Auntie Mayhem (12 page)

The large, pompous man in the cheap suit took a step forward and cleared his throat. “Wattle, 'ere. Claude Wattle, of the Great Pauncefoot force.” He pointed to the small, uniformed man at his side. “This 'ere's Daub. Alston Daub, my sergeant.” Under heavy lids, Claude Wattle's icy blue eyes settled on the cousins. “And who might you be? The dailies?”

Seeking to forestall an outbreak of ire on Renie's part, Judith stepped in front of her cousin. “We're visitors,” she said, astonished by the squeak in her voice. “Americans. I'm Judith Flynn, and this is my cousin, Serena Jones.” Warily, she moved just enough so that Wattle and Daub could see Renie.

Wattle glowered at the cousins, then glanced at Daub. “You got that?” Scribbling in a notebook, Daub nodded. Wattle looked again at Judith. “That's ‘Flynn' with an ‘F'?”

Judith's jaw dropped. “Ah…yes.”

Renie was pulling her hair. “That's ‘Jones' with a ‘J.' The ‘H' is silent.”

Wattle shot Renie a dark look. “What?”

But Renie wasn't going to prolong the farce. She was at the credenza, pouring herself a cup of tea from the tray that Mrs. Tichborne had left. “Grandpa Grover always warned me against marrying a Welshman,” she muttered. Luckily, no one but Judith seemed to hear her.

Indeed, there wasn't anything to hear from anyone for the time being. Judging from Wattle and Daub's expectant manner, they were waiting for the rest of the Ravenscroft ménage. Mrs. Tichborne returned, this time with a plate of wafers and cheese. Charles entered the room, apologizing for his wife, who would be with them presently. She was getting dressed. And a moment later, a sleepy-eyed Alex Karamzin ambled in and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. Arthur Tinsley was eyeing him with apprehension. Indeed, Arthur seemed to eye everyone with apprehension. Given his legal charge from Aunt Pet, Judith didn't much blame him.

Walter Paget arrived only moments ahead of Claire Marchmont. The only missing person, as far as Judith could tell, was Dora Hobbs. But as family and friends settled into their places, the little maid appeared, looking wan and woebegone. Judith, who was sitting near the door, got up to give Dora her chair.

It was Dr. Ramsey who took charge, apparently at the behest of Wattle and Daub. “The autopsy was completed about half an hour ago,” he said in his most professional manner. “While the chemical analysis won't be finalized until tomorrow, it's accurate to state at this time that Petulia Ravenscroft died from a lethal ingestion of hyoscyamine. We cannot be absolutely certain in what form Miss Ravenscroft consumed the poison, but the stomach contents thus far have yielded several possibilities. Despite my medical advice to the contrary”—here Dr. Ramsey coughed in an apologetic fashion—“Miss Ravenscroft partook frequently of all manner of food and drink. However, by tomorrow, we should have a fair idea how the poison was administered.”

Claire shuddered. “Oh! ‘Administered!' Such an awful word!”

Dr. Ramsey's broad shoulders slumped. “In this context,
it is. But it can't be helped. I was afraid of such a conclusion. The symptoms indicated something other than a seizure or apoplexy as the cause of death.” Fleetingly, his gaze rested on Dora Hobbs.

“Humbug,” Charles said. “How can you be sure? People eat all sorts of things these days. Health foods. Flowers. Foreign stuff, with names you can't even pronounce. The supermarkets are full of them. And now you expect us to believe in…
science?
”

Dr. Ramsey was looking uncomfortable, rubbing his hands together and appealing to Inspector Wattle. “This is how it's done,” the doctor said in a humble voice. “I had to follow procedure…”

Wattle finally thumped to the rescue, planting a big paw on Ramsey's shoulder. “And so 'e does. Daub and I are in charge now, thank you very much. Like Constable Wotsisnyme said, you're all to stay close by. Anyone who does a bunk will be considered 'ighly suspect.” The chilly blue gaze flickered over the gathering.

Judith was trying to figure out the best method of making a getaway when Renie spoke up: “My cousin and I aren't doing a bunk, but we are leaving. We've got a one o'clock train to catch in Yeovil. If nobody minds, we're on our way. Thanks for everything and so long.”

But before Renie could get to the door, Sergeant Daub blocked her passage with his small, wiry form. “Sorry, ma'am,” he murmured. “The inspector means what he says.”

Renie, who was almost as tall as Daub, attempted to stare him down. “Hey, do you have any idea who I am?” she demanded.

Daub tried to look dignified. “No, I do not.”

“Good,” Renie said. “Then you won't give a rat's ass if I take a hike. Come on, coz, let's blow this joint.”

But it was Arthur Tinsley who prevented the cousins' flight, and it was done in the most unexpected of ways:

“Er…” he stammered, half-rising from his chair, “it's not in your best interest…that is…I mean…you really must stay on. Miss Ravenscroft intended to remember you in her will. After all, you
are
family.”

Daub grabbed Renie by the arm; Wattle made a dive for Judith.

The cousins were stuck at Ravenscroft House. Judith wasn't entirely surprised.

But she was certainly chagrined.

W
ATTLE AND
D
AUB
didn't want to hear the cousins try to explain that they weren't actually related to Aunt Pet or any of the other Ravenscrofts or Marchmonts or Dunks. The investigation was under way, and within moments, a half-dozen uniformed policemen had also arrived at the house, ostensibly to search the crime scene.

Judith and Renie, along with the rest of the household, were temporarily confined to the drawing room. Mrs. Tichborne boldly suggested that she would go into the kitchen and prepare lunch. The idea was greeted half-heartedly by Nats and Charles. Renie was still pouting.

Judith had remained standing next to Dora. The little maid was looking upset and confused. Judith patted her frail shoulder.

Dora looked up. “Poison!” she whispered. “I can't believe such a thing! Who would have thought it?”

Judith leaned down. “Have you any idea how Miss Ravenscroft might have gotten hold of…whatever it was that had this stuff in it?” she asked in a low voice.

But Dora looked blank. “Not in the least,” she whispered back. “Mrs. Tichborne it was who fixed her meals. Excepting the ones I did.”

“What about Millie the daily?” Judith was aware that Charles and Claire were both staring.

“Millie!” Dora made a scornful gesture. “I wouldn't let her feed a cat!”

Judith already had considered Aunt Pet's eating habits. In the past twenty-four hours, the old lady had wolfed down everything put before her, including many items that were common to others in the household. But she also had meals brought to her. Then there was the tonic, and presumably other medications as well.

Wattle and Daub returned to the drawing room. They would conduct their inquiries in the parlor. Charles was asked to come along first. He glowered at the policemen, but accompanied them without further ado.

Nats had joined her brother in his foray on the liquor cabinet. “This is all too stupid,” she asserted, pointing an empty glass at Claire. “Have you cabled Uncle George and Aunt Emily in Swaziland with the good news?”

Claire wouldn't meet Nats's belligerent gaze. “Walter—Mr. Paget—was kind enough to send the cable off to my parents. Really, Nats, how can you call it good news?”

“It is, for Uncle George and Aunt Emily.” Deftly, Nats mixed herself a martini. “They haven't been back to England in—what, ten, twelve years? Whenever you and Charles were married. You could hardly say they were close to Aunt Pet. So now they inherit an enormous fortune, with very little grief to show for it.”

“That's not fair.” Lifting her head, Claire gave Nats a resentful look. “My father and mother have devoted their lives to God. They've done wonderful things with the natives. Education. Health care. Work skills. I was raised there until I was seventeen. I saw firsthand the sort of contribution Mummy and Daddy are making. You've no right to criticize. What have you—or Alex—ever done to improve mankind?”

Claire's fervor surprised Judith, though it didn't seem to faze Nats. “I deal in aesthetics,” she replied with a toss of her head. “I make showplaces out of people's homes. It gives them pleasure, and thus a sense of well-being. There's nothing wrong in that.”

“I drive cars very fast,” Alex put in, “and run over a
lot of small animals. Roadkill is very important to keeping a balance in nature.”

Judith didn't know if Alex was teasing or not. Judging from Walter's look of disgust, he took Alex seriously. So, apparently, did Arthur Tinsley, whose thin lips were compressed in revulsion.

“Well?” Nats demanded of Claire. “Are your pious parents coming home for the funeral, or will they stay in the jungle and wait for the money to arrive in big bags marked ‘booty'?”

Claire's spurt of outrage had faded. “They're not near Mbabane, the capital, so it takes some time for them to receive messages. Swaziland is rather primitive. Communications are limited.”

Nats sniffed. “It sounds like a very stupid place. Why haven't your parents introduced fax machines along with all their other bountiful oblations?”

Before Claire could respond, Walter Paget spoke up: “I don't think you understand the problems, Miss Karamzin. Swaziland is extremely small. They reverted to a monarchy after receiving their independence, and progress in general has been difficult. Personally, I find it commendable that Mr. and Mrs. Ravenscroft have done so much with so little all these years.”

“Well,” Nats snapped, “they're about to do it with a lot more. If Swaziland is such a pokey place, they can buy fax machines for everybody. And televisions and hot tubs and Cuisinarts and…”

Renie finally caught Judith's signal to decamp. The cousins slipped into the hall. If not unnoticed, at least their departure wasn't prevented.

“I can't stand listening to family wrangling,” Judith said, vexed. “Haven't we had enough of that with our own shirttail relations?”

They had indeed, and not so long ago, with their Uncle Corky's in-laws. The quarrels had erupted over money then, as they did now at Ravenscroft House. Judith's patience with grasping relatives was very thin.

“Let's see if we can help Mrs. Tichborne in the kitchen,” Judith said, crossing into the dining room. “If
she can roam the house, so can we. Now how could anybody think we're related to this bunch?”

“It's Aunt Pet,” Renie replied. “Somehow, she got a notion that we were connected by blood.”

“Well, she was mistaken.” Judith opened the kitchen door. To her surprise, Mrs. Tichborne was sitting at the table crying. When the housekeeper heard the cousins come in, she looked up, dismay and embarrassment writ clearly on her usually austere face.

“Forgive me,” she said, hastily wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I can't think why…I was just finishing these…” One hand indicated a large silver tray that was piled high with a variety of sandwiches. On the nearby cutting board, several buttered slices of bread sat faceup.

Judith and Renie joined Mrs. Tichborne at the table. “You've been bearing the brunt of the last few hours,” Judith said in a sympathetic voice. “We came to see if we could help. Maybe you ought to lie down for a while. We'll serve lunch.”

It cost Mrs. Tichborne to marshal her self-control, but she managed. “Foolish, that's what I am,” she murmured. “What good are tears? It was all so long ago.” She crumpled the handkerchief and put it into the pocket of her black dress.

Judith tipped her head to one side, the picture of polite curiosity. “What was? You can't mean Miss Ravenscroft.”

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Tichborne's voice was now steady, if not as brisk as usual. “That is, I feel very badly about her passing. Especially if”—the housekeeper gulped—“she was murdered. Greed, that's what it is, plain and simple. Every one of her relatives has been lying in wait to lay hands on her money. And don't they need it! Charles and Claire, living beyond their means. Natasha and Alexei, refusing to hold down decent jobs while lavishing luxuries upon themselves. Even Walter Paget, constantly harping about his horses—yes,” she went on, noting the cousins' quizzical expressions, “his horses. He doesn't particularly care about the hounds and the poor fox, but he cherishes the bloodstock as if it were his own. Of course, it's in his
veins. Walter is obsessed with breeding fine hunters.” Wearily, Mrs. Tichborne sighed.

A brief silence filled the kitchen. Then Judith tried to steer the housekeeper back to the original topic of conversation. “But your distress—is it merely for Aunt Pet and the family?”

A veil seemed to come down over Mrs. Tichborne's colorless eyes. But she wasn't yet ready to retreat into herself. “You're strangers here, for all that your ancestors may have been related to the family.” She ignored the protest forming on Judith's lips. “Where's the harm? It was in April that my Janet disappeared. Twelve years ago, during the All Fools Revels. A day doesn't go by that I don't think maybe I'll hear some word of her. It wasn't like Janet to run off without so much as a by-your-leave. What I'd give to know what happened to her! Then I could close the door and be done with it.”

Renie was trying to keep her eyes off the sandwich tray. “How old was Janet?”

“Seventeen. Ever so pretty, and had brains, when she felt like using them. She planned to be a hairdresser.” Mrs. Tichborne was tucking a few stray strands of hair into her chignon. Apparently, the reference to her daughter's vocation had impelled her to tidy her own coiffure. “She'd 'prenticed to a shop in Great Pauncefoot. But her goal was to work in a London salon. The city had a great pull for Janet. She felt buried in the country.”

“Do you think she went to London?” asked Judith.

Mrs. Tichborne resettled her half-glasses on her nose. “At first, I did. But she didn't take any of her things with her, and there was no word. Ever. That wasn't Janet's way. She could be moody, girls are like that in their teens, but we were on good terms. She would never have gone off and not let me know where she was.”

Another silence fell between the three women. It was broken by the appearance of Charles, who was looking harassed. “I say,” he said in an irascible tone, “are we going to eat or not? Claire has finished with the police and is lying down, but the rest of us are getting hungry.”

With a resumption of her usual efficient manner, Mrs.
Tichborne rose from the chair and began placing sliced turkey on the buttered bread. “We'll be there in two minutes,” she promised. “Would anyone care for soup or salad?”

But sandwiches sufficed. Renie accompanied the housekeeper to the drawing room. Judith remained behind to prepare a tray of coffee and tea. The tea canister was empty. Checking the kitchen cupboards, Judith couldn't find any new tins. Indeed, there seemed to be no staples of any kind on the shelves. It occurred to her that there must be a storage area off the kitchen.

There was, next to the back stairs. A small pantry had been built into what had probably once been a coat closet. Judith found the tea, then glanced out through a window that looked onto the herb garden. A figure was hurrying up the drive. It was Claire, wrapped in her beige raincoat, with a paisley scarf over her head.

Puzzled, Judith returned to the kitchen, where she poured the tin of fresh tea into the canister. She was putting out the teaspoons when Nats wandered into the kitchen, cradling her martini glass.

“You must think I'm dreadful.” The careless flounce of her body suggested that Nats was indifferent to Judith's opinion, but the sulky voice revealed injured pride.

Judith looked up from her tally of teaspoons. “What I think really doesn't matter much, does it? I've witnessed family rows before. Believe me, fighting isn't peculiar to this side of the Atlantic.”

Nats leaned against the work counter. “But don't you care? You and your cousin got cheated, too.”

Judith gave Nats a wry smile. “We never expected to get anything. We don't deserve anything. We're just…guests.”

“Not according to Aunt Pet.” Nats sipped her martini. “Or so she told that dry stick of an Arthur Tinsley. I wish to God I'd known that Auntie had changed her will. Up until last August Bank Holiday, everything was just fine.”

Judith started to pick up the beverage tray, then set it back down. It was heavy, and she had a feeling that there
would be no quick escape from Nats. “Oh? What happened?”

Nats made a face, then finished her drink. “It was all too silly. We'd come down for the better part of a week—Charles, Claire, the twins, Alex, and I. It was to be our usual summer holiday gathering. It was terribly hot, and Aunt Pet despised warm weather. She was testy from the start. Then Charles mentioned that he was glad it was August. At least nothing too dreadful could happen when everyone in The City was away on holiday. Aunt Pet pressed him. He admitted that the Ravenscroft investments were suffering some reverses. Aunt Pet pitched a fit and said maybe she should regain control—Charles seemed to be mucking things up. Charles got angry, Claire tried to defend him in her inept way, and then Alex volunteered to take over. That didn't go down at all well with Charles, and the next thing we knew, Walter had shoved Alex's face into the blanc mange.” Nats paused for breath.

“Walter?” Judith was mystified. “Why did he do that?”

Nats shrugged. “I think it was something Alex said to Claire. A free-for-all broke out, and Harwood got in the thick of things. He ended up being hauled off to the hospital in Great Pauncefoot. The George III epergne fell on him when the table went over.”

“Goodness!” Judith was aghast. “It sounds like a real melee!”

“It was. Aunt Pet said we were all a great bunch of uncivilized animals and unworthy of the Ravenscroft name. Unfortunately, I pointed out that nobody was named Ravenscroft anymore, except her. At least not any of the family who were on hand at the time. She told me that was precisely her point, the family line was diluted with foreigners and middle-class interlopers. We could all go to the devil. Or words to that effect.”

“So she changed her will?”

Nats nodded. “She must have. But not the way she'd intended before the August debacle. I'm not sure how her previous will was drawn up, but it had been made almost twenty years ago, by Arthur's father, Edward Tinsley. In the meantime, Grandmother Genevieve had died. Then my
parents were killed in that awful auto accident. They were all mentioned in the original will, so Aunt Pet had to change it. She gave us to understand that Charles and Claire would get the property, and a fair amount of money. The main stipulation was that the house, its furnishings, and artworks had to stay in the family. That was a bit of a sticking point, but with sufficient funds for maintenance, no one could carp.”

It became clear to Judith why Charles and Claire wanted to convert Ravenscroft House into a B&B. Nats's explanation also provided the reason for the family's inability to sell off the occasional painting.