Auntie Mayhem

by Mary Daheim

  “That’s because it was the desert,” Renie said, now restored to her normal appearance. “You wouldn’t mind letting us in…”

  “Fuel, that was the thing,” Chelmsford went on, rubbing at his bristling ginger mustache. “The Jerrys needed petrol badly. And there we were, raw recruits just up from…”

  Renie leaned against the wrought-iron bars; Judith was forced to stay planted in the muddy drive. She felt the dampness seep into her feet. She wondered if her leather flats were ruined yet. She reflected that Colonel Chelmsford would have to shut up eventually because World War II had lasted only six years.

  “…Blimpy Forstwick, that was the chap’s name. Only had nine toes. Don’t recall which was missing, shouldn’t think he’d have been allowed to sign on, but there it was…”

  Renie’s eyes had all but disappeared, and her cheeks looked sunken. Judith marveled at how her cousin achieved such a state, while she herself could do no more than to sink slowly into the soft earth of England.

  “…If Monty hadn’t been a bit of an ass, don’t you see. But there I was, at El Alamein, and wouldn’t you know, one of these Egyptian chappies, hardly spoke a word of the King’s English, brown as a berry, and no sense of hygiene…”

  Somehow, the war in North Africa wound down. As usual, the Allies won. When Colonel Chelmsford stopped for breath, Judith was ready:

  “What a fascinating life you’ve led!” she exclaimed, trying to free her shoes. “I can’t help but think that in ninety-four years Miss Ravenscroft, too, saw so much! You’ll miss her, I imagine.”

  Colonel Chelmsford appeared to linger in triumph over the Afrika Korps. “Eh? Miss who?”

  “Petulia Ravenscroft.” Judith enunciated the name carefully. “I mean, you’ve been neighbors for years.”

  The chilly hazel eyes said it all: Neighbors weren’t necessarily friends. Not in Little Pauncefoot. Colonel Chelmsford looked as if he’d just as soon have had Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel living next door for the past half-century.

  “Pigheaded woman,” the colonel finally said, more to the dogs than to his visitors. “Took to notions and wouldn’t let go.”

  “Oh,” Judith said, still forcing charm. “You’re referring to the boundary dispute?”

  Colonel Chelmsford frowned. “That—and other things.”

  Renie, whose patience was never as unflappable as Judith’s, gave a futile yank on the iron bars. “What is this place, anyway? A farm? A retreat house? A rehab center?”

  The colonel regarded Renie with mild curiosity. “What became of your teeth? They’ve gone.”

  Renie gave an impatient shake of her chestnut curls. “Never mind my teeth. Your house looks very old and rather lovely. But what’s with all the grounds? You seem to have a large piece of property and not much to show for it.”

  Sadly, Colonel Chelmsford shook his head. “Plowed under. No one wants to farm another man’s land these days. Only thing I grow is vegetable marrows. Gives me room for practice shooting. Clay pigeons. Keeps my eye sharp.”

  Judith’s smile finally faded. “Oh,” she said in a hollow voice, then waited a full minute. “I suppose we ought to be going.”

  The colonel didn’t protest. The dogs began to bark again. Judith and Renie moved quickly up the road.

  “Old futz,” muttered Renie. “How could you encourage him to launch his war stories?”

  Two energetic race-walkers breezed by the cousins. “How else could I get him to talk at all? Besides, Uncle Corky was in North Africa.”

  “I know that. But you didn’t learn anything,” Renie pointed out, “except how Chummy Chelmsford got rocks in his socks at Tobruk.”

  “I learned more than that,” Judith said with equanimity. “You must pay closer attention and exercise your little—”

  “Shove it,” Renie snapped. The smile she bestowed on a redheaded woman pushing a pram was definitely forced. “Okay,” Renie went on in a calmer tone, “so what did your previously pulplike gray cells pick up from Colonel Chelmsford?”

  Judith slowed her step, watching the woman and the baby stroll past the church toward the Great Pauncefoot Road. “What? Oh—mainly that the grudges between the Chelmsfords and the Ravenscrofts go further back than the current boundary dispute. Didn’t you catch that part about Aunt Pet’s ‘notions’?”

  “Were they what foiled the German Panzer attack?” Renie inquired dryly.

  Judith glanced at Renie in mock reproach. “What I’m saying is that Chummy dismissed the boundary argument as if it were minor compared to ‘other things.’ That indicates bigger controversies, probably dating back to…”

  The cousins had reached The Old Grey Mare Inn, which faced the Great Pauncefoot-Yeovil Road and took up the space between Farriers Lane and the High Street. Judith was hesitating over which direction to take when a black and white police car bumped down the lane. It came to a complete, abrupt stop at the intersection.

  Sergeant Daub was in the driver’s seat; Inspector Wattle rolled down his window, calling to the cousins:

  “You’re to remain in the village,” he shouted. “We’re off to Great Pauncefoot to get the lab report. We’ll expect to see you both at Ravenscroft ’ouse when we return. Meanwhile, we’ll be checking your bona fides.” With a curt nod, the inspector signaled for Daub to drive on.

  “Touch my bona fides and you’re a dead man!” Renie yelled. Fortunately, the policemen didn’t hear her. But several other people out and about in the village did, including the redheaded woman who was now pushing the pram across the road in the direction of the converted almshouses. She turned to stare. Judith was tempted to hail her, but mother and child moved on, turning up a walkway lined with hyacinth and primrose.

  “Don’t tell me you know her,” Renie said as they wandered into the High Street.

  “Of course not,” Judith said.

  “Then why the fascination?”

  “She’s got red hair.”

  “So? Lots of people do. Claire, for one. Your husband, for another.”

  “That’s right.” Judith nodded. “Joe has red hair. That’s why I’m fascinated.”

  The tour of the High Street didn’t take long. Since it was the Sabbath, except for an antiques shop that also sold used books, none of the stores was open. Between the inn and the tea room, Judith noticed the offices of Arthur Tinsley, solicitor, and Lawrence Ramsey, M.D.

  “Cute,” Renie remarked, following Judith through the splashes of sunshine on the main road. “Very Olde English. Except it really is. Imagine Nats wanting to mall it over with contemporary claptrap! The buildings are mostly sixteenth century, maybe earlier. The inn has got to be pre-Tudor.”

  “How’s that?” Judith asked as they reached the first of the dozen almshouses.

  “The Old Grey Mare is a reference to Elizabeth Woodville, Edward V’s queen,” Renie explained. “She was a commoner.”

  Dutifully, Judith deferred to Renie’s knowledge of English history. As a master of librarianship, Judith’s forte was literature. “So circa the Wars of the Roses?” she asked.

  “And thus pre-Richard III,” Renie said. “Or maybe during his reign. It might have been a knock on Richard’s sister-in-law. He wasn’t too keen on Elizabeth and her family.” Renie paused, momentarily lost in the mists of Bos-worth Field. “Where are we going?” she inquired in some surprise.

  Judith feigned ignorance. “The sun’s out. We haven’t walked this way, toward Great Pauncefoot. Nice old houses. Pretty gardens. The town isn’t more than three miles away.”

  “Three miles?” Renie was horrified.

  Naturally, Judith had no intention of going to Great Pauncefoot. Her aversion to covering long distances on foot was almost as great as Renie’s. Yet there was something in the spring air that goaded Judith. Perhaps it was the English penchant for walking. Or the freshness of the afternoon, with bright periwinkles, bluebells, and wood anemones clustered under stands of oak and ash. There was very little motor traffic, even along the route t
o Great Pauncefoot. After crossing an ancient packhorse bridge, the cousins found themselves flanked by orchards bursting with blossoms. They climbed the softest of hills to view the vale below with its neat green fields bordered by hedgerows and copses. The vista stretched before them to the horizon, tranquil and timeless, essentially English.

  “My feet are killing me,” Renie said. “We must have walked five miles. Can we go back now? Or is there a bus?”

  “Oh, good grief!” Judith cried. “We haven’t gone more than half a mile!”

  “Good. Then we won’t have more than half a mile to walk back.” At the side of the road, Renie did an about-face.

  But Judith kept going. There were more houses now, bearing discreetly lettered names such as “River’s Bend,” “The Willows,” and “Xanadu.” Renie yelled at Judith to stop, but got no response. Indeed, a hundred feet up the road, Judith turned off.

  By the time Renie caught up, Judith was at the door of a two-story thatched and whitewashed cottage with shrubbery that looked as if it had been clipped with a scalpel. A small sign bearing the words “Mon Repos” hung from the little roof over the porch.

  “What in the world are you doing?” Renie demanded in annoyance. “Or,” she added, brightening, “is this the bus depot?”

  Before Judith could explain, a middle-aged woman with unnatural gold hair and tight facial features opened the door. There was nothing wrong with the prim little mouth, the turned-up nose, or the sky-blue eyes. But any kinship with beauty was spoiled by the sour expression. In addition, the woman looked at Judith and Renie as if they were virulent germs.

  “Mrs. Tinsley?” Judith said in her warmest voice. “Is your husband at home?”

  “No.” The small, red mouth grew even tighter and the little nostrils flared.

  “Oh.” Judith’s disappointment overflowed. “Oh, dear!”

  Lona Tinsley’s small, slim body was encased in a black pleated skirt, a navy-blue pullover, and the hint of a white blouse, the collar of which lay chastely at her throat. She seemed quite unmoved by Judith’s obvious despair.

  “When do you expect him?” Judith finally asked.

  Mrs. Tinsley’s short lashes fluttered ever so slightly. “I really couldn’t say.”

  Again, Judith waited, hoping to goad Mrs. Tinsley into speech. But no further words were discharged by those prissy little lips. Judith sighed heavily.

  “It’s extremely urgent,” she said, all pleading earnestness. “May we leave a message?”

  Mrs. Tinsley didn’t actually unbend, but she permitted a muscle to twitch along her jawline. Judith wondered if it showed interest. Or if the woman had a tic. “May I ask who is calling on Mr. Tinsley?” inquired his spouse.

  Judith’s nod was eager. “Certainly. I’m Mrs. Flynn, and this is Mrs. Jones, my cousin.” Judith ignored the fact that Renie was now sitting on the steps with her back turned. “We must talk to Mr. Tinsley at once about”—she lowered her voice and coughed discreetly—“the will. We’re leaving tomorrow, you see.”

  Mrs. Tinsley looked as if tomorrow couldn’t come too soon. “Then you’d best go back where you came from,” she said. “That is, to Ravenscroft House, I assume? Mr. Tinsley returned there a quarter of an hour ago.”

  “Ah!” Judith sounded relieved, even as she strained to get a look at the interior of Mon Repos. From what she could see of the hallway and a corner of the parlor, the house was immaculately maintained and scrupulously well-ordered. Mrs. Tinsley no doubt considered visitors messy by definition. If the mistress of Mon Repos suffered from bouts of ill health, possibly they were triggered by over-zealous cleaning. “You’re right,” Judith agreed, “we ought to head back to Little Pauncefoot. We walked. Maybe we passed Mr. Tinsley on the road and didn’t realize it.”

  “Perhaps.” Mrs. Tinsley was indifferent. It was clear that she didn’t care if the cousins had passed a Gypsy caravan, a traveling circus, or Sherman marching through Georgia. “Good day,” she said, and quietly, if firmly, closed the door.

  On feet of lead, Judith descended the three stairs that led to the front porch. “Rats,” she muttered, starting down the walk with its close-cropped privet hedge. “Now we’ll have to…”

  But Renie was still sitting on the step. She pretended to ignore Judith, her gaze fixed somewhere in the direction of the river that flowed in back of Mon Repos.

  “Come on, coz,” Judith finally said in exasperation. “You’re the one who wanted to go back to Ravenscroft House.”

  Slowly, Renie turned. “I think I’ll stay here and take tea with Mrs. Tinsley. She’s such fun. Maybe we can bond and become bosom buddies. Of course, she doesn’t have any. Bosom, that is. I’m always suspicious of flat-chested women.” In a sudden burst of anger, Renie flew off the steps. “Now you tell me what that was all about or I’ll bust your chops. Why the hell did we have to walk damned near a mile to get the deep freeze from Arthur Tinsley’s dry-as-dog-food wife?”

  Judith had the grace to looked chagrined. “I thought he was home. That’s where he said he was going. And he did,” she added with a dash of fervor. “It’s not my fault he went back to Ravenscroft House. He probably found the previous will. As for the new one, it’s a cinch that nobody else is going to tell us about it.”

  The cousins were now both hoofing it along the road, almost running past “The Larches” and “Shangri-la” and “Chez Boothby.” A lone jogger passed them at his peril. The gentle rise they had ascended earlier suddenly seemed as steep as the hills in their native heath. Overhead, gray clouds scudded across the sky to obscure the late afternoon sun.

  “Listen, you idiot,” Renie panted, “you’re supposed to be the one for whom logic is an icon. If the cops only found the will before they saw us, Arthur Tinsley wouldn’t have known about it. He left before that, remember?”

  “Shoot,” Judith gasped, now going downhill and regaining her breath, “that’s true. But he should have known. He’s the solicitor, right?”

  “Right,” Renie agreed, her ire cooling with the weather. “Except that Aunt Pet hadn’t signed the blasted thing. So maybe he never saw it, either. So why do we care? We don’t know if the thing’s valid.”

  “We care,” Judith said, slowing down at the stone bridge, “because we’re murder suspects. We care because we’re meeting Joe and Bill in Edinburgh Wednesday night. We care because we don’t want the ugly blot of divorce on our family escutcheons.”

  For at least a full minute, or until they reached the pastel perfection of the orchards, Renie was silent. “Does that mean you’re seriously sleuthing? I should have known.”

  “You bet,” Judith responded. “Oh, I’m not discounting Inspector Wattle and Sergeant Daub. I have the greatest respect for the English police. Goodness knows, I’ve read enough mystery novels. But time is of the essence. We could leave Ravenscroft House as late as Wednesday and still get to Edinburgh on time. I’d rather not cut it so close, though. We’re supposed to be gone tomorrow so that we can shop till we drop.”

  “I’m about to drop now,” Renie admitted as they approached the outskirts of Little Pauncefoot. “I’m also starving. Will Tichborne have any sandwiches left?”

  “I think,” Judith said, as they passed the almshouses and headed for Farriers Lane, “she’ll have to make more to go around. E’en now, as they say in English literature, the police draw nigh.”

  Sure enough, the black and white car had turned into the lane. So did the cousins, wondering what hath the lab analysis wrought.

  ELEVEN

  AMID THE LENGTHENING afternoon shadows, the household reassembled in the drawing room. Judith and Renie were the last to arrive, breathless from their gallop down Farriers Lane. A belligerent Charles glowered behind his wife’s chair. Claire looked nervous as she fingered the long gold chain that hung over her black cashmere sweater. Alex was bleary-eyed, and Nats wore a full-fledged pout. Walter Paget registered no emotion, while Arthur Tinsley seemed to fade into the Flemish tapestry. Mrs. Tichborne sat n
ext to Dora Hobbs. The housekeeper was vigilant, as if primed for trouble; the maid cowered, tiny hands clenched in her lap. Harwood, as usual, exhibited all the animation of a waxworks dummy.

  Inspector Wattle displayed due deference, though Judith detected an underlying relish as he made his announcement: “We have the lab findings. The quantity of ’yoscyamine in Miss Ravenscroft’s system was sufficient to kill ’er. Further testing will determine if other toxic substances were involved. We’re told that the poison was most likely contained in at least one of the four chocolate liqueurs she consumed in the last twelve ’ours of ’er life. The same poison was found in two of the remaining chocolates in the box we removed from ’er bedroom. The inquest, which is a mere formality, will be ’eld tomorrow at ten A.M. in the meeting ’all at the village library.”

  A brief silence ensued. It was Claire who spoke first: “Oh! Chocolates! Auntie wasn’t supposed to eat chocolates! How naughty of her!”

  Alex stirred himself to a derisive laugh. “Served her right then, eh, Claire? She might have died even if somebody hadn’t laced the chocolates with hyo…whatever it’s called.”

  “Oh, Alex,” Claire cried, close to tears, “that’s very cruel!”

  Alex sneered. “Not so cruel as whoever poisoned Aunt Pet.” His black eyes came into focus as he gazed around the room. “Who was it? Not me, I can tell you that much.”

  Inspector Wattle loudly cleared his throat. “This isn’t the place for a row, if I may say so. Does anybody ’ere know ’ow Miss Ravenscroft came by those chocolates? They’re St. Cloud brand, available anywhere.”

  The candy maker’s name meant nothing to Judith and Renie, who presumed that St. Cloud didn’t export to the States. But all eyes had turned to Dora. The little maid blushed furiously and wrung her hands. “I don’t know! Chocolates, indeed! I never once saw Miss Petulia eat chocolates!”

  Nats stood up and went to the bar. “She didn’t take them in an IV drip. How well do you see, Dora?”