Auntie Mayhem

by Mary Daheim

  Dora’s hands now fluttered every which way. “Really, I…My sight’s not what it once…Still, I’m not blind…”

  “You mustn’t blame Dora,” Mrs. Tichborne broke in, her voice like steel. “If Miss Petulia wanted to eat the armoire, there would have been no stopping her. She was a most determined woman.”

  “But who?” Claire wailed. “Who would do such a terrible thing? It was thoughtless enough to give Auntie chocolates, but to put poison in them is wicked!”

  The understatement riled Charles. “Of course it is! Unless,” he added, lowering his voice, “Aunt Pet bought them herself.”

  Grasping a bottle of Beefeaters’ gin, Nats scoffed. “She wouldn’t poison herself. Not like that.”

  Alex eyed the gin bottle covetously. “She wouldn’t poison herself in any event. She was having too good a time making the rest of us miserable.”

  “Oh, hush up!” Nats ordered her brother, with a warning glance. “Don’t go digging a hole for yourself, you twit!”

  Once again, Inspector Wattle was forced to intervene.

  “’Ere now, let’s be calm. My men and I must get on with the investigation. But first, there’s the matter of the wills.” His small, piercing eyes rested on Arthur Tinsley. “Did you find the previous document among your papers, sir?”

  Arthur Tinsley appeared overcome by embarrassment. “I did not,” he responded in a fragile voice. “I searched both at my office and my home. My recollection is that Miss Ravenscroft kept one copy and I had the other. Yet both have now…disappeared.” He lowered his eyes, studying the high gloss on his black oxfords.

  “Well, now.” Wattle fingered his stubby chin. “That leaves us with the ’andwritten will. Now that you’ve seen it, what’s your legal opinion, Mr. Tinsley? Qualified, of course. I know ’ow you fellows operate.”

  Arthur actually ran a finger inside his shirt collar. “Well…It’s what Miss Ravenscroft intended to formalize at our next meeting, which was scheduled for tomorrow. Or so she indicated on Friday. Basically, it’s the same document she had me draw up for her in April of last year. With…ah…one exception.” He studiously avoided looking in Judith and Renie’s direction.

  “And?” Inspector Wattle prodded.

  Arthur moved three steps to the bar and poured himself a glass of water from a lead-crystal decanter. “The addition was the bequest to Mrs. Judith Flynn and Mrs. Serena Jones. They were to receive the gatehouse.”

  “The gatehouse!” The words were echoed by several people, including the cousins.

  Charles was more specific, his face set in stone. “Not this house, then?” He saw Arthur give a shake of his head. “I should think not!” Charles asserted, trying to tone down his triumph. “Then the remaining property goes to me? And my wife, of course.”

  “That was Miss Ravenscroft’s intention,” Arthur said primly. “As I mentioned a moment ago, except for the gatehouse, the handwritten will is otherwise the same document that was in effect from April until last August when my client became…vexed, and drastically changed her mind. As I believe most of you know, Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont were to inherit Ravenscroft House and the land on which it stands, as well as a percentage of the estate. Trusts were to be set up for Miss Karamzin and Mr. Karamzin, and turned over to them upon marrying or reaching thirty years of age, whichever came first. Meanwhile, they would be permitted to draw on the interest. There was also a trust for each of Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont’s twin boys. Mr. and Mrs. George Ravenscroft were to inherit shares in a profitable electronics firm. Miss Hobbs, Mrs. Tichborne, and Mr. Harwood were also provided for, as were various charities, including St. Edith’s Church.” Arthur stopped to take a long drink of water.

  Charles seized the opportunity to urge the solicitor to get to the point. “Dammit, man, is this new will legal or not?”

  Arthur swallowed hard. “Naturally, under the circumstances…er…there must be some…ah…question of its validity. The will was signed, but not witnessed. The first step would be to prove that the handwriting was indeed Miss Ravenscroft’s and not a…um…forgery.” The solicitor looked as gloomy as a man going to the gallows tree.

  “Bilge,” snapped Nats. “Nobody had handwriting like Aunt Pet. It was that old-fashioned spidery kind. Did she revoke the previous will or not?”

  This time, Arthur’s nod was almost imperceptible. “She so stated. Miss Ravenscroft was very precise, very thorough. But there’s still the matter of the will which was made last August and duly—”

  Alex spun around to confront Arthur. “We have only your word for it that a different will existed. See here, Tinsley, unless you can produce a copy of the revised August document, we’re closing ranks against you.” The glance that Alex gave his relatives found no opposition.

  Arthur folded, literally, hunched over on a Chippendale chair. “It’s a point well-taken, Mr. Karamzin. I shouldn’t fight you over it. Only my honor and my ethics are at stake.”

  Charles administered a hearty slap to Arthur’s back. “We believe you, Arthur. But having the interim document turn up missing is a blessing in disguise. It was obviously a whim of Aunt Pet’s after the dust-up during August bank holiday. We can all pretend it never existed, eh? Think of the trouble it will save!”

  The deep creases in the solicitor’s high forehead indicated he wasn’t in complete agreement. But his manner was meek as he replied: “Well…yes…seeing that Miss Ravenscroft didn’t intend to let it stand. Of course there’s the matter of Mr. and Mrs. Ravenscroft in Swaziland. If you wish, I can write to them. I shall have to anyway, whatever the outcome. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to provide me with their address…”

  “Gladly,” Charles all but shouted. In a lightning move, he produced a pen and a piece of paper, handing both to the solicitor. “Claire, give Arthur your parents’ address. You must know it off the top of your head.”

  Claire did. She recited slowly, as Arthur wrote in his neat, if cramped, style. “Until we have a ruling from the probate court, I shall inform them that they are co-heirs,” he said, putting both paper and pen into the inside pocket of his suitcoat.

  “Bugger probate court!” Charles boomed. “Why do we need it? If you can’t find Aunt Pet’s August prank, no one need know. It’s pure fiction! And give me back my pen, Tinsley.” Charles narrowed his eyes at Arthur, though his mouth was curved in a smile. “You legal chaps make enough off your fees without stealing clients’ property.”

  Arthur blanched, then handed back the pen. “Awfully sorry. I tend to become distracted sometimes. Really, I must recommend that we go through proper channels…”

  Ignoring Arthur’s anxious protests, Nats turned to Claire. “Your parents won’t contest the will. They’re a zillion miles away, and they have no resources except for beads and bones and whatever else they use for money in Swaziland. They don’t even have a fax machine.”

  Walter Paget had stepped forward, offering a shield between Nats and Claire. “Of course they don’t. I’ve already explained the primitive conditions. Besides, they’re dedicated missionaries. They’ll see this as God’s will.”

  “It’s Aunt Pet’s will, not God’s,” Nats sniffed. “If she’d wanted to keep the August will, she wouldn’t have written a new one. It must have been very hard for her, with her arthritis.”

  Charles was looking smug. “She made the August will in a fit of temper. Common sense must prevail. It would be unthinkable not to abide by her last wishes.”

  A murmur of assent rumbled around the room. Only the cousins were silent. Or so it seemed, until Judith realized that there was one other exception: Walter Paget remained frozen in place. He had also been frozen out of the will.

  The other servants had been at Ravenscroft House longer, but the steward had at least a decade of service. It didn’t seem right for Pet to exclude him. Judith wondered why.

  The police had gone about their business, including a thorough search of the entire house and grounds. Given the size of the property, Judith assumed t
hey’d be combing through storerooms, pastureland, and cellars for days.

  Nor did she know what they expected to find. More chocolates, perhaps, or the source of the poison. After the family group had partially dispersed, Judith put the question to Mrs. Tichborne.

  “How should I know?” the housekeeper asked in a testy tone. “It’s just as well that Miss Ravenscroft is dead. If she were alive, she’d hear all about how I haven’t kept up every nook and cranny of this big old place. How can I, with only daily help?”

  Judith nodded in sympathy. “I’ve been meaning to clean our basement ever since the remodeling seven years ago. If I ever get around to it, I’m sure I’ll find stuff that’s been there since the house was built in 1907.”

  Mrs. Tichborne huffed. “Think 1597. Your home is comparatively new.” She wrestled a large ham on the kitchen counter. Supper preparations were under way, and the cousins had volunteered to help. Mrs. Tichborne didn’t reject the offer this time. Officially, it was her day off, and she wasn’t inclined to prepare a hot meal. Instead, the family would be served a cold collation. “Maybe,” the housekeeper went on, her ire cooling, “they’ll turn up the jewels Mrs. Ravenscroft swore were stolen.”

  Momentarily, Judith was puzzled. “Mrs. Ravenscroft? Now which one would that be?”

  With a scowl at Renie who had already filched a slice of ham, Mrs. Tichborne brandished the kitchen knife. “Genevieve Ravenscroft, the Frenchwoman. Even in her dotage, she ranted about how she’d had her diamond choker and ruby earrings stolen. Miss Ravenscroft—her sister-in-law—didn’t believe it for a minute. She said Mrs. Ravenscroft was careless. She’d put them somewhere, and couldn’t remember.”

  Renie was licking her lips over the last morsel of ham. “Diamonds and rubies, huh? That sounds like pretty expensive forgetfulness.”

  The housekeeper shrugged. “Lady Cordelia had plenty of other pieces that were handed down to the next generation. I’m told that Sir Henry Ravenscroft doted on his wife. The French daughter-in-law got most of them. Chauncey Ravenscroft’s wife, Hyacinth, was too godly to wear gems, and Miss Petulia didn’t care for anything showy. Anyway, I don’t think the missing pieces ever turned up. I would like to see them find Bothwell, though.”

  Judith paused in putting sweet pickles on a three-tiered server. “Bothwell? What was it, a family pet?”

  “No, no,” Mrs. Tichborne replied. “It was a costume for the All Fools Revels. Participants dress up as actual characters from the Elizabethan period. Sir Walter Raleigh. The Earl of Essex. Bess of Hardwicke. And of course Mary, Queen of Scots, and the Earl of Bothwell. The costumes have all been copied from portraits and are very authentic. The Ravenscrofts always store them here.” Suddenly, her face sagged. “My Janet got the blame for Bothwell’s disappearance. She wore the costume that year. And didn’t it suit her, with those long, lovely legs! How she and her partner danced! The galliard, I think it’s called. They do it every year.”

  The housekeeper bit her lip in an effort at self-control. “But of course she didn’t take the Bothwell costume with her. Why would she do such a thing? Ever since, whoever plays Queen Mary has had to make do with the Earl of Darnley.”

  “So did Mary,” murmured Renie, swiping another piece of ham while Mrs. Tichborne looked away.

  “Forgive me,” the housekeeper said, turning back to the cousins. Her eyes were overbright. “I try so hard not to dwell on Janet. It’s best to think of her as living a wild life in London than accept the fact that she might be…”

  Emboldened by the other woman’s misery, Judith reached out to pat her arm. Mrs. Tichborne stiffened, but didn’t recoil. “That’s possible,” Judith said kindly. “Teenagers do very foolish things. By the time they realize it, they’re too embarrassed to admit their mistakes. That takes real maturity. I know, I’ve raised a son, mostly on my own, just as you did with your daughter. Mike was eighteen when my first husband died, but during the last ten years of his life, Dan didn’t play an active role in our family.” As in, thought Judith, all four hundred pounds of him lying on the sofa stuffing his face with Ding-Dongs and slugging down shots of vodka while berating his wife for forgetting to pick up the chocolate mud pie on her whirlwind trip between two jobs. Dan McMonigle had been a terrible husband, but he really hadn’t been a bad father. At least not if you defined inertia as a virtue.

  Mrs. Tichborne had brightened a bit. “How true. Raising children is difficult, under any conditions. Janet wouldn’t be the first to run off. Or so I’ve heard.” Her voice suddenly took on a dark edge.

  Curiosity piqued, Judith started to ask Mrs. Tichborne what she meant. But the two policemen who had searched Aunt Pet’s suite earlier in the day entered the kitchen. They intended to give it a thorough going-over. Mrs. Tichborne bridled.

  “Can’t you wait? We’re serving supper. Come back in an hour.”

  The policemen didn’t persist. They withdrew politely, but their superior bustled in on their heels. Inspector Wattle eyed the sliced ham with longing. Renie neatly stepped in front of the platter.

  “Hi,” she said. “Find the poison yet?”

  The inspector stared at her with distaste. “No need to be flippant,” he chided. “I have some questions for all three of you.”

  Mrs. Tichborne was slicing cheddar cheese off a large brick. “You questioned us earlier. What now?” Her voice was tired.

  Wattle was undaunted. “Did any of you know that Miss Ravenscroft had actually drawn up a new will?”

  “No,” replied the housekeeper. “Certainly not.”

  “She talked about it at dinner Friday night,” Renie allowed.

  “Have you asked Dora?” Judith was trying to sound reasonable.

  Wattle snorted. “Dora ‘obbs ’as the brains of a chicken. Scatty, that’s what she is. She didn’t see Miss Ravenscroft eating chocolates, she didn’t see ’er making out a will, she didn’t see ’er ’and before ’er face!”

  Once again, Mrs. Tichborne waved the knife. “Mind me, Inspector, you show Dora some respect. She’s elderly, and her hearing and her sight aren’t keen. But she’s far from scatty.”

  Wattle remained skeptical, but he whipped out a small photograph from his inside pocket. “Then why didn’t she recognize this chap? ’E must be somebody from ’er era. Who is it?”

  While Mrs. Tichborne studied the wallet-sized studio photograph, Judith craned her neck to get a look. The man was young, or had been, probably around the First World War. His thick, straight hair appeared to be light in color, and only a weak chin marred his otherwise handsome features.

  “I don’t know him,” Mrs. Tichborne declared. “He’s not part of the rogues gallery in the entry hall.”

  The inspector gave Mrs. Tichborne a withering look. “We already checked the family portraits,” he said, putting the photo back in his pocket. “We found this in the drawer where the chocolates were ’idden.”

  Strangely enough, Judith thought there was something familiar about the man in the picture. But that was impossible. She decided to change the subject:

  “Excuse me, Inspector, but what is hyoscyamine? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “No reason why you should.” Wattle gave Judith a quizzical look. “Not a chemist, are you? Never know these days with women, especially Americans. They take some peculiar posts.” Seeing Judith shake her head, Wattle became almost avuncular. “By definition, it’s a poisonous white crystalline alkaloid. Nasty stuff, but it can also be used medicinally, as an analgesic and as a sedative. Except this wasn’t in its processed form. We’re dealing with hyoscyamine in its raw state. In other words,” the inspector added in sepulchral tones, “we mean plants.”

  “Plants?” Mrs. Tichborne was aghast.

  Wattle nodded gravely. “Plants. That’s why my men are going through the gardens.”

  If Mrs. Tichborne was startled by Wattle’s indictment of local flora, Judith was not. She had encountered garden-variety poisoning on another occasion.

  “Do you kn
ow what kind of plant contains hyoscyamine?” Judith inquired.

  Wattle’s heavy eyelids drooped. “There’s several that do. Never fear, we’re working on it.”

  Judith didn’t doubt it. The inspector took his leave, and Mrs. Tichborne began carrying food out to the sideboard. Renie picked up a platter of ham, a basket of bread, and a covered butter dish, but Judith forestalled her.

  “Coz—what on earth are we going to do about the gatehouse?”

  Renie’s shrug was inhibited by her juggling act. “Nothing. It’ll never happen. Trust me.”

  “What do you mean?” Judith spoke in a whisper. “It sounds as if the new will could be valid. We’ll end up with the gatehouse.”

  But Renie was firm. “No, we won’t. Even if the will is proved, we’ll give the gatehouse away. We’ll have to. Between death duties, the IRS, and living nine thousand miles away, we can’t afford it. Let Walter Paget have it. He lives there anyway, and he didn’t get zilch.”

  Judith’s forehead creased. “I know. That’s odd. I wonder why Walter was left out. He’s been with the family for years.”

  Renie had no explanation, and the bread basket was slipping out from under her arm. She hurried into the dining room just as Harwood sounded the gong. Judith picked up a plate of sliced tomatoes and a bowl of fruit. She supposed that Renie was right. There was no point in fretting over their putative inheritance. It hadn’t happened yet.

  But the family members behaved as if it had. Claire and Charles were in excellent spirits, while Nats and Alex were almost giddy. Somebody had opened two bottles of French wine. Nats proposed a toast:

  “To Aunt Pet—she may have driven us crazy, but she didn’t take us for a ride. Cheers!”

  The others raised their glasses, though both Judith and Renie were tentative. It was then that Judith realized neither Arthur nor Walter was present. When she asked where they had gone, Charles answered in an unusually jocular manner:

  “Old Arthur went home to his ball-and-chain. Walter had to send another cable to George and Emily, canceling their unexpected fortune. Or most of it. Tsk, tsk.” He burst into laughter.