Let's Kill Uncle (13 page)

He really didn’t care too much for vegetables but, as he admitted to himself with a wry smile, they kept the old pelt in good condition.

He wasn’t a dessert man at all and he attributed his flawless teeth to the fact that he never touched sweets. That and heredity, of course.

He was neither a glutton nor a gourmet - simple, perfectly prepared foods were to his taste - but, like One-ear, he ate enormous meals every day or so. The ten-pound roast would provide him with two meals. He followed no regular meal hour pattern; when he was hungry again, he ate again.

Leaving his dinner in the warming oven, he lit a fire in the cobblestone fireplace in the living room and prepared a small table tastefully.

At last he settled down with his dinner, picking daintily until he had finished.

He had brought his own brandy, cigars and Turkish coffee. When the thick coffee was brewed, he sat sipping it from a tiny brass cup, happy and content. He was replete.

It was too early for a prowl, so holding his expensive cigar in one large hirsute hand, he leaned back, as fond old memories crowded in on him.

Have to have the boy over soon and start the treatment again. At the time of Claire, medical authorities said it was impossible. Couldn’t be done. But having read ancient cabalistic treatises and studied rare documents of demonology, he had known better. Unfortunately he was not in a position to write a paper on it. Could he do so, they would be forced to admit he had been right. He was always right. Why, the psychiatrists had even coined a word for it not too long ago - brainwashing.

It worked differently with each individual of course. Would have taken years with old Maude, for instance. Had to expedite matters there. It had gone off beautifully with Claire.

It had been easy with her, foolish, spiritless little creature with her migraine headaches, always complaining that Robert and Maude didn’t understand her.

Oh, Sylvester, clasping her helpless little hands, I really do think my headaches are milder since you hypnotised me. Do you really, my dear? That’s extraordinary. It usually takes four or five sessions, you know. Perhaps we’ll try again tonight, if you feel it helps you.

Started out as a parlour game. Damn clever, that.

A parlour game in that haunted villa. By George, he had had fun haunting that place at midnight.

A delightful spot, rather damp, heavy with miasmas and departed spirits. Place was filled with happy memories, ideal for a neurotic hypochondriac like dear Claire. Silly little ass.

Shelley and Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin stayed there, Mary brooding on
Frankenstein
and Percy seeing the ghost of little Allegra Byron floating through the gloomy halls and beckoning from the misty waters. Percy had drowned practically in the front yard.

Foolish, spineless little creature. Now your eyelids are heavy. You are getting very tired. You are nearly asleep. Now you are asleep.

Your headaches are getting worse. They are blinding you. They are maddening. They are driving you insane.

Six times in the deep trance stage would have been enough - she was an ideal subject - but he’d given her a dozen, just to make sure.

Your headaches are worse. They are maddening. They are driving you insane. It’s Robert’s fault. His and Maude’s. They hate you. They are giving you the headaches. You are going insane. You hate them. Tonight you will get the knife. Tonight you will do it. While he’s asleep. After him, the baby. You will remember nothing when you wake up. You are insane.

By God, what a silly thing she was. She hadn’t done it, of course. Broken down at the last minute and he had had to finish the job for her. But she thought she had, and her mind had certainly got pranged when she believed she’d nearly butchered the baby too.

Still, he musn’t take all the credit. Never would have worked so well if she hadn’t been neurotic to begin with, and the hauntings and postnatal depression had been pure gravy, what with Maude and Robert pooh-poohing her vagaries.

No one to turn to but big, strong, kind Sylvester.

Of course, he had had no idea it took these bloody loonies so long to die a natural death. Thought she’d just curl up and fade away in a few months. Ten years, instead. Been carried away after he’d done in Robert. Had to be so careful. Really impetuous about leading Maude to her Maker. Still, things had worked out very well, except for that damned nurse. Fortunately she had no family. Never even been missed since, as far as he knew. Nonetheless, couldn’t be too careful.

No, it would have been too difficult with Maude. Nothing but bloody murder would do for her or Robert. Hadn’t the imagination of a hinny. No wonder they simply adored horses. Natural affinity. No fools when it came to money though. Close-fisted and hard. That’s how the old man had made it and that’s how they hung on to it. And baby makes three.

Too bad the boy wasn’t like Claire. Just like Maude and Robert. A real Gaunt, stubborn and hard as nails. He would have to work overtime on the boy. Maude had been a tough nut too. Had to use a wrench on her, even after pushing the bloody car over the cliff to make sure.

Good old Maude. Live dangerously, she always said. Proud of driving a car and riding a horse like a man. Horsey bitch. Ah, those lovely winding, dangerous mountain roads.

Courting Maude. What sport. Come into the garden, Maude, and by God, she had. Ogling each other like a couple out of Tennyson. With that face, how she honestly believed a man could marry her for anything but her money. And those pit-pony legs. Ugh!

He’d given her her money’s worth, by George. No one could say he hadn’t helped her to live dangerously.

C
HRISTIE HAD TWO BLOUSES
. The one she was wearing was clean, having been washed the night before, and her best one was drying in the sun on a gooseberry bush, for that afternoon the children were going to tea at Lady Syddyns’s.

The goat-lady was busy canning while the two children sat on the black leather sofa, cuddling Trixie and Tom.

The goat-lady paused in her stirring, gazed at Barnaby critically and sighed. His face was reasonably clean, but the rest of him was, as usual, grubby. Though the Brookses loved him, he still looked like an orphan.

‘Take off your shirt, you’re going to have a wash.’

When he demurred, she merely threatened to cut off his breakfast. Tamed, he followed her.

She filled a basin and took him to the porch. And stripped to the waist, he was scrubbed mercilessly. His cheeks glowed, his ears were a stinging scarlet, and his yellow hair stuck out and shone like the down of a young duck.

When the goat-lady was satisfied he was clean, she washed his shirt and hung it next to Christie’s.

The Islanders were discreetly snobbish and the goat-lady had no intention of letting her charges go in a grimy condition.

Lady Syddyns might be aged, deaf and slightly befuddled, but invitations from her were important, even if they were, much to Miss Proudfoot’s horror, usually extended to the wrong people. Why, she even had Albert to tea.

Lady Syddyns was distantly related to royalty and therefore above reproach. However, as Miss Proudfoot stated to an embarrassed Mr Rice-Hope, who also received the occasional invitation, plainly only certain inferior persons would take advantage of the old woman’s dotage by accepting.

‘Now both of you mind your manners when you’re there. Don’t talk with your mouths full and say thank you. And above all, don’t touch anything. Her house is full of antiques and you’re sure to break something if you do.’

The children nodded but a secret glance passed between them. They fully intended, when the old lady’s back was turned, to lay rude hands upon a gun, if they could.

The goat-lady returned to her stirring and the children to the black sofa, where they sat sniffing and savouring the spicy odours. Clutching the patient little animals, they tilted their noses to catch the tantalising smells of vinegar, onions, cinnamon and cloves.

‘And no matter what you may have heard, don’t say a word about Sir Adrian. She got her hearing aid only two years ago, and she was deaf as a post for forty years before that, so she missed a lot. The rest of us weren’t so lucky.’

The children nodded again, their eyes fastened on the glass bottles that always seemed to be bubbling and gurgling in the big blue-and-white enamel preserving kettle. The
goat-lady canned almost daily for the winter when Per, her fisherman son, would be home.

She pointed to half a dozen jars of tomatoes on the table.

‘Take those down to the cellar for me. After, you can go and hunt for mushrooms in Mr Duncan’s field beyond the fall rye. Go along by the road, though, so he won’t see you. He won’t pick them and there’s no point in letting them go to waste. You aren’t expected at Lady Syddyns’s until three, so you can take a picnic lunch if you want.’

‘Oh, boy!’ said Barnaby.

‘Why doesn’t Agnes pick the mushrooms?’ asked Christie.

The goat-lady sniffed.

‘Her old man won’t allow her that far off by herself. Afraid she might meet someone.’

‘Who?’

‘A man.’

‘What man?’

‘Oh, any man,’ said the goat-lady. ‘Take those down like I asked you to.’

A trap door in the goat-lady’s bedroom led to a stone-lined cellar, where, on long shelves, the glass bottles were stored.

The children were fascinated by the cellar. Regimented on the cobwebbed shelves was the harvest of the Island, emerald bread-and-butter pickles, tiny white onions, sliced cucumbers, sweet gherkins, pale, garlicky dills and brick-coloured chutney laden with crystallised ginger.

The Island produced fruits and vegetables with an almost tropical abundance, and the children never tired of turning and examining the jars.

Beets, peas, beans, asparagus and tomatoes came from the goat-lady’s garden. Plums, strawberries, apples, pears,
peaches, raspberries, blackberries and mushrooms were gathered from deserted fields and orchards.

A big crock of sauerkraut, with a stone on the lid, reeked delightfully in a corner, mingling with the scent of hams, hanging from the rafters.

Jewelled jams, translucent jellies and big bottles of berry wines winked in the faint light. Row after row of squat jars containing salmon, girdled with shining skin in silver belts, gleamed like pink marble. Jars of venison and duck, from Per’s last fall’s hunting, looked sinister and muddy, although the children knew from experience that they tasted delicious. Pickled eggs floated in purple beet juice, chillies and relishes and gnarled brown pickled walnuts stood ready for the goat-lady’s table.

It was a dim, subterranean gourmet’s delight, which the children left reluctantly, for, when they weren’t thinking of murder, their thoughts usually dwelt on food.

Upstairs, the goat-lady handed them two baskets, one for the mushrooms, the other containing their lunch.

‘What’s in it?’ asked Barnaby.

‘Oh, don’t tell, Auntie,’ begged Christie. ‘Let’s save it for a surprise, Barnaby.’

Barnaby agreed. Christie loved surprises, which was fortunate.

Each swinging a basket, they left, dancing down the country lane.

They paused on their way to climb Mr Duncan’s fence and shy a few rocks at the Iron Duke’s sleek behind. In the distance they saw Mr Duncan with his back to them, so they felt safe to stick their tongues out and thumb their noses.

Bob and Bill, the giant Clydesdales, came thundering to the fence, their hairy feet making the earth tremble.

As gentle as puppies, they slobbered on the children’s outstretched hands with velvety noses and nudged and butted each other as they sought the lumps of sugar the children offered them.

When the children reached the field they found that the daisies had pitched their bright camps between the buttercups and mushrooms.

The children worked gaily, tossing mushrooms and toadstools alike into the basket.

‘Auntie can sort them later,’ said Christie.

Barnaby looked at the half-filled basket.

‘There’s nearly enough here. Let’s eat, I’m starving.’

From the lunch basket Christie took out a chequered tablecloth and spread it under an old, moss-covered walnut tree. Then, with their mouths watering, they unwrapped their lunch from the white linen napkins.

‘Gee,’ said Barnaby, ‘egg and lettuce sandwiches, apricot jam tarts, sugar cookies, and oh, look, a bottle of raspberry vinegar! I wish I could stay here all the time. You ought to see what they feed you at boarding school.’

‘Mmmm,’ said Christie, shoving half a sandwich in her mouth, ‘my mother cooks good. Not like this though. Auntie’s the best cook in the world. Things like the sour cream and chives in these sandwiches, my mother wouldn’t think of something like that. Open the raspberry vinegar, I’m thirsty.’

Despite its name, the drink was not sour; it was a nonalcoholic wine made by the goat-lady just for them, and she stopped the fermentation by adding a minute part of vinegar. It tasted and smelled like liquid raspberries and it was the children’s favourite beverage, given to them as a treat.

‘Christie,’ said Barnaby leaning back, ‘you talk about your mother sometimes, but you never talk about your father. Where’s your father, Christie?’