by Mary Daheim
That hope was dashed when Constable Duff reappeared with Charles and Dr. Ramsey. The policeman nervously fingered his regulation headgear as he addressed the gathering:
“I’m verra much afraid there will have to be an autopsy—and an inquest. I must speak with m’superiors, naturally, but there is reason that we canna rule out foul play. I must ask ye all to bide close for the time being. Thank ye.” He bobbed his head and took his leave.
“Absurd,” Charles declared.
“Appalling,” Claire murmured.
“I told you so,” Nats said.
Judith and Renie kept quiet. The swift, rueful looks they exchanged conveyed dismay, sorrow, and resignation. This couldn’t be happening to them. They were on their dream trip. They were houseguests. They hardly knew the Ravenscroft ménage. But as dawn crept in through the mullioned windows, harsh reality struck them both like an April squall. Old and beautiful though the house might be, they had no intention of staying past Monday. Joe and Bill expected to meet them Wednesday in Edinburgh.
Renie had sidled up to Judith. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Probably,” Judith replied. With a lifetime of closeness that was rare for cousins, and even unusual with sisters, Judith and Renie practically could read each others’ minds. “We planned to leave tomorrow. I’m assuming that’s still possible, despite what the constable said. I mean, even if Aunt Pet didn’t die of a stroke or whatever, we can’t be under any suspicion.”
Renie nodded vigorously. “That’s right, we’re just a couple of booblike American tourists. Maybe we should offer to leave today.”
Briefly, Judith considered. “You’re right. If we stay, we’ll just get in the way.”
The cousins started to follow Claire out of the parlor. But she had gone into the entry hall to meet the ambulance drivers who had come to take away Aunt Pet’s body. Judith glanced around to see who else remained in the room. Charles and Dr. Ramsey apparently had already returned upstairs. Nats had led Alex away. Mrs. Tichborne was gone, probably to look after Dora. Only Harwood and Walter Paget were still in the parlor. The butler was tidying up, and the steward was on the telephone.
“What do we do now?” Renie asked, a faintly forlorn figure in her voluminous velour bathrobe.
It was going on 5 A.M. “It’s too late to go back to bed,” Judith said. “It would seem pretty heartless of us. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
“Neither could I,” Renie agreed, somewhat to Judith’s surprise. “I feel terrible about Aunt Pet. I really liked the old girl.”
“Me, too,” Judith replied. “I think.” From the stairwell, she could hear voices. “Come on, let’s get out of here. The ambulance attendants are bringing the body down. I don’t feel like being a ghoul.”
The cousins headed for the dining room, found it empty, and went into the kitchen. Alex and Nats were sitting at a much-scarred oak table. A coffeemaker was plugged in and a glass of what looked like Alka-Seltzer sat in front of Alex.
Nats looked up at Judith and Renie with only minimal interest. “If you want coffee, it’ll be another five minutes,” she said, sounding very tired.
“Thanks,” Judith answered, gazing around what was probably the most renovated room in the house. The appliances weren’t new, but they looked out of place in a kitchen that had once housed an open spit, huge baking ovens, and long worktables for a battery of scullery maids. Tentatively, Judith pulled out a chair.
“Go ahead,” said Nats, then suddenly scrutinized both cousins closely. “Who are you? Really, I mean. I didn’t pay much attention when we met Friday. Are you friends of Claire’s or Charles’s?”
Briefly, Judith explained the tenuous connection with the Marchmonts through her pen-pal, Margaret. Nats nodded absently; Alex was making faces as he consumed his bromide.
“This rather spoils your stay,” Nats remarked as she rose to check the coffee. “Or does it?” Her dark eyes flitted from one cousin to the other.
Renie wore a faintly pugnacious look. “Meaning?”
Nats shrugged. “It gives you something to talk about when you get home. Not the same old dreary photos of Hampton Court and Big Ben and St. Paul’s, but a dead body in an honest-to-God English country house. You’ll be quite the celebrities, I should think. For a short time.”
Judith had an urge to tell Nats that finding dead bodies wasn’t exactly a novelty for her and Renie. Judith’s role as a hostelry owner had taught her to deal with all sorts of rude, unreasonable people. Besides, she’d been raised by Gertrude.
Judith’s silence seemed to goad Nats, who was taking coffee cups out of a large hutch. “Dr. Ramsey and the constable think there’s something odd about Aunt Pet’s death,” Nats said, sounding defensive. “I think so, too. Look how sprightly she was at dinner Friday night!”
Pushing aside his empty glass, Alex groaned. “Sprightly! Spitefully is what I call it! Whatever happened, she’s dead. And I feel bloody awful!”
It was impossible to tell if Alex referred to his physical condition or his emotional state. Judith accepted a cup of coffee from Nats and listened as a vehicle drove away from the house. The ambulance, she guessed, and offered a silent prayer.
At that moment, Mrs. Tichborne entered the kitchen. She had changed into a plain black dress and had her graying brown hair pulled back into its usual tight chignon. “if anyone is hungry, I’ll make breakfast,” she said in her brisk voice.
Alex groaned again; Nats declined; Judith was about to do the same, but Renie spoke up in an eager voice: “Sounds good. Can I help?”
The housekeeper politely rejected the offer. “I work better alone,” she asserted. Her colorless eyes surveyed the group at the kitchen table. “Completely alone.”
Sheepishly, Judith and Renie took their coffee into the dining room. The Karamzins followed. Charles entered from the hall almost simultaneously.
“Ramsey’s gone off to help with the autopsy,” Charles said, still disconcerted by the idea. “Walter notified Arthur Tinsley. He’ll be here shortly. I insisted that Claire go back to bed.” Charles heaved a sigh as he sat down next to Judith. “Rum, this. You must think we’re rotten hosts.”
Judith assured him that wasn’t so. “It’s not your fault Aunt Pet died. It could happen to anyone. In fact, it does. Eventually.” As soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth, she felt like an idiot.
But no one—except Renie—seemed to notice. Alex put down his cup and said he was going up to bed. After her brother had left the dining room, Nats inquired after Walter Paget.
Charles stirred sugar and cream into his coffee. “Life goes on. Walter went to the stables. The hands don’t work Sundays.”
Nats received the information without comment. But as the aroma of frying meat wafted from the kitchen, she rose from the table and unceremoniously exited the dining room. The cousins were left alone with Charles.
“Blast,” he said, more to himself than to his guests. “We were going up to town tomorrow. I’ve afternoon appointments. What to do, what to do?” He thrummed his blunt fingers on the table.
Judith decided to raise the issue of their own leavetaking. Charles eyed her doubtfully. “The Sunday train schedule is limited,” he said. “Especially the local. Besides, I thought we were all told to stay at Ravenscroft House.”
“They can’t mean us,” Judith protested. “I mean, we’re not…involved.”
“But you are,” Charles countered. “Now that Auntie’s dead, we can make plans for the B&B. Claire needs your advice more than ever.”
Judith was flummoxed. “But…she’ll be up to her ears in funeral arrangements. She’s grief-stricken. She won’t want to move ahead with a major project so soon.”
Charles, however, remained adamant. “The sooner, the better. Every day we put off, potential revenue is lost. See here, we’re in a bit of a financial bind. I’m prostrated with grief, and all that, but Aunt Pet’s death couldn’t have come at a better time. I’m sure you understand.”
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br /> Judith didn’t. Instead, she was appalled.
Charles and the cousins were eating scrambled eggs, rashers of bacon, slices of ham, and toasted muffins when Arthur Tinsley arrived. It was not quite six o’clock, and the solicitor eyed the covered dishes on the sideboard with longing.
Charles paid no heed. He forked in a last mouthful of ham and announced that he wanted to get right down to business. Arthur must join him in the library immediately.
The solicitor looked troubled. “I’m not certain…that is to say…really, Mr. Marchmont, the situation is most…awkward.”
“Awkward?” Charles scoffed at the word. “Nonsense! I’m all undone by Auntie’s passing, but death is part of life. We must go on. And do call me Charles. We’ve known each other for donkey’s years.”
Judith sensed that Arthur wasn’t mollified. Nonetheless, he trooped off with Charles. Renie went to the sideboard, piling more eggs and bacon onto her plate. “Well? Are we coming or going?” she asked Judith.
“Going,” Judith replied promptly. “I couldn’t possibly sit down with Claire and hammer out a renovation plan under the circumstances. When we get home, I’ll send some time to think things through. This house is much more of a challenge than I expected.” Frowning at her watch, she looked at Renie again. “What time is it at home?”
Renie calculated. “There’s eight hours’ difference. It must be after ten Saturday evening. Why?”
Judith stood up. “I’m going to call Mother. The rates will be down.”
Renie looked bemused. “Good luck. I’ve already called my mother. Twice. I can’t afford another transatlantic marathon. You know how my mother goes on. And on.”
Judith did. Confined to a wheelchair, Aunt Deb spent most of her waking hours with the receiver propped up to her ear. But Gertrude was very different. Like Aunt Pet, she hated the telephone.
Judith poked her head into the kitchen. Mrs. Tichborne was wiping off the big stove. “Yes?” She peered over a pair of half-glasses. “What is it? Have we run out of something?”
“No,” Judith replied. “Nobody else has come down for breakfast yet. I was wondering where I might use the phone. Mr. Marchmont and Mr. Tinsley are in the library.”
The housekeeper pointed to a wall model at the end of a row of cupboards. “Go on, use this. I’ll fix a tray for Dora.”
Judith thanked Mrs. Tichborne, then asked if she knew where a railway schedule might be found. The housekeeper thought there might be one in the library. Judith said she’d look for it after Charles and Arthur had finished their conference. Stalling for privacy, she next inquired if there was a Catholic church nearby.
Mrs. Tichborne paused in the act of placing eggs and ham on a plate, presumably for Dora Hobbs. “You’re Roman Catholic?” she inquired, her high forehead creased.
Judith nodded. “It’s Sunday. My cousin and I would like to go to Mass.”
“As I recall,” Mrs. Tichborne said, not very encouragingly, “there’s an R.C. church in Yeovil. At least there used to be. A friend of my…of the family went there. Bridget was Irish. She had no choice.”
Judith let the slur pass. She was more intrigued by the housekeeper’s change of reference. “I could look the church up in the directory. How far is it to Yeovil?”
Mrs. Tichborne placed silverware and a napkin on Dora’s tray. “Ten miles. It’s a long walk.”
Growing vexed, Judith went to the phone. By the time the call had been placed and charged to her credit card, Mrs. Tichborne had disappeared up the back stairs. Nine thousand miles away, in the cul-de-sac on the side of Heraldsgate Hill, the phone rang and rang. At last, a gruff hello sounded in Judith’s ear. The transmission was so clear that Gertrude could have been in the next room. Judith was thankful that she wasn’t.
“Where are you?” Gertrude demanded. “The airport? I figured you’d come home early. You and Lunkhead are broke, right?” A chortle rolled across North America and under the ocean to the green fields of England.
“No, Mother,” Judith replied, grudgingly pleased to hear Gertrude’s raspy voice. “I’m in Somerset.”
“Sunset? What’s that, a rest home? You have a fit or something?”
“Somerset. It’s a county.”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” snapped Gertrude. “Never heard of it.”
“Renie and I came down for the weekend,” Judith explained. “Joe and Bill are fishing in Scotland.”
“I’ll bet. I thought Bill was meeting a bunch of nuts. Instead, he’s gone fishing with one? What next, taking tea with the Queen? Listen here, Judith Anne, did you and your numbskull husband have a fight?” Gertrude sounded pleasurably excited by the idea.
“No, Mother. I gave you a copy of our itinerary. Joe and Bill have had this fishing trip lined up for weeks.” Judith discovered that her patience was slipping away. “Renie and I are meeting them Wednesday in Edinburgh.”
There was a pause in the converted toolshed behind Hillside Manor. Judith thought she could hear pages being riffled. Gertrude probably had the itinerary right in front of her.
“No, you’re not. You’re supposed to be in Edberg. Where’s that? It sounds like Norway to me. What are those lamebrained husbands of yours fishing for—pickled hering?”
“It’s pronounced Ed-in-bo-ro,” Judith said distinctly. “It’s—”
“It’s stupid. Either you go to England or you don’t. That’s the trouble with you young people, you say one thing and do another. Now you’re in Sweden, watching the sunset. What if I have a stroke? How will anybody find you? Or would they bother? Those Swedes don’t show much emotion, if you ask me.”
Somewhat frantically, Judith looked around to see if there was someplace she could sit. But the phone cord didn’t stretch to the chairs at the kitchen table. “Mother, you know that Renie and I can be reached through an American Express office in case of an emergency. But,” she added, just to reassure Gertrude, “we’re heading for London. We’ll be there until—”
“London? You’ve already been there. It says right here,” Gertrude declared, apparently poking a finger at the itinerary listings, “you were in London from April seventeenth to April twenty-third. This is the twenty-fourth.”
“Actually,” Judith said, “it’s the twenty-fifth here. We’re eight hours ahead of—”
“Ridiculous,” Gertrude broke in. “You think you’re in a time machine? It’s Saturday, April twenty-fourth. You think I’d watch ‘America’s Most Wanted’ on the wrong night? I just saw this crazy old fart who’d been married to five women at once, and he—”
It was Judith’s turn to interrupt. “Mother…” She was clinging to the receiver as if it were a life preserver. She seemed to be drowning in a sea of maternal chaos. “This is costing money.”
“You bet it is, Toots,” Gertrude retorted. “I said all along you couldn’t afford this trip. But off you went, leaving me alone with your dopey cat. And your rum-dum bed-and-breakfast guests! Don’t blame me because they burned the place down. Half-wits, all of ’em! Now you’ll have to live in the garage.”
“What?” Judith was screaming into the phone.
“It’s too soon for barbecues. That’s what I told Arlene and Carl Rankers. But Arlene’s stubborn as a mule. She thought it would be fun to toast some wienies outside. Well, she toasted her buns, too, and Carl’s wienie ended up in the—”
“Mother!” Judith couldn’t stand it another second. “Stop! What happened?” She lowered her voice, trying to sound calm. “What really happened?”
Renie, having heard Judith’s raised voice, had come into the kitchen. She was munching a muffin and looking worried.
Gertrude sighed. “Carl turned the hose on and put the fire out before it reached the back porch. But you were darned lucky, kiddo. It could have been cinders. Your statue of St. Francis on the patio is scorched. He looks like he’s got five o’clock shadow. All the feathers on his birds fell off, too.”
The feathers were stone, as was the statue.
Judith leaned against the cupboard and held her head. “I wish you wouldn’t tease me like that, Mother. You know I get upset.”
“You’re upset! Ha! What about me, with this complete paralysis? I’m lying on the floor while Sweetums sits on what’s left of my bust and claws the only decent housecoat I own. Go ahead, enjoy yourselves in Finland. Drink and dance your way through Russia. It’s not what it used to be, and neither am I. Write if you get work. You’d better, you’ll need the money. G’bye.” Gertrude slammed the phone in her daughter’s ear.
Gingerly, Renie took a couple of steps toward Judith. “Ah…how’s your mother?”
Carefully, Judith replaced the receiver. She ran both hands through her short, streaked hair. She gave herself a good shake, squared her shoulders, and forced a feeble smile. “Mother’s fine. Is it too early to have a drink?”
It was, of course. Judith contented herself with a third cup of coffee. After relaying the unnerving conversation with Gertrude, she remembered to check the local phone book for church listings. Mrs. Tichborne was right: There was a Catholic presence in Yeovil, but the only weekend Masses were at five o’clock on Saturday and eight on Sunday morning.
“We can’t walk,” Judith pointed out, “and I don’t think we should trouble the family to borrow a car.”
Renie, however, didn’t agree. “What do they care? There’s the Bentley, the Alfa, and who knows what else parked out back. Nobody’s using them at the moment. Let’s ask Harwood for the keys. I’ll drive.”
“No!” Judith had horrifying visions of Renie behind the wheel, trying to cope with the left-hand roadways. Of course she often veered into the wrong lane at home; maybe they wouldn’t get killed after all.
But common sense and courtesy told Judith to leave well enough alone. “Besides,” she added, ignoring Renie’s look of annoyance, “if we return to London today, we can go to church this evening. And if we don’t make it, God isn’t going to turn us into pumpkins.”