsley had gotten to his feet, carefully stepping over Alex.

“There's nothing more I can do here,” he said in an abject voice. “That being the case, I should go home to check on Lona. She had a migraine when I left this morning.”

Charles objected. “Sorry, old man. I imagine the inspector will want a word with you, too. The will, you know.”

Arthur's high forehead wrinkled. “Yes, but…you know all about that. Really, I must be—”

“Nonsense,” Charles broke in. “I'll insist that they take you next. The interview won't last more than ten minutes. Walter won't mind waiting.”

But it was clear that Walter did mind. He opened his mouth to protest, but Charles cut him off, too. “A quarter of an hour will do the horses no harm. Relax, Walter. It's aggravating, but we must make the best of it.”

It seemed to Judith that Walter's taciturn manner was about to disintegrate. A moment later, Nats returned, and Arthur resignedly went off to the parlor. Walter mumbled that he would wait his turn in the hall.

Nats was regarding her brother with disapproval. “I do wish Alex would come 'round,” she complained. “He's drooling on the Aubusson carpet.” None too gently, she nudged him with her foot. Alex snuffled, but didn't wake up. “Bother,” breathed Nats. “I'm going for a walk.”

It was after two before Judith's presence was requested in the parlor. Neither Arthur nor Walter had returned after their interviews, and presumably Harwood had been summoned ahead of the cousins. Judith thought that Inspector Wattle was showing signs of strain.

“Name,” he barked from his place behind the heavy Elizabethan trestle table.

Judith answered promptly.

“Residence.” Wattle didn't look up from the papers before him.

Judith gave her full address, stating that she was an American citizen.

Wattle emitted a sound that was half-sigh, half-groan. “Americans! Nothing but violence wherever you go. Flynn, eh?” He motioned to Sergeant Daub. “Check the IRA terrorist files. Plenty of connections in America. Money, arms, the rest of it.” The inspector turned back to Judith. “Know anything about bombs?”

Judith gaped. “Bombs? As in the kind that explode? Heavens, no. We've got a new city ban on fireworks. We can't even light off pinwheels or Mr. Parachute.”

The inspector's eyes narrowed under the heavy lids. “Mr. Parachute? Is that a code name?”

“No, certainly not. Mr. Parachute is from Taiwan. You
light him off and there's this big blue flash and then he flies up and lands with his parachute in the lilac tree. Or on top of the garage. One year, he fell in my mother's potato salad. She ate him.”

“Your mother
ate
Mr. Parachute?” Wattle was now looking startled, as well as confused. “See 'ere, Mrs. Flynn, or whatever your real name is, don't try to lead us down the garden path. Why 'ave you made contact with the Ravenscroft 'ousehold? It is to be a new 'eadquarters, or just a drop-off point?”

“You're not serious.” Judith shed all pretense of naïveté. “If you've done your job, and checked my cousin and me through Interpol, you know perfectly well we're exactly what we say we are—American tourists.”

Wattle remained skeptical. “Your cousin's name is Jones. She could be one of those Welsh separatists. They're a dangerous lot, too. Refuse to use vowels, like proper folk.”

In agitation, Judith rubbed her temples. “She's not. We're not. In fact, we've never been to Wales or Ireland. At home, we don't even belong to the same political parties. I'm a Democrat and she's a Republican.”

“Well, now!” Wattle smirked as if he'd made a startling discovery. “All for Mr. Clinton, are you? Or is it all for yourselves?”

“Huh?” Judith felt lost.

“The will,” Wattle said. “You and Mrs. Jones thought there was something in it for you. So you wait until the old lady's on 'er last legs, then come flying in to get your share.”

Judith's patience snapped. “That's ridiculous! We hardly knew any of these people until this week. Our only connection is through my pen-pal, who happens to be Charles Marchmont's sister. We're definitely not related to the family. And even if Aunt Pet had wanted to leave us a little remembrance, she didn't because her previous will was drawn up some time ago, and I understand that she didn't have time to make a new one before she…ah…died.”

Wattle looked at Daub. They seemed to be sharing a private joke. Judith suddenly felt uneasy.

“That's what the solicitor said, all right,” Wattle agreed, his manner a trifle too jolly. “But solicitors don't know everything. This will 'e mentions is nowhere to be found. 'E's gone off to look for it among 'is papers. Curious, though—we found another will in the deceased's bedroom desk. It was drawn up yesterday, and the contents will cause quite a stir. It seems that Miss Ravenscroft left you and your cousin this fancy old 'ouse. Now what do you think of that as a motive for murder?”

A
S MOTIVES WENT
, Renie agreed that it was a good one. A quarter of an hour later she emerged from the parlor to find a disconsolate Judith standing in the hall next to the statue of Aphrodite.

“Here,” Judith said abruptly, handing Renie her jacket. “Let's go outside. I need fresh air. My brain has turned to pulp.”

Renie suggested a stroll through the Ravenscroft farm. But Judith reminded her of Walter Paget's objections. “I wouldn't want him to think we were barging in on whatever it is he's doing with the horses,” Judith said. “Let's wander around the village.”

“What
is
he doing?” Renie asked as they headed out into the gray afternoon.

Passing Wattle and Daub's black and white police car in the drive, Judith let out a long sigh. “I don't know what anybody's doing around this place. Walter seemed pretty antsy this afternoon. And Claire didn't take a nap after her session with the police. I saw her leave the house while I was making more tea.”

“Where was she going?” Renie inquired as a breeze ruffled the plane trees that grew next to the stone wall.

“This way,” Judith replied, then pointed to the path that led to the rear of the house. “She must have left through one of the two back doors, either off the main hall or by the turret stairs.”

“The stables are in the other direction,” Renie reflected as they passed under the gatehouse. “So she could have been leaving the property altogether. Maybe Claire was like us, going for a walk.”

“Maybe.” But Judith didn't sound convinced. “I don't like the sound of this new will. It can't be valid. Arthur Tinsley didn't know anything about it.” Judith kicked at some of the small, downy nuts that had fallen from the plane trees. “Or did he?”

They were again passing the village green. Despite the overcast skies, there were clusters of parents and children putting the open expanse to playful good use. Renie smiled at a teenager who had climbed up to pose beside Sir Lionel Dunk's statue.

“What do you mean?” she asked as Judith turned off from Farriers Lane onto the Little Pauncefoot Road.

“I mean,” Judith explained, “that Arthur Tinsley knew Aunt Pet wanted to change her will. They'd discussed it when he visited her Friday. Presumably, he knew her intentions. That's why he was so muddled when Charles asked him about the will.”

Renie mulled over Judith's words for a moment, then stopped in her tracks. “Hey—wait, coz. I thought we were going to explore the village. We're headed for The Grange.”

Judith gave her cousin an innocent look but kept going. “Oh—are we? Well, why not? Wasn't it your father who always wanted to see what was around the next bend or on the other side of the hill?”

Cliff Grover had possessed a sense of adventure as well as a keen curiosity that covered just about everything he encountered. Not wanting to disavow her patrimony, Renie trudged along beside Judith.

“I have a feeling we're going to call on Colonel Chelmsford,” Renie muttered. “He won't like it.”

“We're merely going to engage him in friendly but possibly revealing conversation,” Judith answered blithely. “Just follow my lead. You know,” she went on in a more serious tone, “I'd like a peek at that new will. I can't believe Pet would leave us the house. It has to be a hoax.”

A fresh-faced young couple on bicycles pedaled by the cousins. “Do you think the rest of the family knows?” Renie asked.

“It doesn't seem like it,” Judith replied as they passed the stone wall that marked the boundary between the Ravenscroft and Chelmsford properties. “We would have heard a huge reaction if they did. I suspect the desk wasn't searched until just before you and I were brought in.”

“Maybe,” Renie suggested, “that's why Wattle and Daub were still there when we left. They wanted to tell Charles and Claire about the will. And Nats and Alex, assuming he ever comes to.”

“Probably,” Judith agreed as they approached The Grange's locked gates. “But what's the point? That's the part I don't get. Is a handwritten will legal in England? I don't even know if it would be at home.”

Aunt Deb had been a legal secretary for over forty years. Renie grimaced as she tried to recall her mother's many admonitions on the law. “If it's not witnessed, it's probably not foolproof. But it would be up to the courts to decide, especially if the attorney—Arthur Tinsley, in this case—could swear that the new will was what the deceased really wanted. There might be a strong argument from the heirs of the previous will, but since Claire's parents are altruistic missionaries in Swaziland, I suspect they wouldn't fight too strenuously.” She paused while Judith tried to figure out how or if they could get Colonel Chelmsford's attention. “If you're thinking about motive, then I'd say everybody at Ravenscroft House had one.
If
they knew that Aunt Pet wanted to change her will and leave them her fortune.”

The gate had an old-fashioned padlock. There seemed to be no method of communicating with the two-story, timber-framed house that sat among the trees. Just as Judith was about to give up, two large sheepdogs ran up the winding drive. They stopped at the wrought-iron gate, settling in on their haunches and barking their heads off. The cousins winced at the noise, but decided to wait and see if the dogs' master would appear.

He did. As before, Colonel Chelmsford was dressed in
brown tweeds and a snap-brim cap. He was carrying a shotgun.

Judith and Renie exchanged anxious glances, but held their ground. The colonel's arrival put an end to the barking, though the dogs remained in place, tongues protruding and panting heavily.

“What's this?” Colonel Chelmsford demanded in a bark no less grating than that of the dogs. “Lost your way, have you?”

Judith smiled engagingly. “No. We met you the other day at Ravenscroft House. Sort of,” she amended. “We heard you served with Uncle Corky in North Africa.”

The shotgun, which had been more or less aimed at the cousins, now wavered. “Colonel Corker? Don't recall. Might have done. Which regiment?”

Fleetingly, Judith wondered whether to elaborate on the lie or revert to the truth. “Uncle
Corky
. Lieutenant Charles Grover, served under Generals Patton and Bradley. Tall, dark, big teeth.
Show him
,” Judith said under her breath, with a nudge for Renie. “Like that.” Judith pointed as Renie drew back her upper lip.

“Frightening,” mumbled Chelmsford, wincing at Renie's overbite. But sticking to the facts generated interest, if not recognition. “Ought to remember anyone who looked like
that
. The fellow would have had Rommel shaking in his boots.”

“Well,” Judith conceded, “it was a long time ago. I suppose in some ways, it seems like yesterday to you.”

“Quite,” Chelmsford agreed, now staring off into the distance. “Hot. Dry. Dusty.”

“That's because it was the desert,” Renie said, now restored to her normal appearance. “You wouldn't mind letting us in…”

“Fuel, that was the thing,” Chelmsford went on, rubbing at his bristling ginger mustache. “The Jerrys needed petrol badly. And there we were, raw recruits just up from…”

Renie leaned against the wrought-iron bars; Judith was forced to stay planted in the muddy drive. She felt the dampness seep into her feet. She wondered if her leather flats were ruined yet. She reflected that Colonel Chelmsford
would have to shut up eventually because World War II had lasted only six years.

“…Blimpy Forstwick, that was the chap's name. Only had nine toes. Don't recall which was missing, shouldn't think he'd have been allowed to sign on, but there it was…”

Renie's eyes had all but disappeared, and her cheeks looked sunken. Judith marveled at how her cousin achieved such a state, while she herself could do no more than to sink slowly into the soft earth of England.

“…If Monty hadn't been a bit of an ass, don't you see. But there I was, at El Alamein, and wouldn't you know, one of these Egyptian chappies, hardly spoke a word of the King's English, brown as a berry, and no sense of hygiene…”

Somehow, the war in North Africa wound down. As usual, the Allies won. When Colonel Chelmsford stopped for breath, Judith was ready:

“What a fascinating life you've led!” she exclaimed, trying to free her shoes. “I can't help but think that in ninety-four years Miss Ravenscroft, too, saw so much! You'll miss her, I imagine.”

Colonel Chelmsford appeared to linger in triumph over the Afrika Korps. “Eh? Miss who?”

“Petulia Ravenscroft.” Judith enunciated the name carefully. “I mean, you've been neighbors for years.”

The chilly hazel eyes said it all: Neighbors weren't necessarily friends. Not in Little Pauncefoot. Colonel Chelmsford looked as if he'd just as soon have had Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel living next door for the past half-century.

“Pigheaded woman,” the colonel finally said, more to the dogs than to his visitors. “Took to notions and wouldn't let go.”

“Oh,” Judith said, still forcing charm. “You're referring to the boundary dispute?”

Colonel Chelmsford frowned. “That—and other things.”

Renie, whose patience was never as unflappable as Judith's, gave a futile yank on the iron bars. “What is this place, anyway? A farm? A retreat house? A rehab center?”

The colonel regarded Renie with mild curiosity. “What became of your teeth? They've gone.”

Renie gave an impatient shake of her chestnut curls. “Never mind my teeth. Your house looks very old and rather lovely. But what's with all the grounds? You seem to have a large piece of property and not much to show for it.”

Sadly, Colonel Chelmsford shook his head. “Plowed under. No one wants to farm another man's land these days. Only thing I grow is vegetable marrows. Gives me room for practice shooting. Clay pigeons. Keeps my eye sharp.”

Judith's smile finally faded. “Oh,” she said in a hollow voice, then waited a full minute. “I suppose we ought to be going.”

The colonel didn't protest. The dogs began to bark again. Judith and Renie moved quickly up the road.

 

“Old futz,” muttered Renie. “How could you encourage him to launch his war stories?”

Two energetic race-walkers breezed by the cousins. “How else could I get him to talk at all? Besides, Uncle Corky
was
in North Africa.”

“I know that. But you didn't learn anything,” Renie pointed out, “except how Chummy Chelmsford got rocks in his socks at Tobruk.”

“I learned more than that,” Judith said with equanimity. “You must pay closer attention and exercise your little—”

“Shove it,” Renie snapped. The smile she bestowed on a redheaded woman pushing a pram was definitely forced. “Okay,” Renie went on in a calmer tone, “so what did your previously pulplike gray cells pick up from Colonel Chelmsford?”

Judith slowed her step, watching the woman and the baby stroll past the church toward the Great Pauncefoot Road. “What? Oh—mainly that the grudges between the Chelmsfords and the Ravenscrofts go further back than the current boundary dispute. Didn't you catch that part about Aunt Pet's ‘notions'?”

“Were they what foiled the German Panzer attack?” Renie inquired dryly.

Judith glanced at Renie in mock reproach. “What I'm saying is that Chummy dismissed the boundary argument as if it were minor compared to ‘other things.' That indicates bigger controversies, probably dating back to…”

The cousins had reached The Old Grey Mare Inn, which faced the Great Pauncefoot-Yeovil Road and took up the space between Farriers Lane and the High Street. Judith was hesitating over which direction to take when a black and white police car bumped down the lane. It came to a complete, abrupt stop at the intersection.

Sergeant Daub was in the driver's seat; Inspector Wattle rolled down his window, calling to the cousins:

“You're to remain in the village,” he shouted. “We're off to Great Pauncefoot to get the lab report. We'll expect to see you both at Ravenscroft 'ouse when we return. Meanwhile, we'll be checking your bona fides.” With a curt nod, the inspector signaled for Daub to drive on.

“Touch my bona fides and you're a dead man!” Renie yelled. Fortunately, the policemen didn't hear her. But several other people out and about in the village did, including the redheaded woman who was now pushing the pram across the road in the direction of the converted almshouses. She turned to stare. Judith was tempted to hail her, but mother and child moved on, turning up a walkway lined with hyacinth and primrose.

“Don't tell me you know her,” Renie said as they wandered into the High Street.

“Of course not,” Judith said.

“Then why the fascination?”

“She's got red hair.”

“So? Lots of people do. Claire, for one. Your husband, for another.”

“That's right.” Judith nodded. “Joe has red hair. That's why I'm fascinated.”

 

The tour of the High Street didn't take long. Since it was the Sabbath, except for an antiques shop that also sold used books, none of the stores was open. Between the inn and
the tea room, Judith noticed the offices of Arthur Tinsley, solicitor, and Lawrence Ramsey, M.D.

“Cute,” Renie remarked, following Judith through the splashes of sunshine on the main road. “Very Olde English. Except it really is. Imagine Nats wanting to mall it over with contemporary claptrap! The buildings are mostly sixteenth century, maybe earlier. The inn has got to be pre-Tudor.”

“How's that?” Judith asked as they reached the first of the dozen almshouses.

“The Old Grey Mare is a reference to Elizabeth Woodville, Edward V's queen,” Renie explained. “She was a commoner.”

Dutifully, Judith deferred to Renie's knowledge of English history. As a master of librarianship, Judith's forte was literature. “So circa the Wars of the Roses?” she asked.