Auntie Mayhem (25 page)

But Judith had a question for Charles. “Say, when was that memorial to the Dunks completed? The new one, that includes what I assume is the Ravenscroft arms.”

Charles looked blank, then tapped his temple. “I remember now. It was restored in time for our wedding. Twelve years ago, come June.”

Renie had wandered away from the tapestry to stand by a seventeenth-century Venetian chair. “What happened to it?” she inquired, leaning on the gilt-edged back.

Charles shrugged. “It was struck by lightning during a severe winter storm. Sir Lionel was knocked right off his perch. For some reason, the original stone base wasn't the same type that was used in most of the other buildings around here, including Ravenscroft House. A rebel Dunk, with radical ideas, I suppose. Aunt Pet wanted consistency, so they tore up the base and rebuilt it. They also stuck Sir Lionel's ear back on. Or was it his nose?” Charles frowned, apparently trying to picture the damaged statue.

“It's very handsome,” Judith said in a noncommittal tone.

Charles harrumphed. “It should be. It cost the world. But for once, Aunt Pet didn't balk at expense. She never even flinched when she got the bill. I know, I was there at the time. Claire and I were man and wife by then.” He grew wistful, perhaps recalling happier days.

Staring into her cognac, Judith let Renie speak for both of them. “Go ahead, Charles, tuck yourself in. We're fine. By the way,” she continued, with a meaningful look at Judith, “we don't intend to keep the gatehouse. We think Walter should have it.
All things considered
.”

“What things?”

“Family things,” Renie replied calmly. “We came, we
saw, we listened. Beatniks, hippies, angry young men and women—we've lived through it all.”

Charles flushed. “You know?” he gasped. “I only found out just now from Nats. How…?”

Renie waved a hand. “My cousin has a unique way about her. She meets somebody, and two minutes later they're spilling their guts. Walter deserves the property. He's family. We're not.”

Judith gave Charles a sheepish smile. “Renie's right. We'll have everything straightened out before we leave.”

“That's awfully good of you,” Charles said, almost stammering. “Walter will be grateful. Someday. He can be a stormy petrel, you know.”

“He can be one in the gatehouse,” Renie said. “Good night, Charles.”

With a small wave, Charles left the parlor. As the door closed behind him, Judith sprinted across the room.

“Where are the cops?” she demanded, as if Renie ought to know.

“Gee, coz, how about at the cop shop? Where else would they be?”

Judith shook her head impatiently. “No, they were holding forth in this very room. Now they've gone. Have they solved the case, or given up? Is the Yard coming in? Why isn't somebody on duty, watching this place? Constable Duff, I suppose, making the rounds on his bicycle. Damn! Why does England have to be so law-abiding? Why can't they be violent, like us?”

Renie drained her glass. “They're violent enough. They just do it with less noise. How many bodies do you want to rack up on this trip?”

Judith, however, was already out of the parlor, heading for the stairs. “I'm not worried about the body count. Come on, we're going to the library.”

“What for?” Renie asked, attempting to take two steps at a time to catch up. “Are we calling your mother again?”

“No,” Judith answered, sprinting across the landing. “We're calling the police.”

“Whew!” Renie breathed. “That's better! For a second, I thought we were in trouble!”

 

Inspector Claude Wattle wasn't in. The desk sergeant—or at least that was who Judith presumed had answered the phone—was reluctant to pass on a message, especially from an American. Judith relayed her ties to Ravenscroft House. The sergeant succumbed. If the inspector thought it necessary, he'd call back. Judith hung up.

She gritted her teeth. “Dare I call Mother at the island? What if Wattle calls back?”

“He won't.” Renie was standing by one of the tall bookshelves, fingering a vintage copy of
Martin Chuzzlewit
. “Besides, your mother never talks very long.”

Resignedly, Judith put through the call to Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince's island home. They had moved there from the city upon Uncle Vince's retirement as a taxi driver. Uncle Vince had been a good taxi driver, as long as he stayed awake. Certainly his fares always felt relaxed in his company. At least until the cab began to drift aimlessly through the streets.

Auntie Vance answered in her typical ear-rattling manner: “Hello? Judith? What the hell are you doing, calling from England? You think I don't know how to take care of a semi-invalid? Hell's bells, I've been married to your uncle for almost forty years! He may not be sick but he sure as hell is nuts!”

Judith—and the rest of the family—were used to Auntie Vance's critical attitude toward her mate. Indeed, Auntie Vance tended to be critical of everything and everybody.

“I'm checking on Mother,” Judith replied, and immediately realized it was the wrong thing to say. “I mean, I wanted her to know I was thinking about her.”

“You're
thinking
? This is news!” cried Auntie Vance in mock surprise. “But it sure as hell isn't worth the money you're forking out to tell me over the phone. You could have sent a postcard. Or have you learned to spell yet?”

As ever, Judith tried to take the badgering as it was intended. Except that with Auntie Vance, she was never quite sure what was
really
intended. “If I could just talk to Mother for a minute…”

Though Vanessa Grover Cogshell's tongue was as tart
as—and saltier than—Gertrude's, she was much more reasonable. “Okay, I'm taking the phone to the old fart now. Good God, Judith, how do you put up with her? She's ornery as a goat and dumb as a bag of bricks! If you don't get home soon, I'm going to row her out in Uncle Vince's leaky boat and drown her!”

Gertrude's raspy voice could be heard away from the phone. “Mind your manners, Vanessa. Have I told you lately you're getting fat as a pig?”

“Shut the hell up, you miserable old…” Auntie Vance's words became muffled, for which Judith was thankful.

“Hi, Mother,” Judith said, forcing cheer into her voice and rolling her eyes at Renie, who was now sitting on the edge of Charles's desk. “How do you feel?”

“With my fingers,” Gertrude snapped back. “Now what? Haven't you got anything better to do than sit around and make expensive phone calls?”

“I've been worried,” Judith said calmly. “In fact, I feel guilty, being on vacation while you're in pain and Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince have to—”

“You ought to feel guilty,” Gertrude broke in. “What else are children for? As far as I'm concerned, you should feel so blasted guilty that it ruins your whole trip. Ha-ha.”

Judith knew, of course, that Gertrude wasn't really laughing. Unless she was so pleased to have one-upped her sister-in-law Deborah in the Only Daughter's Guilt-Ridden Stakes.

“Look, Mother,” Judith said, still reining in her annoyance, “I actually can't keep this phone tied up. How are you doing?”

“As I please,” Gertrude shot back. “At least,” she added, lowering her voice and speaking closer to the mouthpiece, “as much as your Auntie Vance will let me. That woman is a
terror
. And she
has
put on weight. Her backside is—”

Now reassured as to her mother's well-being, Judith decided to break off the call. “I have to go now, Mother. There's a ruthless murderer on the loose. Ha-ha.”

“Ha-ha? What's funny about
that
?” Gertrude retorted. “It wouldn't be the first time, where you and your dim
bulb cousin are concerned. All the same, don't put any nickels up your nose, kiddo. So long.” To Judith's chagrin, Gertrude hung up first.

“She seems to be doing well,” Judith said in a bemused voice.

“No kidding,” Renie murmured. “Say, speaking of ruthless murderers, do you think Bill and Joe would have heard about Aunt Pet's poisoning?”

Anxiously, Judith sat back in the chair, eyeing the phone. “No. They're off in the Highlands, and probably haven't seen a newspaper. Certainly not a TV. Gosh,
we
haven't seen the news since we got here. I gather Aunt Pet took the papers, but Dora's probably set fire to them by now.”

Renie considered her cousin's words. “Yes—you're right. This hasn't been a media circus, thank goodness. And if we're isolated here in Somerset, Bill and Joe are really cut off from the world. Which is good. For all of us.” She leaned on one hand, regarding Judith in a confidential manner. “Now tell me why you're so anxious to get hold of Inspector Wattle. You know how I hate to be left in the dark.”

“I didn't mean to,” Judith said with a feeble smile. “It all just came to me while I was talking to Charles. One thing kept popping up from everybody in the last few days. It had to do with what—”

The phone rang then, a soft burring sound. Afraid that someone else in the household might answer, Judith snatched up the receiver. To her relief, Inspector Wattle was at the other end. He didn't sound pleased about being contacted by the American tourists. Judith sought to placate him.

“I know you'll think I'm being silly,” she began, hearing a faint click on the line, “but a number of pieces of information have fallen…uh…into my hands. Verbally, for the most part, but along with studying the personalities of the suspects, I think it might be crucial to…” She paused, wondering nervously if someone was listening on an extension. “If you could dig up Sir Lionel Dunk's monument.”

If Claude Wattle was incredulous, Renie was stupefied.
She gaped at Judith. Judith, in turn, blanched at Wattle's response. He didn't brook interference. He despised amateur meddling. He couldn't take seriously suggestions from any laypersons,
American visitors
in particular.

“I know it sounds goofy,” Judith broke in, “but I've had some experience—”

“Experience!” huffed Wattle. “You watch the telly. See 'ere, Mrs. Flynn, we've brought in the Yard. They've got their experts, topnotch, dealing in evidence
and
personality. Psychological profiles, we call 'em over 'ere. We may seem backward to you Yanks, but we're on top of this.”

“I'm sure you are,” Judith said, “and if that's true, then is it all right if my cousin and I leave Ravenscroft House tomorrow or early Wednesday? We have to meet our—”

Wattle, however, was speaking right over Judith: “—first thing in the morning. We need daylight for a proper job of it. Cutting tools, a stone mason, the works. Wouldn't want the locals complaining that we'd defaced Dunk, would we?”

“What?” Frowning at Renie, Judith clutched the receiver. “You mean you're really going to open up the monument after all? How did you know?”

The inspector chortled. “Now, now, Mrs. Flynn, those other North American colonists aren't the only ones who always get their man. Or woman. I told you, we brought in the Yard. They know what they're about. Ta-ta for now.”

Hanging up the phone, Judith made a face at Renie. “He's figured it out, too. Or Scotland Yard has. Oh, well. I said I had faith in the English police, didn't I?”

Renie nodded. “So why do you look like a plate of warmed-over worms? You should be relieved. We can go meet Bill and Joe. However,” she added ominously, “you go nowhere until you tell me everything.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Judith did just that. Renie evinced shock at first, then began to realize that her cousin's theory was sound. As ever, it was logical.

“How do you suppose the police figured it out?” Renie asked in semi-wonder.

“The same way I did,” Judith answered promptly. “The
clues always pointed to one person and one person only. It was just a matter of hitting on the precise motive.”

The phone rang again, but this time Judith didn't pick up the receiver. “It can't be for us,” she said, rising from behind the desk.

But it was. As the cousins left the library, Mrs. Tichborne was hurrying up the stairs. Mr. Tinsley had called Mrs. Flynn. He'd only just gotten the message from Mrs. Tinsley about Judith's visit.

Judith and Renie returned to the library. Arthur Tinsley apologized profusely for the delay, but said his wife had come down with neuralgia. What sort of “peculiarity” was Mrs. Flynn referring to in the handwritten will?

With a distressed glance at Renie, Judith summoned up her courage. “It's the gatehouse clause,” she hedged. “We want to sign it over to Walter Paget. Can you make the arrangements?”

A sharp breath of surprise came through the receiver. “Are you quite sure this is what you meant?” the solicitor asked in his most precise voice.

“Mean—or meant?” Judith frowned at Renie.

Arthur didn't answer directly. Judith could picture him furrowing his brow and fidgeting with his pen, while deliberating on the matter at hand. At last he said that he could meet with the cousins Monday at one o'clock. “Is that satisfactory?”

It wasn't. Juidth explained that she and Renie wanted to leave on the first morning train.

“Well.” Arthur cleared his throat. “I realize it's after ten, but would it be possible to meet tonight?”

“Ah…” Judith sounded faintly dismayed. “Aren't we rushing things?”

The solicitor's tone warmed slightly. “No, I assure you. It's a simple matter. If we do it now, it will expedite your departure.” He paused, apparently considering his next words with his usual care. “If you like, I could come to Ravenscroft House within the next half-hour. Will Mr. Paget be present?”

Judith was forced into an evasion. “I'm not sure where Mr. Paget is. Does he have to be there?”