Auntie Mayhem (24 page)

Having established Balthazar's well-being, Judith couldn't figure out a way to tie in the attempted insurance fraud with Aunt Pet's murder. If Charles needed money because he had unwittingly helped bankrupt the estate, then it would have been in his best interest to keep Aunt Pet alive as long as possible. Or so Judith reasoned.

Nor did the startling revelation about Dora Hobbs aid in solving the mystery. Indeed, it seemed to Judith that Dora herself didn't know her father's identity. The colonel had gone on to explain that he had only found out about his relationship to Dora several weeks after Clarence Chelmsford's death in February. Clarence had left a letter, written many years earlier, admitting his liaison with the Ravenscroft lady's maid. He had also expressed remorse for treating Petulia Ravenscroft “like a cad” and asked his son to take her some mementos. Petulia, in turn, had treated the colonel with scorn. She was not of a forgiving nature. Or so it seemed—except that she had obviously kept the items that had belonged to her former suitor.

“I imagine Aunt Pet had a lot to say about Dora living at Ravenscroft House,” Judith remarked as they headed past the gatehouse. “Maybe she felt that if she could never be Clarence's wife and have a child by him, she'd keep his baby.”

“She kept her in her place,” Renie noted. “Dora wasn't treated like a daughter, but turned into servant.”

“That would fit Aunt Pet's way of looking at things,” Judith said, half-hearing the song of a treecreeper as it climbed up the trunk of an oak, searching for insects. “She'd provide a home for Dora, but she wouldn't raise her to the same social plane.”

Approaching the rear of the house, Judith and Renie were admitted by a frazzled Mrs. Tichborne. “All these meals!”
she complained, hurrying back into the kitchen. “The family must hire more help. I can't be expected to cook constantly.”

The cousins offered to pitch in, but the housekeeper had her pride: “Never let it be said that Hester Tichborne doesn't give satisfaction. Besides, I've got things under control. We'll eat at seven-thirty.”

“Won't your duties ease up when the Marchmonts and the Karamzins return to London after the funeral?” Judith inquired.

Cutting chicken with a cleaver, Mrs. Tichborne gave Judith a patronizing look. “Who can say? The funeral is Thursday. Then Friday, the art appraisers are coming in. Saturday is the livestock auctioneer. Come Sunday, they'll probably have the vicar hold a jumble sale. Then they can set up their bed-and-basket or whatever they call it. Neon signs, no doubt, and a name like ‘California Suite.'” Mrs. Tichborne was still grumbling as she turned the heat on under a large sautee pan.

Despite Renie's obvious anxiety to get out of the kitchen and into clothes suitable for eating, Judith lingered. “Things are moving pretty fast, I guess. They're selling some of the paintings?”

The housekeeper dripped oil into the pan. “Mr. Charles is trying to circumvent Miss Petulia's stipulations about keeping everything intact. We'll soon see if that's possible. If not, there won't be tuppence left for anyone.”

Now Judith began to feel a sense of guilt about the gatehouse. “Where's Walter?” she asked suddenly.

Mrs. Tichborne shrugged. “Who knows? I thought he'd stay for the funeral. But then again, why should he?”

It was not a question that Judith could or was expected to answer. But on a whim, she had one of her own for the housekeeper: “Say, who dressed up as Mary, Queen of Scots, this year?”

Mrs. Tichborne's expression became pained. No doubt unpleasant memories were stirring somewhere under that tightly drawn coiffure. “Mr. Karamzin,” she said at last. “His sister was Lord Darnley.”

“And before that?” Judith pressed on.

“Mr. Tinsley,” the housekeeper replied promptly. “He filled in for Mr. Charles, who always wanted to be a queen. Once he and Miss Claire married, Queen Mary was always his role. But last year, he and Mrs. Marchmont were in Greece. The only reason he did Lord Burleigh this year was because he'd put on too much weight to get into Mary's dress.”

Judith took a deep breath. “And before that?”

Mrs. Tichborne looked away. “Mary was somebody different every year, I think. Mr. Tinsley, Dr. Ramsey, even Colonel Chelmsford, though he looked ridiculous. But he was thinner then.”

“So the year that Janet…left,” Judith said doggedly, “it was who?”

“Harwood,” the housekeeper replied through tight lips. “Ordinarily, he wouldn't participate, but Walter Paget got himself thrown and was laid up for almost a week. Harwood took his place, and wouldn't you know,
he
tripped over Mary's petticoats and concussed himself. Walter came out of the hospital in Great Pauncefoot just as they were taking Harwood in. Harwood swore it was a judgment on him for behaving in such an unnatural and ungodly fashion.”

Trying not to think too long on the butler dressed as the graceful, ephemeral Mary Stuart, Judith asked a final question:

“So the Queen's costume is stored here at Ravenscroft House?”

Mrs. Tichborne nodded. “Darnley's, too. And Burleigh's and Essex's and Raleigh's and the Four Marys' and—”

“Queen Elizabeth,” Renie put in. “Who played her?”

Once again, Mrs. Tichborne gazed at the cousins. Now a small, pinched smile played around her thin lips. “Miss Ravenscroft, who else? Oh, these last years she never left her room, but she'd sit there in the turret window wearing Good Queen Bess's costume, wig, crown, and all. The villagers would wave and bow and scrape as if she were indeed the royal monarch. I do think the old lady enjoyed herself ever so much. Playing the Queen suited her.”

“I imagine,” Judith murmured, her thoughts flying in
several directions. Leaving the housekeeper to her duties, the cousins went upstairs to change. Fifteen minutes later, they were in the drawing room where Harwood was serving drinks to Claire and Charles.

After requesting scotch, Judith realized that her attitude toward Charles had changed in the past hour. No longer did she see him as merely an ambitious, semi-comic figure, but a blunderer who would stoop to chicanery to cover his tracks. But Judith was used to dealing with all sorts of people, including those of whom she didn't approve. Her polite manner was only slightly strained.

“I'm sorry we won't be here for the funeral,” Judith said, sitting down between the Marchmonts. “My cousin and I really must leave Wednesday morning.”

“Nonsense,” Charles snapped. “The police won't allow it. You'll stay until they say otherwise. As will we all,” he added in annoyance.

“What about Walter?” Judith asked, with a discreet glance at Claire.

Charles snorted. “What about him? He can give notice, move out, vilify the family name—it doesn't matter. He's still required to remain in Little Pauncefoot. If you ask me, he probably poisoned Aunt Pet. It'd be just like him to bring the old girl sweets.”

Showing an uncustomary spark of anger, Claire bridled. “It would
not
. Walter doesn't grovel. He would never have tried to influence Aunt Pet through…
bribery
.”

“Bah!” Charles shot back. “Of course he would! Paget knew which side his bread was buttered on. Didn't he try to marry Nats? Fortune-hunting, that's what your Mr. Paget was doing. It's a good thing you warned Nats off. A man shouldn't marry above him. In my opinion, it never works. Might as well marry a Chinawoman or a Mormon.”

Claire flew out from her seat, startling Judith. “Charles! What a thing to say!
You
married
me
!” Her cheeks showed two spots of bright pink.

Charles regarded his wife with mild curiosity. “Yes? So I did. But that was…different.” He had the grace to turn away.

Setting down her drink, Claire put a hand over her face
and fled the drawing room. Judith and Renie exchanged questioning glances; Judith followed Claire into the hall.

To her credit, Claire was getting the upper hand on her tears. “Charles can be so beastly! There was a time when he considered me a feather in his cap!”

Judith gave Claire a consoling pat. “There's no class so conscious of itself as the middle class. Even in America. Everybody claims to be part of it. Which isn't right, since then there'd be no other classes at all.”

Claire's mouth wrenched itself into a pathetic smile. “It's not quite the same over here. People still have…aspirations. At least in my husband's peer group.”

Judith started to make a remark, but Claire wasn't finished. “Aunt Pet took a fancy to Charles. He was young, eager, hardworking. After she turned over the family's financial management to him, she decided it would be wonderful if we married. I was barely twenty-three. I was terribly unsophisticated. Growing up in Swaziland doesn't offer much opportunity. To gain social graces, that is. By the time I came to England to go to school, I was at that awkward age. Only much more so than other adolescent girls. I never got over it. Not really. And Charles was ten years older. He worked in The City. He had Auntie's blessing. I mistook age for
savoir-faire
. At least he wasn't scampering about in a loincloth, shooting blowdarts at strangers. So I let Auntie talk me into marrying him. Sometimes it's seemed more like a merger than a marriage.”

Judith nodded sympathetically. “I had a feeling that maybe it wasn't a passionate love affair. Alex hinted as much.” She lowered her voice and gave Claire another reassuring pat. “It's understandable that you would seek…comfort…elsewhere. Walter Paget is very attractive.”

“Walter?”
Claire's face was faintly incredulous. “Yes, I suppose he is. In his way. Oh!” The color reappeared in Claire's cheeks. “You think I…that Walter…Oh!” She began to laugh, a sound bordering on hysteria.

Judith stepped back. “No?” she said in an embarrassed voice. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to jump to—”

Claire's laughter was reduced to a giggle. This time, she patted Judith. “Infidelity is a terrible thing. I'd never dream
of it, and Charles is a good man. In his way. But he
is
a trifle weak.”

Fleetingly, Judith wondered if Claire had guessed her husband's desperate plan to recoup the family's financial losses. Judith's own reaction to Charles might be harsh: How many bill collectors had she hoodwinked, evaded, and paid with rubber checks during her marriage to Dan McMonigle? It wasn't fair to judge a person under extreme pressure.

But Claire wasn't talking about money. “He doesn't know. Yet,” she said, and Judith wondered what she had missed.

“He doesn't?” she repeated, feeling foolish.

Claire shook her head. “Maybe it doesn't matter now that Auntie is dead. I never felt that it did, not even at the time. But Auntie had such definite
ideas
.”

“Certainly,” Judith said, still at sea. “It's always best to be…ah…candid.”

Claire's nod was enthusiastic. “Exactly. That's what I felt when I spoke to Nats last night. It was all so stupid. Nats wanting to marry Walter. How could she, when they were cousins? But of course she didn't know, because Auntie wouldn't tell her. Why the shame? It wasn't Walter's fault that he was Aunt Aimee's son.”

J
UDITH ASKED
H
ARWOOD
for a second scotch. It was, after all, at least twenty minutes until dinner. She was strangling on the latest family scandal, wishing she could get Renie alone. But Renie was deep in conversation with Charles, presumably about the proposed art sale.

Claire hadn't returned directly to the drawing room. Nats arrived, however, still looking sullen. She ignored Charles, and asked Judith if she knew of Alex's whereabouts.

Judith slapped a hand to her head. “He's out in the car,” she blurted. “Or at least he was about an hour ago when we went over to The Grange. We came in the other way, so you didn't see him. Is it raining yet?”

Nats started for the door, then turned back to Judith. “You went to The Grange? Whatever for?” She had lowered her voice, and was watching Charles surreptitiously.

Judith saw no reason to lie. “Balthazar,” she whispered. “We just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

The color drained from Nats's face. Again, she glanced at Charles, but he was engrossed in talking to Renie.

“Have you…?” Nats jerked her head in Charles's direction.

“Of course not,” Judith answered. “It's none of our business. But he'll find out. Eventually.”

Apparently reassured, Nats again headed for the door. Judith called after her, “If you don't see Alex, look under the dashboard.”

To Judith's surprise, Nats wasn't startled. “I always do,” she said, and left the drawing room.

Claire returned almost immediately, looking remarkably composed. “Dinner smells delicious. I was just checking everything with Tichborne. Charles, do you think we should keep her on when we start the bed-and-breakfast?”

Charles looked dubious. “It depends. Don't you enjoy cooking, m'dear? Occasionally?”

The front door chimes sounded, causing Harwood to leave his post. Claire let out a little squeal.

“Oh! I forgot! I invited Dr. Ramsey and his girlfriend to dinner! He's been ever so kind.”

Renie, who had gone to the bar to mix her own screwdriver in Harwood's absence, shot Claire a curious glance. “Dr. Ramsey has a girlfriend?”

Claire giggled. “She's not a
girl
, of course. She's a widow, with grandchildren. But Dr. Ramsey lost his wife last year to leukemia, poor thing. And Mara Radford's such a nice woman. She works for Arthur. That's how she and Dr. Ramsey met. Years ago, that is. Arthur and the doctor have shared the building since…Oh, I've no idea. Almost forever.” Faintly flustered, Claire also did her own bartending, mixing a second martini.

Dr. Ramsey was wearing what was probably his best suit, a charcoal model that had grown snug. By contrast, Mara Radford's black wool crepe was far more fashionable than Judith would have expected from a resident of Little Pauncefoot. The rest of Mara was more predictable. She was short, plump, and cheerful. Her silver hair was swept up and held in place with a rhinestone-studded clip. Judith guessed that she was in her mid-fifties, with no pretensions. The warmth Mara exuded made Judith happy to exclude her from the list of suspects. Still, the occasion was intriguing—Judith was able to put a face on another village name.

Evincing what seemed like genuine pleasure, Mara shook
hands with the cousins. “The American visitors! You're the talk of the village!” Her smile revealed very white, even teeth. Suddenly, she sobered. “Along with less pleasant things, of course. Poor Mr. Tinsley is all undone. He went home early today with a headache.”

“My,” Judith remarked as Charles handed Mrs. Radford a glass of white wine, “he and his wife must have a lot of complaints between them. I understand she often suffers from ill health.”

Mrs. Radford sniffed. “She claims to. Mrs. Tinsley claims many things, I'm afraid. It doesn't do to listen to her. She's a great one for wanting attention.”

Dr. Ramsey, cradling a hefty scotch, had joined Mara and the cousins. Claire and Charles were at the door, inquiring after Alex, who apparently was being dragged into the house by his sister.

“Now,” the doctor said in a kindly tone, “don't disparage Lona Tinsley. She helps put food on my table, after all. Every doctor needs at least one patient with a lively imagination.”

Mara Radford gave Dr. Ramsey a sweet little smile. “You're right, of course. And I should never criticize my employer's wife. It's a nasty habit I got into early on when I worked for Mr. Tinsley's father. Mrs. Tinsley—Mrs.
Edward
Tinsley, Arthur's mother—was a real harridan.” Catching Dr. Ramsey's baleful glance, Mrs. Radford wagged a finger at him. “Now, Lawrence, don't deny it. Everyone in Little Pauncefoot knew what she was like, with her strict chapel ways. When she came down the High Street, people would hide—including the merchants. She was fierce.”

Having checked on Alex, Charles now joined the group. “Old Mrs. Tinsley?” He chuckled, rather darkly. “I hardly knew her, but she and Aunt Pet had their innings. Quite the character was Mrs. Tinsley. I'm told she kept her husband and her son under her thumb, all right.”

Mrs. Radford nodded, her silver hair shining in the wan light of early evening. “She tried to keep everybody under her thumb. Always giving me orders on the phone—errands and such, that had nothing to do with the job. Lona Tinsley
would do the same, but I learned my lesson from Arthur's mother. Be polite, be tactful, but be
firm
.” Mara nodded her head twice, her creamy chins jiggling.

Now that Claire had also entered the circle, Judith edged away, trying to catch Renie's eye. The cousins made contact. On the pretext of freshening their drinks, they moved toward the bar. Harwood eyed them with his usual mixture of deference and disdain.

Renie proffered her half-full glass to the butler. “Touch this up, will you, sweetie?” She gave Harwood a coy look. Harwood almost but not quite curled his lip.

Judith turned away from the butler and kept her voice down. Indeed, she barely moved her lips.

“Walter is Aimee Ravenscroft's son, by her no-good Beatnik husband. According to Claire, they became revolutionaries in Paris and shipped Walter home when he was eighteen.”

Renie's eyes widened. “Revolutionaries in Paris? Weren't they a couple of hundred years too late? Why didn't somebody tell them Marie Antoinette's a lot shorter than she used to be?”

“Shut up,” Judith muttered. “You know what I mean, by seventies standards. Anyway, Aimee and Mr. Paget finally O.D.ed—but that was later. Aimee's twin, Fleur, took Walter in and let him work as a stablehand. Fleur pleaded with Aunt Pet, and finally got her to agree to make Walter the Ravenscroft steward. Now we know why he was putting flowers on Fleur's grave. His aunt had given him a home—and a job. But Great-Aunt Pet never quite forgave Walter for being Aimee's son. That must be why he was left out of the will. He certainly felt left out of the family. Walter was so embarrassed by his great-aunt's attitude that he didn't want anyone to know he was related. That suited Pet just fine. Claire said her aunt felt he'd been raised improperly, and thus wasn't worthy of being elevated to true family status. You know, like Dora being illegitimate. The old girl had really fixed ideas about social class.”

“The jewels,” Renie hissed. “Why didn't Aunt Pet rat on Aimee to her sister-in-law, Genevieve, about the theft?”

Judith gave a slight shrug. “Who knows? Some rivalry
between them, maybe. Or Aunt Pet's need for control. Like Janet Tichborne, Auntie enjoyed her little secrets. They're a source of power for some people.”

Renie clutched her screwdriver. “Phew!” she gasped, almost inaudibly. “This place is full of them!”

Judith shrugged. “Not really. It's a village. Everybody everywhere has secrets. But in a small community like this, people are linked to an unusual degree.”

Renie didn't dispute the point. Instead, she sipped her drink and regarded the Marchmonts and their guests. “So Nats and Walter are cousins,” she said, still speaking very softly.

“Exactly. But Nats didn't know until Claire told her last night. Aunt Pet didn't want anyone to find out that she'd given in to Fleur by letting Walter work and live here. Aimee was anathema after she ran off with her Beatnik.”

“No wonder Walter seems self-conscious,” Renie remarked. “He's been caught between two worlds. Aunt Pet was right about that. His upbringing must have been very strange. Then he suddenly finds himself at Ravenscroft House, smothered with tradition and some very Victorian ideas.”

Judith was about to comment on Walter's understandable bitterness. But Nats had come back into the room and was heading for the bar.

“I held Alex's head under water for five minutes.
Running
water,” she added hastily. “He ought to be able to come down to dinner once he dries out.”

“Try rehab,” Renie muttered. “That'll dry him out.”

Nats, who was accepting a vodka martini from Harwood, didn't hear Renie. Judith couldn't refrain from asking the obvious question: “Does your brother always drink so much?”

Nats grimaced. “No. Oh, he drinks more than is good for him when he's in a party mood or in some kind of trouble. But I've never seen him drink so…consistently as he's done this weekend, which certainly has been no party. I suspect, then, he's up to his neck in debt—again.”

There was no opportunity for further discussion of Alex's drinking habits. Harwood had slipped out from behind
the bar to ring the dinner gong. On this Monday night after Aunt Pet's murder, Judith thought it sounded more like a death knell.

As the group began their exit from the drawing room, Judith's morbid thoughts were interrupted by Mara Radford. She gave Judith a mischievous smile and spoke in a low voice:

“You mustn't mind me going on about the Mrs. Tinsleys. I've been with Arthur and his father before him so long that I feel like family.”

Passing through the hall, Judith also smiled. “I understand. My cousin's mother worked part-time as a legal secretary for the same man for over forty years.”

Mara nodded. “Exactly. And don't tell me that people never bring their troubles to work. You hear everything, which is why I'm rather fed up with Lona Tinsley's poor health.”

Judith laughed as they entered the dining room. “It's a good thing her first husband was a doctor. She must have saved on office calls.”

The smile disappeared from Mara's plump face. “She wasn't married to a doctor.” The small, perfect mouth turned down in disapproval. “If you ask me, she wasn't married at all.” Mara moved away, taking her place between Charles and Dr. Ramsey.

Judith goggled after Mara. But there was no immediate opportunity to probe further. Dinner conversation centered on children—the Marchmont twins, Mara's three granddaughters, and the baby that Dr. Ramsey's son and wife were expecting in a matter of weeks. Judith, who was seated between the doctor and a very depressed Alex, paid minimal attention. She sensed that the diners were carefully avoiding the topic of Aunt Pet's death. But of course children made for much more pleasant chitchat than murder.

Claire suggested bridge after dinner, but Charles vetoed the idea. Bridge, he seemed to imply, was too frivolous for a house in mourning. Dr. Ramsey stated that it had been a long and tiring day for everyone, so perhaps it was best to make an early evening of it. He and Mrs. Radford took their leave just before nine. Alex had already gone back
upstairs. Charles asked Nats to join him in the library. His tone was ominous. Judith watched them head for the main staircase, and wondered if Charles intended to quiz Nats about Doodles Swinford's reaction.

“Dr. Ramsey was right,” Claire announced, yawning widely. “The past two days seem like a year. I'm exhausted. I'll head for bed. If you don't mind.”

The cousins insisted that they didn't mind in the least. Left alone in the parlor, Judith told Renie about Mara Radford's comment regarding Lona Tinsley.

“Weird,” Renie said, standing in front of a Gobelin tapestry depicting The Hunt. “Maybe Mara is wrong. Maybe she wanted Arthur for herself. Maybe,” she added quickly, reassessing her suggestion, “I'm nuts. Who'd really want Arthur, the quintessential dry stick?”

“Good point,” Judith replied. She sipped her cognac, letting her gaze wander to the tapestry behind Renie. “I wonder if Nats is telling Charles the truth about Balthazar?”

Renie shrugged. “I don't see why it matters. They'll make a mint off the art collection alone. I think Charles panicked.”

Thoughtfully, Judith gazed at Renie. “Yes, I think he did. Isn't that…interesting?”

“Huh?” Renie didn't sound as if she thought it was. “Say, you never told me why you knew about what was on that scrap of paper that got stuck in the desk drawer. You said it was last year's date. Why do you think so?”

“It's a logical conclusion,” Judith said. “It can't be this year, because the twenty-seventh isn't until tomorrow. If Aunt Pet made out a will last April, then maybe it's from the draft she wrote. The question becomes where's the rest of it?”

“I don't see why you assume the date's off a will,” Renie said. “Why not a letter? Maybe Aunt Pet was writing to George and Emily in Swaziland.”

“Because,” Judith countered, “we know she made a will a year ago. We also know that except for leaving us the gatehouse, it was basically the same as the one that was found in her desk. I imagine she always wrote out every
thing herself and then had Arthur Tinsley—or Mara Radford—transcribe it.” Judith would have elaborated, but Charles poked his head in the parlor. He looked drawn and lacked his usual
bonhomie
.

“Oh,” he said in a tired voice. “I saw the light on under the door and wondered who…” He gave a small shrug. “Sorry. I believe I'll go on up to bed.”