Auntie Mayhem (14 page)

“And thus pre-Richard III,” Renie said. “Or maybe during his reign. It might have been a knock on Richard's sister-in-law. He wasn't too keen on Elizabeth and her family.” Renie paused, momentarily lost in the mists of Bos-worth Field. “Where are we going?” she inquired in some surprise.

Judith feigned ignorance. “The sun's out. We haven't walked this way, toward Great Pauncefoot. Nice old houses. Pretty gardens. The town isn't more than three miles away.”

“Three miles?”
Renie was horrified.

Naturally, Judith had no intention of going to Great Pauncefoot. Her aversion to covering long distances on foot was almost as great as Renie's. Yet there was something in the spring air that goaded Judith. Perhaps it was the English penchant for walking. Or the freshness of the afternoon, with bright periwinkles, bluebells, and wood anemones clustered under stands of oak and ash. There was very little motor traffic, even along the route to Great Pauncefoot. After crossing an ancient packhorse bridge, the cousins found themselves flanked by orchards bursting with blossoms. They climbed the softest of hills to view the vale below with its neat green fields bordered by hedgerows and
copses. The vista stretched before them to the horizon, tranquil and timeless, essentially English.

“My feet are killing me,” Renie said. “We must have walked five miles. Can we go back now? Or is there a bus?”

“Oh, good grief!” Judith cried. “We haven't gone more than half a mile!”

“Good. Then we won't have more than half a mile to walk back.” At the side of the road, Renie did an about-face.

But Judith kept going. There were more houses now, bearing discreetly lettered names such as “River's Bend,” “The Willows,” and “Xanadu.” Renie yelled at Judith to stop, but got no response. Indeed, a hundred feet up the road, Judith turned off.

By the time Renie caught up, Judith was at the door of a two-story thatched and whitewashed cottage with shrubbery that looked as if it had been clipped with a scalpel. A small sign bearing the words “Mon Repos” hung from the little roof over the porch.

“What in the world are you doing?” Renie demanded in annoyance. “Or,” she added, brightening, “is this the bus depot?”

Before Judith could explain, a middle-aged woman with unnatural gold hair and tight facial features opened the door. There was nothing wrong with the prim little mouth, the turned-up nose, or the sky-blue eyes. But any kinship with beauty was spoiled by the sour expression. In addition, the woman looked at Judith and Renie as if they were virulent germs.

“Mrs. Tinsley?” Judith said in her warmest voice. “Is your husband at home?”

“No.” The small, red mouth grew even tighter and the little nostrils flared.

“Oh.” Judith's disappointment overflowed. “Oh, dear!”

Lona Tinsley's small, slim body was encased in a black pleated skirt, a navy-blue pullover, and the hint of a white blouse, the collar of which lay chastely at her throat. She seemed quite unmoved by Judith's obvious despair.

“When do you expect him?” Judith finally asked.

Mrs. Tinsley's short lashes fluttered ever so slightly. “I really couldn't say.”

Again, Judith waited, hoping to goad Mrs. Tinsley into speech. But no further words were discharged by those prissy little lips. Judith sighed heavily.

“It's extremely urgent,” she said, all pleading earnestness. “May we leave a message?”

Mrs. Tinsley didn't actually unbend, but she permitted a muscle to twitch along her jawline. Judith wondered if it showed interest. Or if the woman had a tic. “May I ask who is calling on Mr. Tinsley?” inquired his spouse.

Judith's nod was eager. “Certainly. I'm Mrs. Flynn, and this is Mrs. Jones, my cousin.” Judith ignored the fact that Renie was now sitting on the steps with her back turned. “We must talk to Mr. Tinsley at once about”—she lowered her voice and coughed discreetly—“the will. We're leaving tomorrow, you see.”

Mrs. Tinsley looked as if tomorrow couldn't come too soon. “Then you'd best go back where you came from,” she said. “That is, to Ravenscroft House, I assume? Mr. Tinsley returned there a quarter of an hour ago.”

“Ah!” Judith sounded relieved, even as she strained to get a look at the interior of Mon Repos. From what she could see of the hallway and a corner of the parlor, the house was immaculately maintained and scrupulously well-ordered. Mrs. Tinsley no doubt considered visitors messy by definition. If the mistress of Mon Repos suffered from bouts of ill health, possibly they were triggered by over-zealous cleaning. “You're right,” Judith agreed, “we ought to head back to Little Pauncefoot. We walked. Maybe we passed Mr. Tinsley on the road and didn't realize it.”

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Tinsley was indifferent. It was clear that she didn't care if the cousins had passed a Gypsy caravan, a traveling circus, or Sherman marching through Georgia. “Good day,” she said, and quietly, if firmly, closed the door.

On feet of lead, Judith descended the three stairs that led to the front porch. “Rats,” she muttered, starting down the walk with its close-cropped privet hedge. “Now we'll have to…”

But Renie was still sitting on the step. She pretended to ignore Judith, her gaze fixed somewhere in the direction of the river that flowed in back of Mon Repos.

“Come on, coz,” Judith finally said in exasperation. “You're the one who wanted to go back to Ravenscroft House.”

Slowly, Renie turned. “I think I'll stay here and take tea with Mrs. Tinsley. She's such fun. Maybe we can bond and become bosom buddies. Of course, she doesn't have any. Bosom, that is. I'm always suspicious of flat-chested women.” In a sudden burst of anger, Renie flew off the steps. “Now you tell me what that was all about or I'll bust your chops. Why the hell did we have to walk damned near a mile to get the deep freeze from Arthur Tinsley's dry-as-dog-food wife?”

Judith had the grace to looked chagrined. “I thought he was home. That's where he said he was going. And he did,” she added with a dash of fervor. “It's not my fault he went back to Ravenscroft House. He probably found the previous will. As for the new one, it's a cinch that nobody else is going to tell us about it.”

The cousins were now both hoofing it along the road, almost running past “The Larches” and “Shangri-la” and “Chez Boothby.” A lone jogger passed them at his peril. The gentle rise they had ascended earlier suddenly seemed as steep as the hills in their native heath. Overhead, gray clouds scudded across the sky to obscure the late afternoon sun.

“Listen, you idiot,” Renie panted, “you're supposed to be the one for whom logic is an icon. If the cops only found the will before they saw us, Arthur Tinsley wouldn't have known about it. He left before that, remember?”

“Shoot,” Judith gasped, now going downhill and regaining her breath, “that's true. But he should have known. He's the solicitor, right?”

“Right,” Renie agreed, her ire cooling with the weather. “Except that Aunt Pet hadn't signed the blasted thing. So maybe he never saw it, either. So why do we care? We don't know if the thing's valid.”

“We care,” Judith said, slowing down at the stone
bridge, “because we're murder suspects. We care because we're meeting Joe and Bill in Edinburgh Wednesday night. We care because we don't want the ugly blot of divorce on our family escutcheons.”

For at least a full minute, or until they reached the pastel perfection of the orchards, Renie was silent. “Does that mean you're seriously sleuthing? I should have known.”

“You bet,” Judith responded. “Oh, I'm not discounting Inspector Wattle and Sergeant Daub. I have the greatest respect for the English police. Goodness knows, I've read enough mystery novels. But time is of the essence. We could leave Ravenscroft House as late as Wednesday and still get to Edinburgh on time. I'd rather not cut it so close, though. We're supposed to be gone tomorrow so that we can shop till we drop.”

“I'm about to drop now,” Renie admitted as they approached the outskirts of Little Pauncefoot. “I'm also starving. Will Tichborne have any sandwiches left?”

“I think,” Judith said, as they passed the almshouses and headed for Farriers Lane, “she'll have to make more to go around. E'en now, as they say in English literature, the police draw nigh.”

Sure enough, the black and white car had turned into the lane. So did the cousins, wondering what hath the lab analysis wrought.

A
MID THE LENGTHENING
afternoon shadows, the household reassembled in the drawing room. Judith and Renie were the last to arrive, breathless from their gallop down Farriers Lane. A belligerent Charles glowered behind his wife's chair. Claire looked nervous as she fingered the long gold chain that hung over her black cashmere sweater. Alex was bleary-eyed, and Nats wore a full-fledged pout. Walter Paget registered no emotion, while Arthur Tinsley seemed to fade into the Flemish tapestry. Mrs. Tichborne sat next to Dora Hobbs. The housekeeper was vigilant, as if primed for trouble; the maid cowered, tiny hands clenched in her lap. Harwood, as usual, exhibited all the animation of a waxworks dummy.

Inspector Wattle displayed due deference, though Judith detected an underlying relish as he made his announcement: “We have the lab findings. The quantity of 'yoscyamine in Miss Ravenscroft's system was sufficient to kill 'er. Further testing will determine if other toxic substances were involved. We're told that the poison was most likely contained in at least one of the four chocolate liqueurs she consumed in the last twelve 'ours of 'er life. The same poison was found in two of the remaining chocolates in the box we removed from 'er bedroom. The inquest, which is a mere formality, will be 'eld tomorrow at ten
A
.
M
. in the meeting 'all at the village library.”

A brief silence ensued. It was Claire who spoke first: “Oh! Chocolates! Auntie wasn't supposed to eat chocolates! How naughty of her!”

Alex stirred himself to a derisive laugh. “Served her right then, eh, Claire? She might have died even if somebody hadn't laced the chocolates with hyo…whatever it's called.”

“Oh, Alex,” Claire cried, close to tears, “that's very cruel!”

Alex sneered. “Not so cruel as whoever poisoned Aunt Pet.” His black eyes came into focus as he gazed around the room. “Who was it? Not me, I can tell you that much.”

Inspector Wattle loudly cleared his throat. “This isn't the place for a row, if I may say so. Does anybody 'ere know 'ow Miss Ravenscroft came by those chocolates? They're St. Cloud brand, available anywhere.”

The candy maker's name meant nothing to Judith and Renie, who presumed that St. Cloud didn't export to the States. But all eyes had turned to Dora. The little maid blushed furiously and wrung her hands. “
I
don't know! Chocolates, indeed! I never once saw Miss Petulia eat chocolates!”

Nats stood up and went to the bar. “She didn't take them in an IV drip. How well do you see, Dora?”

Dora's hands now fluttered every which way. “Really, I…My sight's not what it once…Still, I'm not blind…”

“You mustn't blame Dora,” Mrs. Tichborne broke in, her voice like steel. “If Miss Petulia wanted to eat the armoire, there would have been no stopping her. She was a most determined woman.”

“But
who
?” Claire wailed. “Who would do such a terrible thing? It was thoughtless enough to give Auntie chocolates, but to put poison in them is wicked!”

The understatement riled Charles. “Of course it is! Unless,” he added, lowering his voice, “Aunt Pet bought them herself.”

Grasping a bottle of Beefeaters' gin, Nats scoffed. “She wouldn't poison herself. Not like that.”

Alex eyed the gin bottle covetously. “She wouldn't poi
son herself in any event. She was having too good a time making the rest of us miserable.”

“Oh, hush up!” Nats ordered her brother, with a warning glance. “Don't go digging a hole for yourself, you twit!”

Once again, Inspector Wattle was forced to intervene.

“'Ere now, let's be calm. My men and I must get on with the investigation. But first, there's the matter of the wills.” His small, piercing eyes rested on Arthur Tinsley. “Did you find the previous document among your papers, sir?”

Arthur Tinsley appeared overcome by embarrassment. “I did not,” he responded in a fragile voice. “I searched both at my office and my home. My recollection is that Miss Ravenscroft kept one copy and I had the other. Yet both have now…disappeared.” He lowered his eyes, studying the high gloss on his black oxfords.

“Well, now.” Wattle fingered his stubby chin. “That leaves us with the 'andwritten will. Now that you've seen it, what's your legal opinion, Mr. Tinsley? Qualified, of course. I know 'ow you fellows operate.”

Arthur actually ran a finger inside his shirt collar. “Well…It's what Miss Ravenscroft intended to formalize at our next meeting, which was scheduled for tomorrow. Or so she indicated on Friday. Basically, it's the same document she had me draw up for her in April of last year. With…ah…one exception.” He studiously avoided looking in Judith and Renie's direction.

“And?” Inspector Wattle prodded.

Arthur moved three steps to the bar and poured himself a glass of water from a lead-crystal decanter. “The addition was the bequest to Mrs. Judith Flynn and Mrs. Serena Jones. They were to receive the gatehouse.”

“The
gatehouse
!” The words were echoed by several people, including the cousins.

Charles was more specific, his face set in stone. “Not
this
house, then?” He saw Arthur give a shake of his head. “I should think not!” Charles asserted, trying to tone down his triumph. “Then the remaining property goes to me? And my wife, of course.”

“That was Miss Ravenscroft's intention,” Arthur said primly. “As I mentioned a moment ago, except for the
gatehouse, the handwritten will is otherwise the same document that was in effect from April until last August when my client became…vexed, and drastically changed her mind. As I believe most of you know, Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont were to inherit Ravenscroft House and the land on which it stands, as well as a percentage of the estate. Trusts were to be set up for Miss Karamzin and Mr. Karamzin, and turned over to them upon marrying or reaching thirty years of age, whichever came first. Meanwhile, they would be permitted to draw on the interest. There was also a trust for each of Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont's twin boys. Mr. and Mrs. George Ravenscroft were to inherit shares in a profitable electronics firm. Miss Hobbs, Mrs. Tichborne, and Mr. Harwood were also provided for, as were various charities, including St. Edith's Church.” Arthur stopped to take a long drink of water.

Charles seized the opportunity to urge the solicitor to get to the point. “Dammit, man, is this new will legal or not?”

Arthur swallowed hard. “Naturally, under the circumstances…er…there must be some…ah…question of its validity. The will was signed, but not witnessed. The first step would be to prove that the handwriting was indeed Miss Ravenscroft's and not a…um…forgery.” The solicitor looked as gloomy as a man going to the gallows tree.

“Bilge,” snapped Nats. “Nobody had handwriting like Aunt Pet. It was that old-fashioned spidery kind. Did she revoke the previous will or not?”

This time, Arthur's nod was almost imperceptible. “She so stated. Miss Ravenscroft was very precise, very thorough. But there's still the matter of the will which was made last August and duly—”

Alex spun around to confront Arthur. “We have only your word for it that a different will existed. See here, Tinsley, unless you can produce a copy of the revised August document, we're closing ranks against you.” The glance that Alex gave his relatives found no opposition.

Arthur folded, literally, hunched over on a Chippendale chair. “It's a point well-taken, Mr. Karamzin. I shouldn't
fight you over it. Only my honor and my ethics are at stake.”

Charles administered a hearty slap to Arthur's back. “We believe you, Arthur. But having the interim document turn up missing is a blessing in disguise. It was obviously a whim of Aunt Pet's after the dust-up during August bank holiday. We can all pretend it never existed, eh? Think of the trouble it will save!”

The deep creases in the solicitor's high forehead indicated he wasn't in complete agreement. But his manner was meek as he replied: “Well…yes…seeing that Miss Ravenscroft didn't intend to let it stand. Of course there's the matter of Mr. and Mrs. Ravenscroft in Swaziland. If you wish, I can write to them. I shall have to anyway, whatever the outcome. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to provide me with their address…”

“Gladly,” Charles all but shouted. In a lightning move, he produced a pen and a piece of paper, handing both to the solicitor. “Claire, give Arthur your parents' address. You must know it off the top of your head.”

Claire did. She recited slowly, as Arthur wrote in his neat, if cramped, style. “Until we have a ruling from the probate court, I shall inform them that they are co-heirs,” he said, putting both paper and pen into the inside pocket of his suitcoat.

“Bugger probate court!” Charles boomed. “Why do we need it? If you can't find Aunt Pet's August prank, no one need know. It's pure fiction! And give me back my pen, Tinsley.” Charles narrowed his eyes at Arthur, though his mouth was curved in a smile. “You legal chaps make enough off your fees without stealing clients' property.”

Arthur blanched, then handed back the pen. “Awfully sorry. I tend to become distracted sometimes. Really, I must recommend that we go through proper channels…”

Ignoring Arthur's anxious protests, Nats turned to Claire. “Your parents won't contest the will. They're a zillion miles away, and they have no resources except for beads and bones and whatever else they use for money in Swaziland. They don't even have a fax machine.”

Walter Paget had stepped forward, offering a shield be
tween Nats and Claire. “Of course they don't. I've already explained the primitive conditions. Besides, they're dedicated missionaries. They'll see this as God's will.”

“It's Aunt Pet's will, not God's,” Nats sniffed. “If she'd wanted to keep the August will, she wouldn't have written a new one. It must have been very hard for her, with her arthritis.”

Charles was looking smug. “She made the August will in a fit of temper. Common sense must prevail. It would be unthinkable not to abide by her last wishes.”

A murmur of assent rumbled around the room. Only the cousins were silent. Or so it seemed, until Judith realized that there was one other exception: Walter Paget remained frozen in place. He had also been frozen out of the will.

The other servants had been at Ravenscroft House longer, but the steward had at least a decade of service. It didn't seem right for Pet to exclude him. Judith wondered why.

 

The police had gone about their business, including a thorough search of the entire house and grounds. Given the size of the property, Judith assumed they'd be combing through storerooms, pastureland, and cellars for days.

Nor did she know what they expected to find. More chocolates, perhaps, or the source of the poison. After the family group had partially dispersed, Judith put the question to Mrs. Tichborne.

“How should I know?” the housekeeper asked in a testy tone. “It's just as well that Miss Ravenscroft is dead. If she were alive, she'd hear all about how I haven't kept up every nook and cranny of this big old place. How can I, with only daily help?”

Judith nodded in sympathy. “I've been meaning to clean our basement ever since the remodeling seven years ago. If I ever get around to it, I'm sure I'll find stuff that's been there since the house was built in 1907.”

Mrs. Tichborne huffed. “Think 1597. Your home is comparatively new.” She wrestled a large ham on the kitchen counter. Supper preparations were under way, and the cousins had volunteered to help. Mrs. Tichborne didn't
reject the offer this time. Officially, it was her day off, and she wasn't inclined to prepare a hot meal. Instead, the family would be served a cold collation. “Maybe,” the housekeeper went on, her ire cooling, “they'll turn up the jewels Mrs. Ravenscroft swore were stolen.”

Momentarily, Judith was puzzled. “
Mrs
. Ravenscroft? Now which one would that be?”

With a scowl at Renie who had already filched a slice of ham, Mrs. Tichborne brandished the kitchen knife. “Genevieve Ravenscroft, the Frenchwoman. Even in her dotage, she ranted about how she'd had her diamond choker and ruby earrings stolen. Miss Ravenscroft—her sister-in-law—didn't believe it for a minute. She said Mrs. Ravenscroft was careless. She'd put them somewhere, and couldn't remember.”

Renie was licking her lips over the last morsel of ham. “Diamonds and rubies, huh? That sounds like pretty expensive forgetfulness.”

The housekeeper shrugged. “Lady Cordelia had plenty of other pieces that were handed down to the next generation. I'm told that Sir Henry Ravenscroft doted on his wife. The French daughter-in-law got most of them. Chauncey Ravenscroft's wife, Hyacinth, was too godly to wear gems, and Miss Petulia didn't care for anything showy. Anyway, I don't think the missing pieces ever turned up. I would like to see them find Bothwell, though.”

Judith paused in putting sweet pickles on a three-tiered server. “Bothwell? What was it, a family pet?”

“No, no,” Mrs. Tichborne replied. “It was a costume for the All Fools Revels. Participants dress up as actual characters from the Elizabethan period. Sir Walter Raleigh. The Earl of Essex. Bess of Hardwicke. And of course Mary, Queen of Scots, and the Earl of Bothwell. The costumes have all been copied from portraits and are very authentic. The Ravenscrofts always store them here.” Suddenly, her face sagged. “My Janet got the blame for Bothwell's disappearance. She wore the costume that year. And didn't it suit her, with those long, lovely legs! How she and her partner danced! The galliard, I think it's called. They do it every year.”

The housekeeper bit her lip in an effort at self-control. “But of course she didn't take the Bothwell costume with her. Why would she do such a thing? Ever since, whoever plays Queen Mary has had to make do with the Earl of Darnley.”