by Mary Daheim
“Incredibly, she’d handled most of the business herself until then,” Charles said as they enjoyed Mrs. Tichborne’s tender pork loin. “Aunt Pet had advisers, of course, but she made all the decisions. Then, when she became house-bound, she felt it prudent to appoint someone who could be on the spot in The City. That’s when I took the helm.” Charles seemed to swell with self-importance, though he cast his eyes downward in an attempt at humility.
There was more, mostly about the complexities of doing business in a high-tech world. Aunt Pet would founder in the computer age, Charles asserted, but he was well-qualified, mainly because he took advantage of every seminar that came along.
“It’s very fast-paced out there when it comes to commerce,” he declared. “No room for slackers or those who hold back.” Still, he admitted, there were pitfalls, even for the savvy. “Too much speculation in the last decade. A number of seemingly sound investments have soured. It’s very difficult to forecast trends. But we’ll pull through, mark my words.”
Judith, who was a babe in the woods when it came to investments, gathered that the Ravenscroft fortune was being eroded. But Renie, whose graphic design business regularly felt the corporate pulse, was nodding in agreement.
“Software has made a lot of people—and unmade them,” she remarked over the snow pudding. “I’ve watched any number of companies come and go. The marketplace exploded in the eighties and became overcrowded. Several undercapitalized firms got squeezed out, especially in our part of the country.”
Briefly, Charles scowled at Renie. It was obvious that he didn’t like having his thunder stolen, least of all by a woman. And an American at that.
It was Claire, however, who played the peacekeeper. She had listened to her husband’s self-promotion with a patient demeanor that almost managed to mask her boredom. “Of course, everything will come out all right,” she said with a tremulous smile for Charles. “You’ll pull us through. Auntie, I mean. After all, it is her money.”
The reminder seemed to cause Charles pain. “Of course it is. I’m not likely to forget.” His face tightened, and he attacked his pudding with a vengeance.
The meal wound down, with Claire finally wresting a few pieces of conversation. She volunteered ten hours a week at a battered-women’s shelter in Stepney. She was anxious for the twins’ next vacation. She hoped that the rain, which had started to come down hard just before dinner, wouldn’t spoil the proposed Sunday outing to Devon and Cornwall.
And when Mrs. Tichborne made her final foray into the dining room to remove the dessert plates, Claire treated the housekeeper with great deference, rather like a novice conductor coaxing a reigning prima donna. Mrs. Tichborne maintained a wooden mien but performed efficiently, if not graciously.
“She’s off tomorrow and Monday,” Claire said in a low voice after the housekeeper had returned to the kitchen. “She’s such a hard worker, but of course when we’re not here, her duties are rather light.”
Charles grunted. “She’s done very well for herself. Free room and board, a substantial salary, plenty of free time. Not that she doesn’t earn her keep, but staff is a tremendous drain on household expenses. Worse yet are the responsibilities Auntie has taken on as lady of the manor. The church, the library, the All Fools Revels. Every event in the village falls on Ravenscroft House. Auntie is expected to foot the bill for everything from the flower boxes along the High Street to repairing the Dunk Monument on the green. Droit de seigneur indeed! The only privilege these days is signing checks to benefit others.”
Claire’s smile was now faintly reproachful. “Come now, Charles, the flower boxes don’t cost but twenty pounds a year. They use seeds. And the Dunk Monument crumbled years ago, about the time we married. The only thing we do for the All Fools Revels is pay for clean-up and provide costumes. As for the vicar, he loathes asking for money.”
Charles wasn’t placated. “All the same, Aunt Pet is more than willing to offer it to him. You’d think she was buying her way into heaven. Not that she ever expects to go there. I do believe the woman’s convinced she can live forever.”
The cousins made no comment. It seemed to Judith that while Aunt Pet wasn’t immortal, she had a good chance of still being around in the twenty-first century. Certainly she had outlived not only her contemporaries, but many in the next generation as well.
As a prophet, Judith was about to be proved wrong.
After dinner, Claire suggested a rubber of bridge. Despite the long day, Judith felt it would be impolite to refuse. Renie, in fact, seemed eager.
“Hey, the only time we get to play is when one of our mothers’ bridge club members has a stroke or dies or something and we have to substitute,” Renie whispered as they returned to the drawing room. “And you know what that’s like. Your mother always jumps all over my mother for underbidding and my mother pouts for two days because your mother wins the quarters and your mother says it’s because she plays her hand and doesn’t sit there like a wart on a hyena’s hind end and my mother says your mother cheats.”
Judith was indignant. “My mother does not cheat at bridge.”
“I know she doesn’t,” Renie said equably as the Marchmonts supervised Harwood’s laborious setting up of a card table and four chairs. “My mother knows it, too. Sometimes she says your mother is just too lucky.”
“She is,” Judith agreed, having been victimized by Gertrude all too often at cribbage. “At cards, anyway.” Gertrude would not agree that she was a lucky person in general. Having been widowed too young, suffering from arthritis, living in the toolshed—these were reasons that Judith’s mother didn’t consider herself “lucky.” Her daughter understood, and made allowances.
After a lengthy rubber with many sets and several partial games, Judith stifled a yawn. It was almost eleven, and everyone looked weary. No one demurred when Claire suggested that it was time to retire.
The big bed with its blue damask hangings was very old, but the mattress felt quite new. The previous night at Ravenscroft House, Judith had slept soundly. She expected to do the same as she slipped between the hand-embroidered sheets around eleven-thirty. It had been a very long day, and the rain on the mullioned windows pattered in a comforting rhythm. Judith hadn’t read more than four pages of the John Dickson Carr mystery she’d borrowed from the Ravenscroft library when she felt her eyes closing. She went to sleep without turning off the light.
When she was awakened by the sound of voices and hurrying footsteps, she didn’t know where she was. Had Joe been called out on a case? Was one of the B&B guests having a crisis? Could Gertrude be in trouble—or merely causing it?
But Judith was not at Hillside Manor. Adjusting her eyes to the bedside lamp which seemed unnaturally bright, she sat up and listened intently. The sounds had stopped. A glance at her watch showed that it was after three. The rain was no longer streaming down outside the windows. Maybe she had dreamed the strange noises.
Now wide awake, she felt a need to go to the bathroom. Slipping into her robe, she headed out to the adjoining bath. The hallway was lit by gilt wall sconces with flame-shaped bulbs. In the bathroom, Judith thought she heard more footsteps, either overhead or on the turret stairs that were located on the other side of the wall.
Back in the corridor, she noticed that the door to the master bedroom stood open. A light was on inside, making a sallow patch on the hall floor. At that moment, Charles came rushing down the main staircase. Apparently, he didn’t see Judith. With his silk robe flapping at his bare feet, he raced into the library.
Judith hesitated, then went across the hall to knock on Renie’s door. There was no answer. Judith knew Renie could sleep through a performance by the Ohio State Marching Band. The knob turned at a touch. Judith flipped on a Flemish brass lamp. Only the top of Renie’s chestnut curls could be seen above the covers.
“Coz! Wake up!” Judith nudged the sleigh bed with her knee.
Renie rolled over, then disappeared completely.
“Co
z!” This time Judith shook Renie. “Something is happening! Get up!”
Renie burrowed so far down that her feet poked out at the other end. Judith sat on her. Renie let out a gasp, then a squeak, and finally started to swear.
“You creep! What the hell’s going on? Are you trying to kill me?”
Judith stood up. “I heard a commotion. Charles ran into the library as if his p.j.s were on fire. I think there’s some kind of trouble.”
“There sure is,” Renie said in annoyance. “It’s the middle of the night, and I’m awake.” She glanced at her travel clock. “Three-thirty? I didn’t get up this early to deliver our three kids!”
Judith made as if to tug her cousin’s arm, but Renie pulled away sharply. “Okay, okay! I’ll put on my robe. But if this is a false alarm, you’ll have to feed me.”
When the cousins reached the hall, they saw Charles emerging from the library. He noticed his guests and staggered toward them.
“It’s dreadful!” he cried. “It’s worse than dreadful!” Charles swallowed hard, and in the pale glow of the hallway fixtures, Judith saw that his usually ruddy complexion was ashen. “It’s Aunt Pet.” He swallowed again, then suddenly, frighteningly, he laughed. “She’s dying! Isn’t that…incredible?”
Charles couldn’t stop laughing.
SEVEN
DR. RAMSEY ARRIVED five minutes after the cousins entered Aunt Pet’s sitting room. Charles and Dora were with the stricken old lady in the bedchamber. Claire was weeping and pacing, insisting she should be with her aunt.
“It’s best we don’t all crowd in there,” Judith insisted. “We’ll get in the doctor’s way.”
Claire’s face was blotchy and her eyes were already swollen. “Then Dora shouldn’t be there, either. She’s hysterical.”
Dora was indeed out of control. But her wails and screeches had forced Charles to get a grip on himself. Abruptly, Dora fell silent. Judith figured that Charles had given her a good shake.
The most shattering sound came from Aunt Pet, who let out a long, low moan that turned into a gurgle, and then stopped. Judith edged over to the bedchamber door. Dr. Ramsey, a balding, chunky man, was bending over Aunt Pet. Charles leaned against the bedpost. Dora had collapsed in her mistress’s favorite chair. Despite her distress, she looked vaguely guilty about usurping Aunt Pet’s place.
“She’s dead.” Dr. Ramsey’s deep voice was brusque, yet not without compassion. “I’m sorry. There was nothing to be done.” Gently, he pulled the snowy white sheet over Aunt Pet’s face.
“Well.” Charles stood up straight, then turned toward the door, where Renie and Claire had joined Judith. “Quite a run, really,” he said in an oddly hollow voice. “It’s a shock, but she didn’t have to linger. Shall we adjourn to the sitting room? I believe Dr. Ramsey wants a word with Dora.” Charles took his wife by the hand.
“We must call an undertaker,” Claire murmured tonelessly. “The vicar, too. A cable should be sent to my parents…” The words trailed off among the sitting room’s collection of Victorian bric-a-brac, framed photographs, satin pillows, and solid oak.
Judith watched Renie accompany Charles and Claire out of the suite. Lingering behind, she couldn’t resist listening to Dr. Ramsey’s interrogation of Dora Hobbs.
“…heard her ring around midnight…A headache, she had, and a terrible thirst…Blurry-eyed, she claimed…Skin all hot and dry…” There was a long pause. Judith, who had been holding her breath, sucked in a lungful of air. She noted the telltale smell of smoke, very faint, but still present in the vicinity. Had Dora started another fire? Judith hoped not. She breathed again, just as the doctor gently urged Dora to continue.
“I gave her a big glass of water,” the maid went on in a shaky voice. “She seemed to settle down, got drowsy-like, and went off to sleep. I went back to bed. Too much excitement, I thought, with all these guests. Later, maybe half an hour ago, I heard noises. I came back in, and the mistress was jerking around in the bed, ever so queer. Dreaming, I decided, and tried to rouse her. But I…couldn’t.” Dora began to sniff and sob. “That’s when I went down to fetch Mr. Charles.”
Dr. Ramsey spoke reassuringly to Dora. The sobs subsided. Judith stepped behind a screen painted with cupids sitting on a crescent moon. When the doctor had left the suite, she tiptoed back to the bedchamber and looked in on the grieving maid.
“Dora,” Judith said softly, “would you like to come downstairs with me?”
Startled, Dora looked up. “Oh—no, thank you all the same. It wouldn’t be decent to leave her alone.” One small wrinkled hand gestured at the still form in the bed. “I’ve been with her for over seventy years, day in, day out. When I broke my leg in fifty-three, it was herself who took care of me. I’m not leaving her now.” Almost defiantly, Dora resettled herself in the brocade chair. There was a curious dignity about the way she squared her narrow shoulders and lifted her little chin. In her mistress’s cherished place by the windows, Dora no longer looked guilty.
Under ordinary circumstances, the parlor would have been an inviting room. The original stone chimneypiece was the mate to that of the library overhead. A plaster frieze of flora looked as if it were part of the original decor. The oak-paneled walls were covered with paintings of both the hunt and individual hunters, perhaps scenes and animals from the glory days of the Ravenscroft stables. Furnished with Elizabethan and Jacobean pieces, the room should have emanated comfort as well as beauty. But at a few minutes after four in the morning, the pall of death hung on the air. There was no fire in the grate, only two lamps had been turned on, and a damp chill seemed to settle over the mourners.
Mrs. Tichborne and Harwood had now joined the others. The pair looked unsure of their roles, whether they were expected to be fellow mourners or dutiful servants.
It was Charles who dispensed the brandy with a liberal hand. Even Harwood, incongruous in a gaily striped robe, accepted a snifter. After everyone was served and seated, Charles inquired as to the whereabouts of the Karamzins.
Claire uttered a small cry. “Oh! They can’t have returned from their party in Yeovil! What a shock this will be for them!”
“Will it?” Charles set his mouth in a stern line. For some moments, nobody spoke.
And then police constable Colin Duff arrived, accompanied by Walter Paget. The steward was dressed, though it was obvious that he had thrown his clothes on in haste. He went directly to Claire and took both her hands in his.
“I’m so sorry…Mrs. Marchmont. I heard Dr. Ramsey’s car, then I looked out and saw lights in the turret room. After I dressed, I met Constable Duff bicycling through the gate.”
The rest of the household appeared shocked by the policeman’s arrival. Charles had stepped forward and was eyeing Colin Duff in a bewildered manner.
“What’s this? Who rang you? What’s going on?”
Dr. Ramsey coughed. “I did, Mr. Marchmont. I felt it necessary to send for the police.”
Charles seemed on the verge of exploding. “What? Are you daft, man?”
With regret, the doctor shook his head. “Miss Ravenscroft was basically healthy, despite her age. There were some…ah…suggestive symptoms as described by her maid. I’ve attended at least three children who suffered from the same sort of gastric distress. I’m not convinced that her death was natural. I must also recommend an autopsy.”
Withdrawing her hands from Walter’s grasp, Claire gaped in disbelief. “What are you insinuating, Dr. Ramsey? I don’t understand.”
The doctor gave a helpless shrug. “I’m not insinuating anything, Mrs. Marchmont. But I’m responsible for signing the death certificate. I’d be less than conscientious if I didn’t consider all of the…possibilities.” Dr. Ramsey’s voice gained momentum. “Miss Ravenscroft was a woman with very high standards. She would want me to do the right thing. That’s why I rang up the police.”
“My word!” Walter murmured. “How very odd.”
Police Constable Duff was young, sandy-haired, and
freckled. He looked both awed and intimidated by his surroundings. “If you please,” he said in a soft voice with a Scottish accent, “I must view the deceased.”
With a sigh of resignation, Charles led the way. Dr. Ramsey trailed after the two men.
Claire wrung her hands. “Poor Dora. I hope the doctor will give her a sedative.”
Hester Tichborne, wearing a tailored charcoal robe, was standing in front of a Flemish tapestry that depicted Circe, the Enchantress. “If he doesn’t, I’ll see to Dora.” Thehousekeeper spoke in a clear, even voice, with the hint of a challenge in her manner.
But no one objected. In fact, Claire murmured that it was very kind of Mrs. Tichborne to offer. And then, as the first streaks of light appeared in the night sky, the squeal of tires could be heard in the drive. Raucous voices erupted—and then went dumb.
“What’s wrong?” Nats demanded, charging into the parlor. She looked both disheveled and alarmed. “Why is everybody up?”
Ever the perfect servant, Harwood tottered over to take the newcomers’ wraps. “There’s been a tragedy, miss,” he said in a doleful voice.
Alex, who was more unsteady than the butler, reeled against an Italian credenza. “Tragedy? What d’ya mean, tragedy? Someone pinch the Tudor salt cellar?”
Claire burst into fresh tears. It was left to Mrs. Tichborne to deliver the bad news. Judith sensed that the housekeeper somehow relished the task. “Your aunt died. It was very sudden.”
“No!” Alex staggered, presumably from drink. But then he covered his face with his hands, slumped to a sitting position on the floor, and began to sob. To Judith’s amazement, his reaction seemed unfeigned.
Nats, however, was made of sterner stuff. She was sobered by the announcement, and her dark eyes took in the entire room. “That’s ridiculous,” she said flatly. “Aunt Pet had an iron constitution. Something’s not right here.”
The uncertainty had been hovering in the shadows of the parlor for the last half-hour. That conclusion had occurred to Judith, to whom unnatural death was no stranger. But this time, given the victim’s advanced age, she had hoped that life had come to a peaceful close.